The premise of the meme is simple. Two characters, lovers, have been separated for a time. How long is up to you, as is the reason for the separation. Was it unwilling - an imprisonment, a required journey - or because of a choice one of the characters made? The reason may, of course, color the reunion, and somebody may be pretty miffed, with good reason. Still, the theme is the same: intimacy after being apart.
This meme is mostly geared towards being a smut meme, but nobody will judge you for just doing so heavy fluff.
[Mercy misses the peace and quiet. She misses the days when she had the time to devote to research, and the worst chaos she might see would be an unusually busy day in the hospital ER. She longs for the bygone years of sterile operating rooms and cutting edge equipment, when saving a life meant a private recovery room and microwave food on a tray. Those days it had seemed like they could survive on idealism alone.
Now, it takes a little more work.
Smoke and rubble choke the narrow streets of the small Bulgarian village that has, as of a few hours ago, turned into an active war zone. UN forces had been deployed after vague reports of some sort of weapon stockpile had suddenly solidified along with plenty of talk that involved the words 'mass destruction'. Someone had suggested that perhaps she sit this one out, that the risk level was simply too high and her life would be worth more than the few civilians she might save if things went bad. She distinctly remembers being horribly offended at the time.
Thankfully, she had a degree of freedom afforded by her status that allowed her to thoroughly ignore any efforts made to keep her from boarding the transport along with the soldiers. Her first concern upon landing had been the evacuation of civilians in the immediate area, then to work her way out, trying to follow the troops as closely as she could, both for her safety and theirs. How rarely things go as planned, however.
Her ears are ringing from the unrelenting thunder of gunfire, but she can still hear the screams, echoing through an ally in the direction of a tightly packed group of row houses. She breaks away, pushing through the choking smoke from a building that she silently puts odds on collapsing behind her, a mental note made to consider a contingency plan if she found survivors and couldn't backtrack.
At first, she thinks it's one of the UN troops that darts across the alley ahead of her, someone who's been separated from the group, but she quickly realizes it's not. There's a flash of a jacket that she's seen before, although never in person- always on video, new reports, most wanted bulletins-- oh god.]
Wait! [She coughs through the smoke and spreads the winged thrusters of her suit, boots digging into the dirt as she braces for the glide.] Medic here!
[She doesn't expect him to wait, but it's better than not saying anything at all. She has to try. Her suit carries her forward, nearly to the intersection, she might actually catch him- but for the scream she'd heard earlier, a child leaning from a second story window, half the building around her crumbling away. She doesn't stop to consider the reason, only that what she wants--to keep going, to keep chasing what might as well be a ghost--is superseded without question.
A quick redirection of momentum and she's lifted herself high enough to grab hold of the window ledge with one hand, the other reaching out for the child, close enough to see the color of her eyes--
The massive omnic crashes through the building without warning and Angela shrieks before she can stop herself, her handhold crumbling along with everything around her, falling into empty air, the last glimpse of a tiny body pelted by brick and wood lost in the destruction--
She slams into the building on the opposite side of the street hard enough to take her breath away and possibly crack a rib if the sudden flash of pain is any indicator. She'll be lucky if it's just bruised. The child is nowhere she can see, everything around her dominated by a rain of broken building parts and the omnic responsible, its back bristling with what look like mortar launchers.
[To be perfectly frank, this is not what 76 expected to be dealing with, either.
He'd dug up intel on the alleged weapons cache and followed it accordingly--it was only after he arrived that he realized everyone involved was dealing with much more than they'd ever bargained for. Ordinarily, the presence of a UN detail is enough to make him bail (being the target of an international manhunt will have that effect on someone), but the situation quickly becomes increasingly dire and it's apparent that his talents are needed, even if no one actually wants them.
But he has very little left to lose. 76 is more than confident in his ability to slip away if someone tries to apprehend him, so he'll do what he can in the meantime, which means he's flinging himself headfirst into the chaos, digging civilians out of rubble, clearing paths, fighting back. He's so engrossed in getting to where he needs to go that he barely registers someone trying to keep up with him until the voice and streaks of familiar colors and patterns registers somewhere in the back of his mind. He knows that suit. He knows that voice.
By the time he manages a glance over his shoulder, however, she's already gone. That's for the best. Any ex-Overwatch agent would be risky to run into, but Dr. Ziegler--Angela--is probably one of the worse options. He presses forward, reminding himself that there will be time to worry about this unfortunate happenstance later. For now, it's best that he stays out of her (and the UN's) way, even if it's very difficult to keep himself from making sure she wasn't asking for assistance. Old habits, and all.
76 knows full well that any public appearance on his part could be easily misconstrued. He can help all he wants and save as many people as he can, but he's also a great scapegoat. When the dust clears, he won't be surprised if the media pins some amount of blame on him simply because he happened to be on the scene. The presence of anyone even tangentially affiliated with Overwatch can only make things worse, to say nothing of someone who actually knew him (or, at least, the man he used to be). Ziegler has the excuse of being a doctor, but he can't imagine the UN will be very happy to find her on the front lines.
He doesn't have much time to think about it, because that's about when an omnic levels a building.
They'll probably blame him for that, too, but his first thought is that the blast came from where he'd just passed her. 76 immediately turns on his heel and runs back the way he came, just in time to see the machine loading up mortar rockets that it will inevitably unload. He's taken plenty of these things down, but he was also significantly younger and had a team, luxuries not afforded to him at the moment.
Still, that doesn't mean he isn't going to try, and he opens fire with rockets of his own, expertly aimed towards what he knows is a vulnerability.]
[The last of the radio chatter that she'd heard from the UN troops before her impact had knocked out the comms in her suit was that they were pushing in towards the village center. It put them out of range and out of reach. No doubt her absence was going to be noted eventually, but as the omnic smashes its way through the last of the building, she has to wonder if she's going to be one of the bodies they dig out later. It had been a fool's errand, of course- that mad decision to go looking for just one more life to save because no one else was. No one else was going to throw themselves down a suicide lane thinking they were going to come out the other side a hero. A martyr, perhaps; or just a woman too headstrong for her own good.
The abrupt compression from her suit around her ribs snaps her back into focus, eyes clearing, the present smashing its way back towards her by way of a large metal foot in the middle of the street. She sucks in a sharp breath and lunges out of the way, scrambling to her feet just in time to dodge another stomp. Her sidearm is unclipped before she can even think about it, although the few shots she manages as she darts for whatever cover she can find do little more that bounce harmlessly off thick armor plating.
It's full out in the open now, the ominous grinding and clanking of machinery broadcasting its impending attack. Pressing herself behind a partially collapsed wall, she waits for the sound of a mortar launch, her mind racing, digging up old advice, given by old friends. Bait it out, don't be a target in the open. If she can just keep it occupied long enough to get away, find the soldiers--
The explosion that rocks the street is not what she's expecting, the omnic howling furiously over the shriek of rending metal. What-
She expects a splinter group of UN soldiers, but she'd trade an entire army of standard issue infantry for who she sees instead. Something that feels like hope twists painfully in her chest, but she has no time to spend on all of her wild theories or the mountain of questions piling up now that she can see him through the smoke and debris and for a split second, she's not sure what year it is.
But then she's vaulting over the wall, staff in hand and wings spread, clearing the rubble in a single boost that brings her to his side. He might not have a team, but he has her, and even if-- even if he isn't who she thinks he is and he's just the criminal the news networks smear across their screens daily, then they've still got a bigger problem to deal with. Whether or not either of them are legally supposed to be here can be dealt with when they're not in danger of being blown up.
A good chunk of the omnic's shoulder is gone, torn away from the joint by the rockets and exposing a ragged mess of twisted metal and sparking wires. And somewhere behind it, just barely visible within the bulk of the machine's chest, a cache of mortar ammunition. If the man next to her really is Jack Morrison, then she has no doubt he saw it long before she did.]
[76 can't unleash rockets continuously without jeopardizing the rifle, so once the first volley is off, it's back to less effective pulse fire while he waits for the cooldown. He's already located the hull breach and is currently unloading rounds to distract the rampaging machine. Lure it out in the open while he internally debates if he's going to light up the ominic's now-visible ammunition stores when his rockets are online again. It'll kill the thing, sure, but it'll probably level the entire city block, too, and then there's the matter of getting out of the blast radius in time--
Angela is next to him before he knows what's happening, and a weight drops in the pit of his stomach. It's good that she wasn't buried in the initial building collapse. It's bad that she's here in the first place.]
Shouldn't they be keeping medics off the front line?
[He sounds like he's been gargling fiberglass and there's no small amount of disdain in his voice, like he considers this a huge failure on the part of the UN detail and already expects her to be a burden. That throwing herself into the line of fire when her talents are better used elsewhere is both irresponsible and a thorn in his side, because on top of taking care of the omnic, now he has to protect her.
She's probably heard this a dozen times today, and he already knows her answer because this is, all things considered, where she belongs, and he's taken her into situations like this more times than he can count (on her insistence, at first, but then because she honestly did too much good for him to even think about telling her to stay put). She won't be dissuaded, and there's a very small part of him that's glad she's with him, even if being in such close proximity could jeopardize everything he's working towards. Then again, if he doesn't take care of the immediate situation and gets them both killed, it won't matter anyway.
On top of their giant robot problem, he has to act like he doesn't know anything, like he doesn't know her and her motives inside and out. It's hard not to naturally gravitate to her side like he's done countless times before.]
Stay behind me. Got rockets back online in a few seconds.
[He's firing pulse blasts and backing up as the omnic advances, trying to stay out from under its feet and keep distance between them.]
Technically, the front line is several blocks behind us now.
[It might have been a joke in less dire circumstances. Right now, however, the curt delivery speaks not only for her determination not to be pushed away, but also to bite back at the tone of his own voice. He wants to be irritated with her? Fine. It's not going to stop her from doing whatever she can to help. He can thank her or not later.
She does, however, do her best to stay out direct line of fire as ordered; a small, practical concession she makes to keep her position secure. Nothing she has is even going to make a dent in what they're facing, but she can help make the dents he's making just a little bit bigger. It's always bothered her on some fundamental level that the technology she uses to heal and save lives is also used to cause grievous harm when applied to other weaponry, but in times of war, sometimes you have to do what you must. Her hands aren't completely free of their own share of blood. Her focus is on her unexpected partner at the moment however, moving with him and providing what boost she can to the impact of his shots.
There's a part of her that feels comfortable where she is, despite the stress and the anxiety and the looming threat of certain death- not because she feels especially safe from harm, but more like the feel of sliding back into an old piece of clothing that's been worn so often that it seems to know just how to fit. There's no feeling that she needs to second guess herself, or where he'll be, even if she can tell he's trying to keep his distance.
So when the omnic rears back and kicks a chunk of building in their direction, she doesn't waste time trying to tell him anything, leaping smoothly out of the way and rejoining him a moment later. It's a moment that's bought the thing time and she can hear that same mechanical grinding from before. This time she can see it, the moving parts within its chest, cycling ammunition, launch tubes ratcheting into place.]
I got a plan, but I don't think you're gonna like it.
[Hell, he doesn't like it, but he's become much less concerned for wanton property damage in the last few years. 76 is already scanning the area for potential escape routes, thinking about how much time they'll have to get out of the blast radius once his rockets hit their mark. Making the shot will be tight, but he's known for doing the impossible.
They're separated momentarily as they both dodge flying concrete, but soon enough he's sprinting back to her side, pulling her out of the direct path of the omnic.]
I can hit the magazine.
[There's not much time for him to explain, but he points at the gap that he tore through the omnic's plating, trusting that she'll follow his index finger and fill in the blanks herself. He doesn't need to describe what's going to happen as soon as he ignites the mortars stored within the omnic. It's crazy, yes, but he needs to put this thing down, and do it quickly.]
[She supposes it would have been too much to hope that they could have incapacitated the machine and taken it out without resorting to such extreme measures. He lays it out for her and it sends her mind racing, trying to take into account the collateral that such an explosion would cause. It's not comforting.]
You're right, I don't like it!
[They don't exactly have time to argue about this, but she has to at least say something, even if she knows it's just going to get ignored. The situation isn't giving them a lot of viable options.]
The explosion will level everything around it. There could still be people in those buildings. And what about you?
[It's definitely going to get ignored, even though he certainly understands her objections. Right now, however, he's looking to keep the omnic from getting any closer to the town center, and this is the most effective way to accomplish that. The plan is not exactly what Jack Morrison would do, but Jack Morrison is dead and things are different now.
What he has done during this back and forth is lead the machine away as much into the open as he can, away from narrow alleys and still-standing structures.]
You want to argue with me or you want to start running?
[He barks it out, like someone more than accustomed to giving orders under duress. 76 is already leveling his rifle as he takes increasingly quick steps backward--even if she doesn't run, he's runing split-second contingency plans through his head so that he can get them both out of here. That much he'll try, at least.]
[She would actually like to keep arguing, in fact. But their time is up and whatever she was going to do--listen or disobey--had to be done now. Her eyes narrow and she presses her mouth into a hard line, swallowing back any further complaints. It's not an unfamiliar situation.]
Don't get yourself killed.
[Again, is what she wants to add, but she still has no hard proof, despite how much her gut instinct is screaming it at her. She breaks away and bolts for the ruin of an already collapsed building further down a side street. Behind her, the omnic turns, perhaps realizing its been baited, or simply thinking it has an easy shot at an open target. It braces its feet, sparks flying from the open wound as the machinery inside grinds its way through the final motions. Whatever was going to happen, it was going to be in the next few seconds.
She doesn't look back, doesn't stop, focusing on a low foundation wall as her target and trying desperately not to let all the ways this could go wrong stop her. She can already feel the horrible what-ifs knotting up in her chest. She's already failed to save one life at her fingertips today; all she can do is hope that the next moment doesn't make it two.]
[He spares one last glance over his shoulder to make sure she's finding cover before spinning and taking aim. He has no words of encouragement to provide insofar as not getting himself killed is concerned, but he is thinking about how utterly embarrassing it would be if this is how he finally bites it. Rogue omnic, thirty years after the end of the crisis. Figures.
76 tries to flank it, tactical visor locking onto the sparking gap in the automaton's hull just as it readies to fire. He doesn't have time to wait and see if his rockets hit--all he can do is unload them and pray. As soon as he pulls the trigger, he's turning on his heel and running after Angela, trusting that his aimbot visor does the job.
And it does, of course. There's the explosion of his own rockets, and then the chain reaction that follows as the omnic's magazine ignites and tears it apart from the inside out. He has a few seconds to get as far away as he can, pushing himself into as fast a sprint as he can manage.
Eventually, however, the blast catches up with him, shattering building windows and sending him toppling as shrapnel tears through his jacket and into the soft vulnerable spots where his body armor doesn't reach. The explosion flings him into rubble with a force that would most certainly kill a not-augmented individual, and there's an instantaneous stabbing pain in his side that he'd recognize as ribs if he wasn't so busy trying to shield himself from flying debris.
It's all over in an instant, save for the full collapse of an already half-leveled building that spews more smoke into the street. The omnic is all but obliterated, road covered in broken glass, scorch marks on the nearby buildings, and 76 is halfway to cover, skidding to a stop on his side as the dust clears.
After a long, motionless moment moment, he finally gives indication that he's alive, though all he really manages to do is flip himself over in an attempt to bring his knees under him and get back to his feet.]
[There's a second or two after she's reached her cover that she has to glance back, just in time to see the rockets impact the omnic, the fireball blossoming out from its chest, and 76 sprinting down the street away from it. He might make it, she thinks, if he just keeps running... faster, he needs to run faster--
She doesn't even realize that she's been holding her breath until it comes out in a scream as the omnic explodes, an old name tangled up in the cry, although the cacophony swallows it up as soon as it leaves her. The entire street feels like it's going to collapse around her and she ducks back down behind the wall just as the shockwave hits, spraying loose debris like a wave breaking over her shelter. She tucks her head under her arms, shards of glass and metal ricocheting off her suit.
All she can hear in the aftermath is the ringing in her ears and the frantic thudding of her heart, but the instant it's over, she's pushing herself up, scanning the smoke-filled street for any sign of- oh god, no- he's not moving. She shoves herself out of cover, scrambling over the pile of rubble that had jammed itself up against her wall and taking to the air. She refuses to believe that he's dead, that it would take more than just some old omnic to put him down for good.
Her staff is brought to bear the moment she sees him start to move, just as her boots hit the scorched pavement a few yards away. The initial stream of nanites should stop any immediate bleeding in the few seconds it takes for her to close the distance between them.]
Stop moving, let me stabilize you. Tell me where the pain is most severe.
[The fact that he managed to survive the blast out in the open in proof enough that he's not just some man in a fancy jacket with a gun; that this isn't the first time she's dragged him out of the rubble. Hooking her staff into the crook of her elbow, she crouches down and slides her arms around him to keep him from trying to get up, instead trying to guide him into a more neutral position on the ground, or at least to let her take his weight if he's going to be stubborn about it. Her immediate assessment isn't as grave as it could have been at least: there's no large amount of blood around his head, chest, or on the pavement that would indicate an obvious arterial or cranial wound and none of his limbs are visibly broken or dislocated. If he can talk to her and answer questions, she can rule out a concussion.]
Edited (yards... not years. :|) 2016-06-19 23:13 (UTC)
realtalk i was going to link that but then i guess i didn't
[As he pulls himself up onto his hands and knees (or tries to), there is a singular, throat-closing instant where he is in Switzerland, trapped in the collapse, choking on smoke and ash, with no sound except for a ringing in his ears like an alarm, and there's too much blood and he doesn't know if it's his or--
The tinnitus gives way to a heartbeat, thudding in his temples as his vision clears. 76 becomes acutely aware of his breathing against the inside of his mask, and he focuses on that, in and out, trying to slow it and fight down the tightness in his chest. He reminds himself of what just happened--he can move, he's surrounded by rubble but not buried in it, there's blood, but not an unreasonable amount.
Still, he can't help the kneejerk reaction to being touched after getting himself kind of exploded, and he all but tries to fling her off him, a motion that only sends pain lancing up his side. The snarl that escapes him isn't something he's able to bite back.]
Don't--
[He'll regret that in a moment, because on some level he knows that Angela is just doing her job, but that's not at the forefront of his mind. All he can think is that he needs to get up and get out.]
[His arm comes swinging at her and he might have succeeded in throwing her off had it had connected, but he wouldn't be her first combative patient and she sees it coming. A quick duck of her head and his arm is behind her shoulders, which she angles in towards him, preventing his arm from coming back for another round. It puts her in its place for his support and she takes the weight with only a small grunt.
She'll treat this like a battlefield heal if she absolutely needs to, complete with thrashing and growling and keeping her distance, but she would prefer not to. It's not necessary and there's a part of her that hurts for purely selfish reasons at the thought of being pushed away, a thorny knot of grief she's never been able to resolve; only tuck away where it can cause the least amount of damage.
So let her have this, please, she begs silently. On the inside, those thorns rip at her heart, but her voice barely betrays it as she speaks to him, her tone softened for his sake.]
You're injured. I need you to let me help you. Take slow breaths, count to three.
[She presses a hand to his chest, half to help support him, half to feel for his heartbeat, not trusting her luck to try for his neck or wrist. And maybe the contact just makes her feel better, knowing she can feel it under her palm, beating hard, refusing to give up.]
[Fighting down the urge to keep struggling is the most strenuous part of this. He's been under her care countless times, but there's an overwhelming part of him that can't stand the feel of her hands. Not the way he is right now.
76 starts to count to himself, timing inhales and exhales accordingly, the haze of momentary panic starting to lift (though it's not exactly replaced by anything comforting). He already knows he's fine--or, at least, that this isn't anything he can't bounce back from. What's tricky is going to be extricating himself from this situation before the military detail comes looking for Angela or he's straight up compromised simply by being in such close proximity to her. His injuries might not be life-threatening, but he's effectively ruined his chances at a clean exit.]
That was a bad idea.
[When he speaks, it's little more than a groan, head falling back as if he's finally realizing just how stupid a stunt this was. Why did you let him do that!!]
[Honestly, she'd half expected to be headbutted out of desperation, so when he starts listening to directions and she can count the in and out with him, she lets out her own small sigh of relief. That could have gone worse. His heart rate is stabilizing as well and he's acknowledging the situation, lowering the likelihood of a concussion or disassociation. The clinical part of her busies itself with the technicalities, but the rest of her can't help the tired smile that creeps in at the corners of her mouth.]
It was a foolish idea. [She guides him to sit back, off his knees where she can get a better idea of just what she has to work with.] But you're very good at those, commander.
[It's a risk, calling him out like that, but if she doesn't do it now, she has a feeling that he'll be gone as soon as he has the chance and she won't get another opportunity. And she expects that in the next moment he'll do a very thorough job of obliterating the little scrap of hope behind that smile she's attempting, but until then she has it to hold on to.]
[He stiffens and tries to play it off as a painful flinch. 76 has always known, on some level, that she would be the one to piece it together, but it's not something he's going to admit to, if he can help it. He supposes he could just not react, but he's read some of the conspiracy theories that worm their way into the news, and he's sure she has, too. He chooses his words very carefully, but there's really no good way to respond to this insinuation.]
Last I heard, your commander was dead, Doc.
[Dead, and took Overwatch with him. That's loaded, and probably reveals far too much, but it's also challenging, like he's daring her to produce actual, tangible proof beyond hunches and confirmation bias.
It's not out of the question that he (a shady vigilante with a penchant for robbing old Overwatch facilities) would know who she is and who she's referring to and why she'd think he is that person. His expression remains inscrutable through the mask and visor, but the way she's currently moving and carrying herself catches his attention.]
[Well. All things considered, that could've been worse. What stings the most she finds is that he can't be honest with her, which... she's brought it on herself, hasn't she? She's made up her mind at this point and convinced herself that she's right, but that didn't obligate him to anything. She looks up at him, her gaze lingering on his face as if she could somehow see past the visor. She remembers the day he got the scar that juts out from under it: it had been the last day she'd seen him. The angry lines that crease his brow are newer, though.]
You would know, it was your coffin they put in the ground.
[She regrets it the moment she says it, her emotions pressing too close against her better judgement, and she lowers her eyes to focus on her work instead. He still hasn't told her just where he's been injured beyond the obvious, but she can extrapolate based on his position in the street. Likely at least some blunt force damage to the torso if the explosion had knocked him over, so she'll start there. The nanites can't immediately mend bones, but they can start the process.
Then he tells her that she's hurt and she wants it to mean something more that what he intends. This time she knows better.]
[Something that he didn't know was still there twists inside his chest, and he allows himself to wonder what would be so bad, really, about confirming it for her? Plenty, the more rational part of him asserts. It's a safety issue. He's wanted. She's under UN scrutiny simply by existing, and the recall will only make that worse. The last thing an ex-agent needs is to be caught palling around with the likes of him, dead boss or not.
76 can make excuse after excuse, but the reality is that he isn't sure he can come clean after the disappearing act he's pulled. Blaming himself for shell-shocked decisions made in the aftermath of the HQ explosion would be pointless, but when the dust cleared, he'd made the conscious decision to stay dead. He'd left the rest of them to deal with the shutdown of Overwatch and all of the fallout on their own. Though it had seemed the right choice at the time, he knows now that it was unfair. Cowardly. How can he possibly face any of them after everything he put them through? After everything he's done now? He's crossed lines in the name of his mission, he knows that. What can she possibly think about his globe-hopping, bomb-planting escapades, especially when his motives have been mostly inscrutable?]
I ain't him.
[His apology is implied, and there's sympathy in his voice, like he wishes he could give a better answer, or that he's sorry she allowed herself to hope otherwise. On some level, he considers this the truth, because Jack Morrison never made it out of Switzerland. 76 is someone entirely different, and anyone trying to project their old commander onto him--clinging to the memory of a dead man--is making a mistake.
He meets her gaze through the visor, not that she can see it.]
We shouldn't stay in the open. Come on.
[Though he knows she'll try and stop him, he makes an attempt to stand, hand on her arm to pull her with him. The lack of cover has him on edge. Maybe if they get somewhere safer, they can talk.]
[She's not sure how to feel about the apology she hears in his voice, so she says nothing in reply. If he is Morrison, and he's lying whether on purpose or by omission, then honestly she has half a mind to tell him where he can shove his sympathy; if he isn't, then what use is a stranger's pity? She glances back up to find him looking at her--she thinks, anyway. It's difficult to be sure with the visor--and she almost tells him to stop. Here she is with her heart practically on her sleeve and he gets to hide behind that silly mask. It digs at her more than she expects in that moment.
Luckily, before she can say anything else she'll regret, he's demanding they move and trying to stand up, grabbing her arm as if she's not going to argue. Okay, maybe she is going to say something, but she's not so sure she'll regret it this time.]
I'm not done, what are-- [She's cut off by a crackling in her ear that nearly has her jumping out of her skin. She'd completely forgotten about the comms that have been offline since the omnic has first sent her flying. The voice that makes its way through the static is unmistakably the squad leader and she tries to make out what he's saying while at the same time ensuring 76 isn't going to fall over onto his face the moment he gets his feet under him.]
>>--utenant Markow, do you read me Dr. Ziegler?<<
[She braces the end of her staff against the ground and pushes herself up so she's not being dragged (for goodness sake), her arm still around 76's back as both support and insurance that he's not going to try and run off the moment she's distracted. Regardless of their disagreements about who he really is, he's still injured and she has a responsibility.]
I'm here, lieutenant. How is the situation?
>>You had me worried, I've been trying to reach you for the past ten minutes. Situation is handled, no casualties or serious injuries. If they had any major firepower here, we didn't see it.<<
[She glances at what's left of the omnic, which isn't much. A smoking pile of scrap in the middle of a small crater. Right.]
Well, that's good news. Please finalize the evacuations and have a medical tent set up for me. I'll be clearing the east side of the village. You can expect me back by twenty-two hundred.
>>Acknowledged, doctor. I'll send some back up--<<
That won't be necessary, lieutenant, thank you. Ziegler out.
[She pulls the earpiece out and tucks it into a pocket. The interruption had been jarring, but she can't deny that there's a part of her that's thankful for the excuse to shove the painful thorns of the past at least partway behind the walls they should rightfully be behind. How long they'll stay there she can't say for sure, but at least for now she can concentrate on getting them somewhere safer than the middle of the street.]
[Perhaps if she'd told him to stop, he'd tear his gaze away, but he doesn't, not even as he tries to drag her to his feet. He loosens his grip when she doesn't seem as eager to move (not wanting to hurt her more than anything else), but eventually he gets his feet under him. There's a sway in his step, and perhaps he's leaning on her a little bit more than he'd like to, but he's going to stubbornly ignore it. He's become pretty good at that in the last few years.
76 tenses, freezes up when she starts talking to someone who clearly isn't him, and he realizes that she has a comm in her ear. Only hearing half of the conversation is not exactly comforting, but he's more than aware that she could very easily tell her detail who she is with, and she seems to not be doing that. She seems to be making an excuse to go off with him, and whether that's so she can treat his wounds or continue to press him for his real identity isn't exactly clear.
Knowing Angela, it's likely a bit of both. If he were smart, he'd get her back to the UN soldiers and make a discreet exit. She'll be safe with them, and he's weathered much worse by himself, with no medical assistance.
But despite all of the logical, rational arguments for extricating himself from this situation as soon as possible, the man he used to be cannot in good conscience leave her injured. The way her arm slips around his back to support him is all too familiar, and the invisible fingers in his chest twist again, grabbing at something he tried desperately to bury. He doesn't remember the last time they were this close.
So he focuses on her end of the conversation, trying to fill in the blanks. Sounds like everything is fine, more or less, though he could have told her that from the absence of continued gunfire. He can't tell if her pocketing the earpiece is because she didn't like what they were saying, or if that really is the end of the conversation. He's too paranoid to think they'll leave her alone that easily, and he's already scanning the area for a suitable place they can hole up. 76 starts pulling them both towards a side street. Even if they can't find an evacuated or abandoned building, they can at least get out of the open.]
They won't come looking for you?
[He says that more than a little skeptically. 76 is concerned for himself, sure, but he also doesn't want her seen with him, either.]
[She falls into step beside him like it's second nature, transitioning instinctively from the unwanted distractions to helping him walk. He changes direction and she follows, scanning the doors they pass. The buildings this close to the epicenter of the fight would be too structurally unstable to risk going inside, but maybe a block or two down they'll have better luck.]
Markow won't send anyone. I'm their responsibility only so long as there happens to be a live fire threat. [She almost tells him that they trust her, but she knows it'd be more of a lie than she'd be comfortable with; and incredibly petty on top of it. She's better than that. But it's certainly tempting for a split second.] If I'm late, he might consider it so he doesn't have to fill out the paperwork for a misplaced consultant. Until then, he has his superiors to keep him occupied.
[Which is technically what she is. Dr. Angela Ziegler, independent medical consultant to the United Nations. She had staunchly refused to be involved in any official capacity with a military detail and she's fairly certain she had upset more than a few people with that decision, but it's a leash she's not about to start wearing any time soon. The bureaucrats are more than welcome to spend their time wringing their hands about liabilities and the chain of command; she'll be in the field saving lives on her own terms.]
Over here.
[Not far ahead of them, a door hangs open into a building that looks to have taken only a minimal amount of damage. It's her turn to tug him along now, directing them off the street and into what turns out to be someone's home. Abandoned in a hurry if the state of disarray is any indication. She's reluctant to let go of him, her hand lingering on his side for longer than it needs to before she turns to shut the door behind them. The lock as it turns sounds louder than it has any right to be in the quiet of the empty house.]
[They don't go far, but it feels like it. Despite the brave face he's put on in the immediate aftermath of his genius plan, he doesn't bounce back from injury like he used to, and the throbbing pain of broken ribs making its way to the forefront of his attention. Breathing in sends twinges of pain lancing through his chest, and the ebbing of adrenaline just gives it all a sharper edge.
76 isn't sure if he's telling the truth about this Markow guy, but he's committed to getting them both somewhere out of the open, so all he can really do is frown and press on. If UN troops show up, he'll cross that bridge when he gets there, and he offers her something of an affirmative growl as they trudge through the streets.]
Just checking.
[The fact that she shouldn't be spotted with him is sort of implied.
He's silent after that. The house they find seems to be satisfactory, though 76 doesn't think he'll ever be able to fully relax. As soon as she closes the door, however, it's like he has permission to show weakness. Even standing and walking as far as they have had been more taxing than he expected, and it's hard not to find the nearest piece of overturned furniture to lean on.
He'll give into that urge, exhaling audibly, a growl in his throat as he lets himself slump a little against a chair. The gloved hand that he's pressed to his side peels away, revealing some of the dark stains that have been steadily seeping through his jacket.]
....I am apparently lacking in serious face icons.
[She's well aware of the implications, and there's a part of her, tiny and bruised, that wonders if it wouldn't be so bad to finally have an excuse to leave it all behind. She certainly doesn't approve of the carnage reports that follow each of 76's appearances, but at least he's getting something done. There are wounds in the world that are festering, growing worse by the day, and the UN feels little better than a bandaid when what's needed is a full surgical suite. Overwatch had been close, all the tools and the freedom to use them, but clearly they hadn't been ready for what that meant. They'd all been too young, perhaps; high on their own passion.
She just wishes the lessons they'd had to learn hadn't been so cruelly taught.
There's a groan and the scrape of shifting furniture behind her and she whirls to find that 76 has staggered some distance away already. That he's suddenly looking considerably worse for wear is a punch to the chest, her heart leaping into her throat as she hurries to rejoin him, cursing quietly in german. She should have just assumed he was putting on the brave face outside instead of letting herself be placated. Stupid.
She's pressed back up against him in the next moment, sliding under his arm and taking his weight from the overturned chair whether he likes it or not. Judging by the blood on his hand, she thinks he might be near to the point of not having a choice.]
Come on, just make it to the kitchen.
[It's closest she'll be getting to a proper office right now. At least it should have running water and she has enough basic supplies on her person to make it work. Thankfully, it appears whoever had lived here until recently preferred to take their meals nearby, as there's a small table and chairs in an adjoining nook. She eases him into one of the chairs and sets about stripping his jacket from his arms and shoulders, heedless of any objections.]
I asked you before where you were injured and you saw fit to nearly whack me in the head. Should I expect a proper answer if I ask again, or will I have to strip you down?
[Her tone is straightforward, devoid of any subtext that a more casual situation might have offered. There are old, faded memories of different times when she might have meant it that way, private moments that were too few and far between, most darkened by a looming shadow of uncertainty and awkwardness, but happier none the less. She might have let them go at one point, but they're about all she has left of him these days. The heartache, she thinks, it worth it.]
[Panic attack, more like, but he isn't about to voice that (or even admit it to himself). He's much better about being touched this time--having his bearings helps, and so does knowing it's coming and being out of the open, so he lets her lead him into the kitchen and put him in a chair. He winces behind the mask, but settles after a long moment.
Despite his earlier behavior, it seems he knows how to be a good patient, unbuckling his equipment harness and slipping out of it one strap at a time so that she can better get at his jacket. 76 does his best to stay out of her way, though he leans over her a little to set it aside, trying not to think about their sudden closeness and all of the things it reminds him of. He finds himself watching her again, selfishly dragging up memories of all the other times he's sat like this, having her treat him for one cut or bruise or wound or another. He doesn'the remember much about the last time he saw her.
The thing in his chest twists again, and he wants to reach out and brush that errant bang behind her ear but has to stop himself for obvious reasons. It's almost laughable how he has to concentrate on the pain, of all things, to keep himself from doing or saying something stupid. Fighting it all down is easy when he's on his own and doesn't have the presence of old friends (or something more, on the occasions where they bothered to sort themselves out) to remind him of everything he walked away from.
Or, more accurately, what he ran from.
That's what is difficult about willingly subjecting himself to an examination. Few people know him better than she does, in a lot of ways. He's practically asking to have his cover blown, and yet he makes no efforts to stop her, even if he's more than capable of treating himself for worse injuries than this. He helps her fully unzip his jacket and ease him out of it, revealing the tight black high-collared shirt and body armor he wears underneath. 76 gets to work on those buckles and zippers, too.]
Ribs. Took some shrapnel.
[Still, he knows she's sustained injuries of her own, and he's quick to remind her of that. He knows how she can be.]
[She remember each painful detail of that last day, refusing to let the memory fade for fear that she'd lose something vital- something precious- along with it. She remembers the confrontation that nothing in the world could have stopped from coming to a head, the explosion and the ruin that followed; the heat of the fire and stinging smoke. She remembers pulling her commander from the rubble, his face split open, blood everywhere, the panic like a vice around her chest that she was going to let another family slip through her fingers.
She remembers the decision she'd made to turn away after she'd stabilized him to go looking for Gabriel, telling him she'd be back even thought there was no way to know if he'd even heard her. She remembers not being able to find him when she returned, how she had screamed for him over the roar of the fires and the crash of crumbling walls, how in the end all she could do was leave behind a broken promise on that pile of bloody debris. For a long time afterward, after they had lowered an empty coffin into the ground and Reyes had vanished as well like the phantom he was, she'd been convinced that she'd failed them both. There's still a part of her that believes it. Perhaps it's why she holds on so tight to the memories. Or maybe she's never been quite ready to face the pain of letting go all over again.
Either way, it's never stopped haunting her, whether on purpose or not, and she's doing her best to focus on what she needs to do in the moment- right here, right now, for her patient- rather than the way they move around each other like they've done this before. He leans over her and there's the barest tilt of her head towards him before she can catch herself, biting the inside of her cheek and digging her fingers into the bottom buckle of his jacket.
He'd told her out on the street that he wasn't who she thought he was, but she knows the scar on his face and the way his frame fits against hers and now, when they're this close, even though he stinks of smoke and blood and dust, she can't shake the familiarity of sweat and leather. She has a feeling it's not going to get any easier the further they go.
She helps him with the body armor and can't help but notice the beating it's taken, not just from the most recent explosion, but there's older damage there too, patched and repatched under the fresh peppering of shrapnel. No wonder he's bleeding all over the place.]
You need to replace this. [She grouses without thinking about it as she sets it aside and straightens up, thoroughly ignoring his attempts to ask after her own injuries again. Unless there was something else he didn't want to tell her, she was the doctor here, not him.] Shirt up, please.
[She'll let him take care of that while she fetches as many towels as she can find from the sink. As she goes, she starts plucking out the tools she would need from hidden pockets- tweezers, scissors, needle and sutures- pausing for barely half a second when she notices his blood smeared across the white of her suit. Well, she's not about to be getting any cleaner, so no sense in making anything out of it.
She brings a bowl of water back with her as well, setting everything down on the tabletop and dragging over a chair of her own. There isn't much she can do about his ribs--and she can see the ugly bruising starting to form now--except apply a numbing patch; those were bones he would need to let heal on their own. But she can see about the lacerations, mopping up the old blood with a wet cloth as gingerly as she can without being overly delicate, then pressing a dry one to the worst of the wounds to staunch any new bleeding. The blast seems to have taken him mostly on one side, although he certainly didn't get off easy any way one looked at it. Which she is trying to do with as much of a professional filter as she can manage instead of trying to map the scars across his torso like some sort of star chart she's memorized.
Goddammit, Jack.]
I can pull the shrapnel and close the worst of the cuts, but all I can do for the broken rib is give you something for the pain.
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bakerstreet2016-06-16 03:59 pm
Closed to mylawn
Now, it takes a little more work.
Smoke and rubble choke the narrow streets of the small Bulgarian village that has, as of a few hours ago, turned into an active war zone. UN forces had been deployed after vague reports of some sort of weapon stockpile had suddenly solidified along with plenty of talk that involved the words 'mass destruction'. Someone had suggested that perhaps she sit this one out, that the risk level was simply too high and her life would be worth more than the few civilians she might save if things went bad. She distinctly remembers being horribly offended at the time.
Thankfully, she had a degree of freedom afforded by her status that allowed her to thoroughly ignore any efforts made to keep her from boarding the transport along with the soldiers. Her first concern upon landing had been the evacuation of civilians in the immediate area, then to work her way out, trying to follow the troops as closely as she could, both for her safety and theirs. How rarely things go as planned, however.
Her ears are ringing from the unrelenting thunder of gunfire, but she can still hear the screams, echoing through an ally in the direction of a tightly packed group of row houses. She breaks away, pushing through the choking smoke from a building that she silently puts odds on collapsing behind her, a mental note made to consider a contingency plan if she found survivors and couldn't backtrack.
At first, she thinks it's one of the UN troops that darts across the alley ahead of her, someone who's been separated from the group, but she quickly realizes it's not. There's a flash of a jacket that she's seen before, although never in person- always on video, new reports, most wanted bulletins-- oh god.]
Wait! [She coughs through the smoke and spreads the winged thrusters of her suit, boots digging into the dirt as she braces for the glide.] Medic here!
[She doesn't expect him to wait, but it's better than not saying anything at all. She has to try. Her suit carries her forward, nearly to the intersection, she might actually catch him- but for the scream she'd heard earlier, a child leaning from a second story window, half the building around her crumbling away. She doesn't stop to consider the reason, only that what she wants--to keep going, to keep chasing what might as well be a ghost--is superseded without question.
A quick redirection of momentum and she's lifted herself high enough to grab hold of the window ledge with one hand, the other reaching out for the child, close enough to see the color of her eyes--
The massive omnic crashes through the building without warning and Angela shrieks before she can stop herself, her handhold crumbling along with everything around her, falling into empty air, the last glimpse of a tiny body pelted by brick and wood lost in the destruction--
She slams into the building on the opposite side of the street hard enough to take her breath away and possibly crack a rib if the sudden flash of pain is any indicator. She'll be lucky if it's just bruised. The child is nowhere she can see, everything around her dominated by a rain of broken building parts and the omnic responsible, its back bristling with what look like mortar launchers.
She is officially in over her head.]
busts on in
He'd dug up intel on the alleged weapons cache and followed it accordingly--it was only after he arrived that he realized everyone involved was dealing with much more than they'd ever bargained for. Ordinarily, the presence of a UN detail is enough to make him bail (being the target of an international manhunt will have that effect on someone), but the situation quickly becomes increasingly dire and it's apparent that his talents are needed, even if no one actually wants them.
But he has very little left to lose. 76 is more than confident in his ability to slip away if someone tries to apprehend him, so he'll do what he can in the meantime, which means he's flinging himself headfirst into the chaos, digging civilians out of rubble, clearing paths, fighting back. He's so engrossed in getting to where he needs to go that he barely registers someone trying to keep up with him until the voice and streaks of familiar colors and patterns registers somewhere in the back of his mind. He knows that suit. He knows that voice.
By the time he manages a glance over his shoulder, however, she's already gone. That's for the best. Any ex-Overwatch agent would be risky to run into, but Dr. Ziegler--Angela--is probably one of the worse options. He presses forward, reminding himself that there will be time to worry about this unfortunate happenstance later. For now, it's best that he stays out of her (and the UN's) way, even if it's very difficult to keep himself from making sure she wasn't asking for assistance. Old habits, and all.
76 knows full well that any public appearance on his part could be easily misconstrued. He can help all he wants and save as many people as he can, but he's also a great scapegoat. When the dust clears, he won't be surprised if the media pins some amount of blame on him simply because he happened to be on the scene. The presence of anyone even tangentially affiliated with Overwatch can only make things worse, to say nothing of someone who actually knew him (or, at least, the man he used to be). Ziegler has the excuse of being a doctor, but he can't imagine the UN will be very happy to find her on the front lines.
He doesn't have much time to think about it, because that's about when an omnic levels a building.
They'll probably blame him for that, too, but his first thought is that the blast came from where he'd just passed her. 76 immediately turns on his heel and runs back the way he came, just in time to see the machine loading up mortar rockets that it will inevitably unload. He's taken plenty of these things down, but he was also significantly younger and had a team, luxuries not afforded to him at the moment.
Still, that doesn't mean he isn't going to try, and he opens fire with rockets of his own, expertly aimed towards what he knows is a vulnerability.]
aw yis.
The abrupt compression from her suit around her ribs snaps her back into focus, eyes clearing, the present smashing its way back towards her by way of a large metal foot in the middle of the street. She sucks in a sharp breath and lunges out of the way, scrambling to her feet just in time to dodge another stomp. Her sidearm is unclipped before she can even think about it, although the few shots she manages as she darts for whatever cover she can find do little more that bounce harmlessly off thick armor plating.
It's full out in the open now, the ominous grinding and clanking of machinery broadcasting its impending attack. Pressing herself behind a partially collapsed wall, she waits for the sound of a mortar launch, her mind racing, digging up old advice, given by old friends. Bait it out, don't be a target in the open. If she can just keep it occupied long enough to get away, find the soldiers--
The explosion that rocks the street is not what she's expecting, the omnic howling furiously over the shriek of rending metal. What-
She expects a splinter group of UN soldiers, but she'd trade an entire army of standard issue infantry for who she sees instead. Something that feels like hope twists painfully in her chest, but she has no time to spend on all of her wild theories or the mountain of questions piling up now that she can see him through the smoke and debris and for a split second, she's not sure what year it is.
But then she's vaulting over the wall, staff in hand and wings spread, clearing the rubble in a single boost that brings her to his side. He might not have a team, but he has her, and even if-- even if he isn't who she thinks he is and he's just the criminal the news networks smear across their screens daily, then they've still got a bigger problem to deal with. Whether or not either of them are legally supposed to be here can be dealt with when they're not in danger of being blown up.
A good chunk of the omnic's shoulder is gone, torn away from the joint by the rockets and exposing a ragged mess of twisted metal and sparking wires. And somewhere behind it, just barely visible within the bulk of the machine's chest, a cache of mortar ammunition. If the man next to her really is Jack Morrison, then she has no doubt he saw it long before she did.]
I'm with you. Let's take care of this.
no subject
Angela is next to him before he knows what's happening, and a weight drops in the pit of his stomach. It's good that she wasn't buried in the initial building collapse. It's bad that she's here in the first place.]
Shouldn't they be keeping medics off the front line?
[He sounds like he's been gargling fiberglass and there's no small amount of disdain in his voice, like he considers this a huge failure on the part of the UN detail and already expects her to be a burden. That throwing herself into the line of fire when her talents are better used elsewhere is both irresponsible and a thorn in his side, because on top of taking care of the omnic, now he has to protect her.
She's probably heard this a dozen times today, and he already knows her answer because this is, all things considered, where she belongs, and he's taken her into situations like this more times than he can count (on her insistence, at first, but then because she honestly did too much good for him to even think about telling her to stay put). She won't be dissuaded, and there's a very small part of him that's glad she's with him, even if being in such close proximity could jeopardize everything he's working towards. Then again, if he doesn't take care of the immediate situation and gets them both killed, it won't matter anyway.
On top of their giant robot problem, he has to act like he doesn't know anything, like he doesn't know her and her motives inside and out. It's hard not to naturally gravitate to her side like he's done countless times before.]
Stay behind me. Got rockets back online in a few seconds.
[He's firing pulse blasts and backing up as the omnic advances, trying to stay out from under its feet and keep distance between them.]
yay for bs'ing silly game mechanics
[It might have been a joke in less dire circumstances. Right now, however, the curt delivery speaks not only for her determination not to be pushed away, but also to bite back at the tone of his own voice. He wants to be irritated with her? Fine. It's not going to stop her from doing whatever she can to help. He can thank her or not later.
She does, however, do her best to stay out direct line of fire as ordered; a small, practical concession she makes to keep her position secure. Nothing she has is even going to make a dent in what they're facing, but she can help make the dents he's making just a little bit bigger. It's always bothered her on some fundamental level that the technology she uses to heal and save lives is also used to cause grievous harm when applied to other weaponry, but in times of war, sometimes you have to do what you must. Her hands aren't completely free of their own share of blood. Her focus is on her unexpected partner at the moment however, moving with him and providing what boost she can to the impact of his shots.
There's a part of her that feels comfortable where she is, despite the stress and the anxiety and the looming threat of certain death- not because she feels especially safe from harm, but more like the feel of sliding back into an old piece of clothing that's been worn so often that it seems to know just how to fit. There's no feeling that she needs to second guess herself, or where he'll be, even if she can tell he's trying to keep his distance.
So when the omnic rears back and kicks a chunk of building in their direction, she doesn't waste time trying to tell him anything, leaping smoothly out of the way and rejoining him a moment later. It's a moment that's bought the thing time and she can hear that same mechanical grinding from before. This time she can see it, the moving parts within its chest, cycling ammunition, launch tubes ratcheting into place.]
I trust you have a plan!
my favorite
[Hell, he doesn't like it, but he's become much less concerned for wanton property damage in the last few years. 76 is already scanning the area for potential escape routes, thinking about how much time they'll have to get out of the blast radius once his rockets hit their mark. Making the shot will be tight, but he's known for doing the impossible.
They're separated momentarily as they both dodge flying concrete, but soon enough he's sprinting back to her side, pulling her out of the direct path of the omnic.]
I can hit the magazine.
[There's not much time for him to explain, but he points at the gap that he tore through the omnic's plating, trusting that she'll follow his index finger and fill in the blanks herself. He doesn't need to describe what's going to happen as soon as he ignites the mortars stored within the omnic. It's crazy, yes, but he needs to put this thing down, and do it quickly.]
If you take cover, I'll light it up.
no subject
You're right, I don't like it!
[They don't exactly have time to argue about this, but she has to at least say something, even if she knows it's just going to get ignored. The situation isn't giving them a lot of viable options.]
The explosion will level everything around it. There could still be people in those buildings. And what about you?
no subject
What he has done during this back and forth is lead the machine away as much into the open as he can, away from narrow alleys and still-standing structures.]
You want to argue with me or you want to start running?
[He barks it out, like someone more than accustomed to giving orders under duress. 76 is already leveling his rifle as he takes increasingly quick steps backward--even if she doesn't run, he's runing split-second contingency plans through his head so that he can get them both out of here. That much he'll try, at least.]
no subject
Don't get yourself killed.
[Again, is what she wants to add, but she still has no hard proof, despite how much her gut instinct is screaming it at her. She breaks away and bolts for the ruin of an already collapsed building further down a side street. Behind her, the omnic turns, perhaps realizing its been baited, or simply thinking it has an easy shot at an open target. It braces its feet, sparks flying from the open wound as the machinery inside grinds its way through the final motions. Whatever was going to happen, it was going to be in the next few seconds.
She doesn't look back, doesn't stop, focusing on a low foundation wall as her target and trying desperately not to let all the ways this could go wrong stop her. She can already feel the horrible what-ifs knotting up in her chest. She's already failed to save one life at her fingertips today; all she can do is hope that the next moment doesn't make it two.]
no subject
76 tries to flank it, tactical visor locking onto the sparking gap in the automaton's hull just as it readies to fire. He doesn't have time to wait and see if his rockets hit--all he can do is unload them and pray. As soon as he pulls the trigger, he's turning on his heel and running after Angela, trusting that his
aimbotvisor does the job.And it does, of course. There's the explosion of his own rockets, and then the chain reaction that follows as the omnic's magazine ignites and tears it apart from the inside out. He has a few seconds to get as far away as he can, pushing himself into as fast a sprint as he can manage.
Eventually, however, the blast catches up with him, shattering building windows and sending him toppling as shrapnel tears through his jacket and into the soft vulnerable spots where his body armor doesn't reach. The explosion flings him into rubble with a force that would most certainly kill a not-augmented individual, and there's an instantaneous stabbing pain in his side that he'd recognize as ribs if he wasn't so busy trying to shield himself from flying debris.
It's all over in an instant, save for the full collapse of an already half-leveled building that spews more smoke into the street. The omnic is all but obliterated, road covered in broken glass, scorch marks on the nearby buildings, and 76 is halfway to cover, skidding to a stop on his side as the dust clears.
After a long, motionless moment moment, he finally gives indication that he's alive, though all he really manages to do is flip himself over in an attempt to bring his knees under him and get back to his feet.]
#coolguysdon'tlookatexplosions
She doesn't even realize that she's been holding her breath until it comes out in a scream as the omnic explodes, an old name tangled up in the cry, although the cacophony swallows it up as soon as it leaves her. The entire street feels like it's going to collapse around her and she ducks back down behind the wall just as the shockwave hits, spraying loose debris like a wave breaking over her shelter. She tucks her head under her arms, shards of glass and metal ricocheting off her suit.
All she can hear in the aftermath is the ringing in her ears and the frantic thudding of her heart, but the instant it's over, she's pushing herself up, scanning the smoke-filled street for any sign of- oh god, no- he's not moving. She shoves herself out of cover, scrambling over the pile of rubble that had jammed itself up against her wall and taking to the air. She refuses to believe that he's dead, that it would take more than just some old omnic to put him down for good.
Her staff is brought to bear the moment she sees him start to move, just as her boots hit the scorched pavement a few yards away. The initial stream of nanites should stop any immediate bleeding in the few seconds it takes for her to close the distance between them.]
Stop moving, let me stabilize you. Tell me where the pain is most severe.
[The fact that he managed to survive the blast out in the open in proof enough that he's not just some man in a fancy jacket with a gun; that this isn't the first time she's dragged him out of the rubble. Hooking her staff into the crook of her elbow, she crouches down and slides her arms around him to keep him from trying to get up, instead trying to guide him into a more neutral position on the ground, or at least to let her take his weight if he's going to be stubborn about it. Her immediate assessment isn't as grave as it could have been at least: there's no large amount of blood around his head, chest, or on the pavement that would indicate an obvious arterial or cranial wound and none of his limbs are visibly broken or dislocated. If he can talk to her and answer questions, she can rule out a concussion.]
realtalk i was going to link that but then i guess i didn't
The tinnitus gives way to a heartbeat, thudding in his temples as his vision clears. 76 becomes acutely aware of his breathing against the inside of his mask, and he focuses on that, in and out, trying to slow it and fight down the tightness in his chest. He reminds himself of what just happened--he can move, he's surrounded by rubble but not buried in it, there's blood, but not an unreasonable amount.
Still, he can't help the kneejerk reaction to being touched after getting himself kind of exploded, and he all but tries to fling her off him, a motion that only sends pain lancing up his side. The snarl that escapes him isn't something he's able to bite back.]
Don't--
[He'll regret that in a moment, because on some level he knows that Angela is just doing her job, but that's not at the forefront of his mind. All he can think is that he needs to get up and get out.]
I picked up what you were laying down, we're good
She'll treat this like a battlefield heal if she absolutely needs to, complete with thrashing and growling and keeping her distance, but she would prefer not to. It's not necessary and there's a part of her that hurts for purely selfish reasons at the thought of being pushed away, a thorny knot of grief she's never been able to resolve; only tuck away where it can cause the least amount of damage.
So let her have this, please, she begs silently. On the inside, those thorns rip at her heart, but her voice barely betrays it as she speaks to him, her tone softened for his sake.]
You're injured. I need you to let me help you. Take slow breaths, count to three.
[She presses a hand to his chest, half to help support him, half to feel for his heartbeat, not trusting her luck to try for his neck or wrist. And maybe the contact just makes her feel better, knowing she can feel it under her palm, beating hard, refusing to give up.]
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76 starts to count to himself, timing inhales and exhales accordingly, the haze of momentary panic starting to lift (though it's not exactly replaced by anything comforting). He already knows he's fine--or, at least, that this isn't anything he can't bounce back from. What's tricky is going to be extricating himself from this situation before the military detail comes looking for Angela or he's straight up compromised simply by being in such close proximity to her. His injuries might not be life-threatening, but he's effectively ruined his chances at a clean exit.]
That was a bad idea.
[When he speaks, it's little more than a groan, head falling back as if he's finally realizing just how stupid a stunt this was. Why did you let him do that!!]
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It was a foolish idea. [She guides him to sit back, off his knees where she can get a better idea of just what she has to work with.] But you're very good at those, commander.
[It's a risk, calling him out like that, but if she doesn't do it now, she has a feeling that he'll be gone as soon as he has the chance and she won't get another opportunity. And she expects that in the next moment he'll do a very thorough job of obliterating the little scrap of hope behind that smile she's attempting, but until then she has it to hold on to.]
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Last I heard, your commander was dead, Doc.
[Dead, and took Overwatch with him. That's loaded, and probably reveals far too much, but it's also challenging, like he's daring her to produce actual, tangible proof beyond hunches and confirmation bias.
It's not out of the question that he (a shady vigilante with a penchant for robbing old Overwatch facilities) would know who she is and who she's referring to and why she'd think he is that person. His expression remains inscrutable through the mask and visor, but the way she's currently moving and carrying herself catches his attention.]
You're hurt.
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You would know, it was your coffin they put in the ground.
[She regrets it the moment she says it, her emotions pressing too close against her better judgement, and she lowers her eyes to focus on her work instead. He still hasn't told her just where he's been injured beyond the obvious, but she can extrapolate based on his position in the street. Likely at least some blunt force damage to the torso if the explosion had knocked him over, so she'll start there. The nanites can't immediately mend bones, but they can start the process.
Then he tells her that she's hurt and she wants it to mean something more that what he intends. This time she knows better.]
It's minor.
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76 can make excuse after excuse, but the reality is that he isn't sure he can come clean after the disappearing act he's pulled. Blaming himself for shell-shocked decisions made in the aftermath of the HQ explosion would be pointless, but when the dust cleared, he'd made the conscious decision to stay dead. He'd left the rest of them to deal with the shutdown of Overwatch and all of the fallout on their own. Though it had seemed the right choice at the time, he knows now that it was unfair. Cowardly. How can he possibly face any of them after everything he put them through? After everything he's done now? He's crossed lines in the name of his mission, he knows that. What can she possibly think about his globe-hopping, bomb-planting escapades, especially when his motives have been mostly inscrutable?]
I ain't him.
[His apology is implied, and there's sympathy in his voice, like he wishes he could give a better answer, or that he's sorry she allowed herself to hope otherwise. On some level, he considers this the truth, because Jack Morrison never made it out of Switzerland. 76 is someone entirely different, and anyone trying to project their old commander onto him--clinging to the memory of a dead man--is making a mistake.
He meets her gaze through the visor, not that she can see it.]
We shouldn't stay in the open. Come on.
[Though he knows she'll try and stop him, he makes an attempt to stand, hand on her arm to pull her with him. The lack of cover has him on edge. Maybe if they get somewhere safer, they can talk.]
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Luckily, before she can say anything else she'll regret, he's demanding they move and trying to stand up, grabbing her arm as if she's not going to argue. Okay, maybe she is going to say something, but she's not so sure she'll regret it this time.]
I'm not done, what are-- [She's cut off by a crackling in her ear that nearly has her jumping out of her skin. She'd completely forgotten about the comms that have been offline since the omnic has first sent her flying. The voice that makes its way through the static is unmistakably the squad leader and she tries to make out what he's saying while at the same time ensuring 76 isn't going to fall over onto his face the moment he gets his feet under him.]
>>--utenant Markow, do you read me Dr. Ziegler?<<
[She braces the end of her staff against the ground and pushes herself up so she's not being dragged (for goodness sake), her arm still around 76's back as both support and insurance that he's not going to try and run off the moment she's distracted. Regardless of their disagreements about who he really is, he's still injured and she has a responsibility.]
I'm here, lieutenant. How is the situation?
>>You had me worried, I've been trying to reach you for the past ten minutes. Situation is handled, no casualties or serious injuries. If they had any major firepower here, we didn't see it.<<
[She glances at what's left of the omnic, which isn't much. A smoking pile of scrap in the middle of a small crater. Right.]
Well, that's good news. Please finalize the evacuations and have a medical tent set up for me. I'll be clearing the east side of the village. You can expect me back by twenty-two hundred.
>>Acknowledged, doctor. I'll send some back up--<<
That won't be necessary, lieutenant, thank you. Ziegler out.
[She pulls the earpiece out and tucks it into a pocket. The interruption had been jarring, but she can't deny that there's a part of her that's thankful for the excuse to shove the painful thorns of the past at least partway behind the walls they should rightfully be behind. How long they'll stay there she can't say for sure, but at least for now she can concentrate on getting them somewhere safer than the middle of the street.]
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76 tenses, freezes up when she starts talking to someone who clearly isn't him, and he realizes that she has a comm in her ear. Only hearing half of the conversation is not exactly comforting, but he's more than aware that she could very easily tell her detail who she is with, and she seems to not be doing that. She seems to be making an excuse to go off with him, and whether that's so she can treat his wounds or continue to press him for his real identity isn't exactly clear.
Knowing Angela, it's likely a bit of both. If he were smart, he'd get her back to the UN soldiers and make a discreet exit. She'll be safe with them, and he's weathered much worse by himself, with no medical assistance.
But despite all of the logical, rational arguments for extricating himself from this situation as soon as possible, the man he used to be cannot in good conscience leave her injured. The way her arm slips around his back to support him is all too familiar, and the invisible fingers in his chest twist again, grabbing at something he tried desperately to bury. He doesn't remember the last time they were this close.
So he focuses on her end of the conversation, trying to fill in the blanks. Sounds like everything is fine, more or less, though he could have told her that from the absence of continued gunfire. He can't tell if her pocketing the earpiece is because she didn't like what they were saying, or if that really is the end of the conversation. He's too paranoid to think they'll leave her alone that easily, and he's already scanning the area for a suitable place they can hole up. 76 starts pulling them both towards a side street. Even if they can't find an evacuated or abandoned building, they can at least get out of the open.]
They won't come looking for you?
[He says that more than a little skeptically. 76 is concerned for himself, sure, but he also doesn't want her seen with him, either.]
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Markow won't send anyone. I'm their responsibility only so long as there happens to be a live fire threat. [She almost tells him that they trust her, but she knows it'd be more of a lie than she'd be comfortable with; and incredibly petty on top of it. She's better than that. But it's certainly tempting for a split second.] If I'm late, he might consider it so he doesn't have to fill out the paperwork for a misplaced consultant. Until then, he has his superiors to keep him occupied.
[Which is technically what she is. Dr. Angela Ziegler, independent medical consultant to the United Nations. She had staunchly refused to be involved in any official capacity with a military detail and she's fairly certain she had upset more than a few people with that decision, but it's a leash she's not about to start wearing any time soon. The bureaucrats are more than welcome to spend their time wringing their hands about liabilities and the chain of command; she'll be in the field saving lives on her own terms.]
Over here.
[Not far ahead of them, a door hangs open into a building that looks to have taken only a minimal amount of damage. It's her turn to tug him along now, directing them off the street and into what turns out to be someone's home. Abandoned in a hurry if the state of disarray is any indication. She's reluctant to let go of him, her hand lingering on his side for longer than it needs to before she turns to shut the door behind them. The lock as it turns sounds louder than it has any right to be in the quiet of the empty house.]
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76 isn't sure if he's telling the truth about this Markow guy, but he's committed to getting them both somewhere out of the open, so all he can really do is frown and press on. If UN troops show up, he'll cross that bridge when he gets there, and he offers her something of an affirmative growl as they trudge through the streets.]
Just checking.
[The fact that she shouldn't be spotted with him is sort of implied.
He's silent after that. The house they find seems to be satisfactory, though 76 doesn't think he'll ever be able to fully relax. As soon as she closes the door, however, it's like he has permission to show weakness. Even standing and walking as far as they have had been more taxing than he expected, and it's hard not to find the nearest piece of overturned furniture to lean on.
He'll give into that urge, exhaling audibly, a growl in his throat as he lets himself slump a little against a chair. The gloved hand that he's pressed to his side peels away, revealing some of the dark stains that have been steadily seeping through his jacket.]
....I am apparently lacking in serious face icons.
She just wishes the lessons they'd had to learn hadn't been so cruelly taught.
There's a groan and the scrape of shifting furniture behind her and she whirls to find that 76 has staggered some distance away already. That he's suddenly looking considerably worse for wear is a punch to the chest, her heart leaping into her throat as she hurries to rejoin him, cursing quietly in german. She should have just assumed he was putting on the brave face outside instead of letting herself be placated. Stupid.
She's pressed back up against him in the next moment, sliding under his arm and taking his weight from the overturned chair whether he likes it or not. Judging by the blood on his hand, she thinks he might be near to the point of not having a choice.]
Come on, just make it to the kitchen.
[It's closest she'll be getting to a proper office right now. At least it should have running water and she has enough basic supplies on her person to make it work. Thankfully, it appears whoever had lived here until recently preferred to take their meals nearby, as there's a small table and chairs in an adjoining nook. She eases him into one of the chairs and sets about stripping his jacket from his arms and shoulders, heedless of any objections.]
I asked you before where you were injured and you saw fit to nearly whack me in the head. Should I expect a proper answer if I ask again, or will I have to strip you down?
[Her tone is straightforward, devoid of any subtext that a more casual situation might have offered. There are old, faded memories of different times when she might have meant it that way, private moments that were too few and far between, most darkened by a looming shadow of uncertainty and awkwardness, but happier none the less. She might have let them go at one point, but they're about all she has left of him these days. The heartache, she thinks, it worth it.]
It's all good I only have silly visors
[Panic attack, more like, but he isn't about to voice that (or even admit it to himself). He's much better about being touched this time--having his bearings helps, and so does knowing it's coming and being out of the open, so he lets her lead him into the kitchen and put him in a chair. He winces behind the mask, but settles after a long moment.
Despite his earlier behavior, it seems he knows how to be a good patient, unbuckling his equipment harness and slipping out of it one strap at a time so that she can better get at his jacket. 76 does his best to stay out of her way, though he leans over her a little to set it aside, trying not to think about their sudden closeness and all of the things it reminds him of. He finds himself watching her again, selfishly dragging up memories of all the other times he's sat like this, having her treat him for one cut or bruise or wound or another. He doesn'the remember much about the last time he saw her.
The thing in his chest twists again, and he wants to reach out and brush that errant bang behind her ear but has to stop himself for obvious reasons. It's almost laughable how he has to concentrate on the pain, of all things, to keep himself from doing or saying something stupid. Fighting it all down is easy when he's on his own and doesn't have the presence of old friends (or something more, on the occasions where they bothered to sort themselves out) to remind him of everything he walked away from.
Or, more accurately, what he ran from.
That's what is difficult about willingly subjecting himself to an examination. Few people know him better than she does, in a lot of ways. He's practically asking to have his cover blown, and yet he makes no efforts to stop her, even if he's more than capable of treating himself for worse injuries than this. He helps her fully unzip his jacket and ease him out of it, revealing the tight black high-collared shirt and body armor he wears underneath. 76 gets to work on those buckles and zippers, too.]
Ribs. Took some shrapnel.
[Still, he knows she's sustained injuries of her own, and he's quick to remind her of that. He knows how she can be.]
What about you?
I'm sorry I called your aimbot silly :p
She remembers the decision she'd made to turn away after she'd stabilized him to go looking for Gabriel, telling him she'd be back even thought there was no way to know if he'd even heard her. She remembers not being able to find him when she returned, how she had screamed for him over the roar of the fires and the crash of crumbling walls, how in the end all she could do was leave behind a broken promise on that pile of bloody debris. For a long time afterward, after they had lowered an empty coffin into the ground and Reyes had vanished as well like the phantom he was, she'd been convinced that she'd failed them both. There's still a part of her that believes it. Perhaps it's why she holds on so tight to the memories. Or maybe she's never been quite ready to face the pain of letting go all over again.
Either way, it's never stopped haunting her, whether on purpose or not, and she's doing her best to focus on what she needs to do in the moment- right here, right now, for her patient- rather than the way they move around each other like they've done this before. He leans over her and there's the barest tilt of her head towards him before she can catch herself, biting the inside of her cheek and digging her fingers into the bottom buckle of his jacket.
He'd told her out on the street that he wasn't who she thought he was, but she knows the scar on his face and the way his frame fits against hers and now, when they're this close, even though he stinks of smoke and blood and dust, she can't shake the familiarity of sweat and leather. She has a feeling it's not going to get any easier the further they go.
She helps him with the body armor and can't help but notice the beating it's taken, not just from the most recent explosion, but there's older damage there too, patched and repatched under the fresh peppering of shrapnel. No wonder he's bleeding all over the place.]
You need to replace this. [She grouses without thinking about it as she sets it aside and straightens up, thoroughly ignoring his attempts to ask after her own injuries again. Unless there was something else he didn't want to tell her, she was the doctor here, not him.] Shirt up, please.
[She'll let him take care of that while she fetches as many towels as she can find from the sink. As she goes, she starts plucking out the tools she would need from hidden pockets- tweezers, scissors, needle and sutures- pausing for barely half a second when she notices his blood smeared across the white of her suit. Well, she's not about to be getting any cleaner, so no sense in making anything out of it.
She brings a bowl of water back with her as well, setting everything down on the tabletop and dragging over a chair of her own. There isn't much she can do about his ribs--and she can see the ugly bruising starting to form now--except apply a numbing patch; those were bones he would need to let heal on their own. But she can see about the lacerations, mopping up the old blood with a wet cloth as gingerly as she can without being overly delicate, then pressing a dry one to the worst of the wounds to staunch any new bleeding. The blast seems to have taken him mostly on one side, although he certainly didn't get off easy any way one looked at it. Which she is trying to do with as much of a professional filter as she can manage instead of trying to map the scars across his torso like some sort of star chart she's memorized.
Goddammit, Jack.]
I can pull the shrapnel and close the worst of the cuts, but all I can do for the broken rib is give you something for the pain.
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oh good. just gonna skim thru most of the medical stuffs so we can keep going.
https://67.media.tumblr.com/48147f77c21f04f02c8844160c834870/tumblr_o99e8hYpsD1rhchhgo2_r1_1280.png
....ouch :|
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now that i have exhausted my one visorless icon...
the visor IS his face...
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let me know if I should change anything here, I just sorta ran with it.
no it's so good i was totally thinking about how he would not be able to get her out of that
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I think i am finally out of the 4th of july weekend hole, sorry for the wait
s'all good. 'MURICA!
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just when things start to get sexy, they gotta make it horrible again ;-;
they are trying very hard
:'(
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one day...work will let up...
I feel ya ;-; *offers condolences*
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sorry, had a long couple of days. I'm still here!
no worries!
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sorry for the tiny tag
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aaaand I'm back!
me too, apparently. welcome back and sorry for the wait!
OK LITERALLY LIKE A *YEAR* LATER
opens arms
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