Tw: Dark Themes - Tumblr Posts

TW: Suicide/Dark Themes

"Can you set me free..."

[Light's off]

BOY I was reading, right? I was in a very cozy environment of Ruggie's village, the construction of the environment, the beastman children, the love in the air with Ruggie x Reader. I was so immersed that I COMPLETELY FORGOT IT WAS A DARK FIC MY HEART FELL OUT OF MY MOUTH AT THE END I WAS IN SHOCK THAT MY MIND STOPPED FOR A MINUTE Me reading: yayy …. strange …. very strange …. no boy …. no …. I can't believe it …. RUGGIE BOY NO ….. aah was it a trick? BOY WAS NOT REAL?….. BOY WHAT IS GOING ON? ((That's a compliment, it's a very engaging fic and the way it's done and treated in a non-obvious way, congratulations to the author. The way you portrayed Ruggie is so him, few can characterize him in that way)) < 3 < 3 <3

Play Hard Games, Win Soft Prizes

Gonna be absolutely so real with you, I have no idea what that title means. Maybe it'll make sense to someone. This is a request from @whenwewhereyounger. If you'd like me to remove that tag, I can do so, just let me know. Like I do for Leona fics where Farena and his canonically unnamed wife show up, I made up a name for Ruggie's grammy, just like her appearance.

Shoutout to my girlfriend for helping me with a concept that I was struggling with in this fic! Woohoo! I did so much freaking research for this one, scarred myself for life tbh, but hey, I found out a lot. So much. Also: does Ruggie's UM focused on physical or mental control, and, depending on which one, does it matter if the subject(s) are alive? Dividers by @/cafekitsune

This fic is for: Anyone who can handle it! The reader does have hair, but the length is never specified. Reader is Yuu/MC, like usual in my fics, but it is mostly implied more than anything else.

TW for: DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT, straight up murder and stalking in this one, everyone. Non-sexual nudity, blood and explicit gore, questionable usage of magic. Also so many words. There are 8763 words in this fic.

Ruggie is a mite conniving. You’d be lying if you said that most of Savanaclaw wasn’t, but Ruggie specifically is a calculating little bastard.

That’s rude. You know that’s rude. Ruggie does what he needs to do in order to survive. It’s something that has been drilled into him from the moment he saw the world, but you just wish he wouldn’t have invited you out here since he knows this area isn’t the safest.

Grim decided to hang out with the Octavinelle guys and you went with Ruggie for spring break. It was kind of nice, the trip there. The Afterglow is beautiful. You enjoyed yourself, it was fun and Ruggie has a wonderful sense of humor, or perhaps his laughter is just contagious. That and the sun on your skin as you traveled made for a wonderful time, actually.

No, your problems started when you got to his hometown. About as soon as you entered, something already felt off, like there were a hundred eyes watching you, waiting for something. Perhaps it was the odd shadow that seemed to be laying over the entire place, or maybe it was the occasional snicker or whisper that you thought you could hear in the eerie breeze. Whatever it was, you kind of felt like an asshole for judging his hometown so swiftly. He was sharing something deeply personal with you by even bringing you here. Ruggie is very emotionally intelligent, though, despite him being a piece of shit, so when he noticed your trepidation, he reached out and squeezed your hand.

“Are you nervous? Shyeheeheehee, don’t worry. I’m right here.” And he smiled, and you felt sort of relaxed. His smile always made you feel relaxed.

Nothing could be as relaxing when he showed you to his little home. It was nice, the walls made of dirt and a few very beautiful rugs on the inside, from what you could see. The roof was thatched, but beyond the light being streamed in by the afternoon sun, you couldn’t see very well inside the place after Ruggie opened the door. He poked his head in and pressed a hand against your belly, a silent “back up.”

You took a step back and sharply turned your head to the sound of a twig snapping. There wasn’t anything there, but you also couldn’t see the twig. For a place called the Afterglow, this area was honestly kind of shadowy. It was pretty unsettling, like a blanket that had a spider hidden in it somewhere, but you didn’t know where. You stared out into the dim distance and a gentle touch on your arm scared you out of your skin.

Ruggie’s hand retracted as he looked at you as though you'd lost it, “What’s wrong?”

“I- Sorry, I thought I heard something.”

“You did? I didn’t hear anything.”

You gave him a wide-eyed stare and he gave you one of those big grins that makes you feel like everything is going to be okay. His hand rested on your arm and he gave your bicep a gentle squeeze.

“Relax, okay? I’m right here.” With that, he led you inside and snapped his fingers, a few lights flickering on, “Grammy doesn’t seem to be home, which means you get to help me with dinner.”

“H-huh?”

“You can cook, I’ve tasted your food before, shyeheehee. C’mon.” He looped his fingers through yours again, leading you deeper into the house. As you walked, the lights behind you turned off so the ones in front of you could turn on. You belatedly realized that the electricity is reacting to Ruggie.

“No, I just- I don’t know what I would make. I mean, what does your grandmother even like?”

Ruggie gave you a sort of odd look and showed you to a kitchen, a basket with some fresh vegetables sitting on the counter. Ruggie opened the fridge and you stiffly approached the veggies.

“Hmmm, oh… Looks like we’re making pasta today. That sound good?” He asked you.

You nodded, still feeling a bit out of your element. Ruggie pointed to the veggies and smiled kindly.

“Do me a favor and start washing those? I can do most of the rest until Grammy shows up.”

You calmly looked around the kitchen for a large bowl and some baking soda, glancing back at Ruggie as he retrieved a pan and a few seasonings, clearly planning to brown the… honestly somewhat suspicious-looking slab of meat on the counter. He carefully cut the striped fur and underlying skin off of the steak and rubbed some seasonings into the meat itself, his ear twitching as he glanced back at you.

You fill your bowl with cool water, salt, and baking soda, then start washing the vegetables, “So… where is your grandmother?”

Ruggie snickers under his breath, “I’m not all-knowing.”

“Well… yeah, but I just figured she would have told you?”

“Nah. She’ll probably be back soon. Make sure you wash that celery twice, okay?”

You nod obediently and diligently tackle your task, only pausing as Ruggie plops the meat into a pan and leans back on his heels, whistling as his arms rest behind his head. He looks way more casual than usual, which is especially funny to you since his uniform is usually in some form of disarray because he moves around so much. You smile to yourself and re-wash the celery, then rinse all of the vegetables.

Ruggie’s whistling cuts off abruptly and his head jerks towards the direction of the entrance. You turn off the water, your blood chilling as you hear soft footsteps headed towards the kitchen. In other words, there was someone walking towards you. Ruggie went back to his lazy grin as he watched the meat, flipping it over a bit as a large, sinewy woman steps into view. 

She looks incredibly serious, and there’s a scar lining her face, from her jaw, straight across her nose and splitting the start of her left eyebrow. She has a pair of fuzzy, round ears, similarly to Ruggie, and freckles along her forearms. In her hair, there’s streaks of gray, but other than that, her hair is a soft, mousy brown. Just like Ruggie, she has those pretty crystal gray eyes, like the sky just after a nice rain. 

She curled her lip in a grin and pinched Ruggie’s side. He yelped, even though it didn’t look that harsh, but it must have surprised him.

Her voice is brusque, like she might smoke or she’s a lot older than she looks, “You didn’t tell me you were bringing your cute buddy along, whelp!” If you didn’t know any better, you’d say you saw Ruggie’s tail wiggle. From what you’ve understood, that tends to be a sign that he wants to remove himself from a situation. The lady, who is very obviously Ruggie’s grandmother, approached you and jerked out a very firm looking hand as Ruggie awkwardly turned back to his cooking meat.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Vittoria Bucchi, though most folks around here call me Vita or Grammy. And you are?”

You stuttered out your name, tentatively grasping Vita’s hand in a handshake. She’s kind of a mountain of a woman. She’s a good handful of inches taller than Ruggie, and if she’s taller than Ruggie, she’s definitely taller than you. She’s got to at least be 6 feet tall.

Vita’s grin grew wider and she turned back to her grandson, scooping him up in what appeared to be a bone-crushing hug and kissing him on the cheek before she placed a small paper sack on the counter and took a step back. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the sight of the two of you, and then she let out a sigh and put her hands on her hips.

“Well done, you two, but you both stink. Ruggie, darling, why don’t you take your little friend out to the showers? Grammy can take over from here.”

Ruggie seemed grateful for the out. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was blushing. He grabbed your hand and gave you a very unconvincing grin. Of course you followed him.

As soon as you’re in what you assume is the bedroom (there only seems to be one of those) he let out a little sigh and chuckled, “Uh… heh, sorry. I forgot to warn you that Grammy is kinda…”

“Energetic?” You offered, then shook your head as you watched Ruggie pick out some clothing, “I don’t mind. She seems really sweet. I was pretty scared when she just walked in and stared at me for a moment, but she’s very cool…”

There’s a moment as Ruggie doesn’t say anything. You felt the horrible need to fill the silence, so you continued speaking.

“Uh, I can… I can see where you get it from.” Your voice came out as more of a mumble, but you know Ruggie heard you. He has good ears.

He stood up and grinned, rubbing the back of his neck with two towels and some clothes rolled up inside of them, “Oh, you think so? Shyheehee, my cute underclassman thinks I’m cool!” He was teasing you, but the butterflies in your stomach didn’t account for that. Your mouth went dry and he nudged you with the back of his hand, guiding you to follow him.

The neighborhood kind of grows on you. Several kids ran up to Ruggie, all of them sporting the too-big ears that you often see on wild hyena pups and very shaggy hair. They cheer and dance around him and he takes it in stride, waving them off with the same thing his grandmother told you two, that he stinks and needs to take a shower. The kids all intermittently say that the water is probably going to be cold by now, but Ruggie shrugs.

You’re not mad about that. It’s honestly fine. Ruggie pulls you into a somewhat creepy, kind of large stall, and you can see a rather frightening-looking dead moth underneath the dividing wall. There’s no way that the water reaches all the way to the opposite wall, but it kind of makes sense, since there’s only tile just in front of the two shower heads before it transitions to the same wood that the stall walls are made of. There’s hooks on the wall opposite the shower heads, with nice little baskets underneath them. The heavy wooden stall door is locked securely. It’s a little strange that the wall with the door is a full-length wall, but the walls adjacent to it, other than the shower wall itself, only come down part way. There’s no roof.

When you turn back to Ruggie, he’s already hung up the towels, put the new clothing down, and is buck ass naked and fiddling with the shower controls. You stifle a gasp and his ear swivels towards you.

“Everything okay?” He asks, ever so innocently.

You are the one being weird. What’s a shower with your close friend? Nothing is going to happen. So you stripped down as well, stepping towards Ruggie as the water turned on. 

As soon as the water touched you, you squealed. It was, quite literally, a jet of freezing cold water on your bare ass. Ruggie bursts into raucous laughter and lathers his hair like the cold water doesn’t even bother him.

It took you a moment to get acclimated. There was a rattling at the stall door and Ruggie didn’t even bother turning around as he rinsed his hair, his hands keeping the water out of his ears, “Ocupado!”

Whoever was on the other side didn’t move until Ruggie walked over to get his towel, a kind of unimpressed look on his face aimed towards the door. The shadow under the door retreats and you bring your shower to an end and dry off as well. Ruggie leaned against the door, clad in a pair of loose shorts and a kind of baggy shirt, waiting on you. He’s been very long suffering with you, thus far, but he’s very easygoing, so you’re unsure if you can do much to change that. Not that you want to.

He’s offered you some of his own clothing, to borrow. Most of his stuff is a bit… the wrong size? So you can wear it comfortably enough. He’s not bulked up or incredibly tall like Jack, so it’s a nice, cool change to your school uniform that fits you well enough.

He smiled as you approached him, sighing airily as he grabbed your hand, “Ah, I feel so refreshed after that! Usually I get water in my ears, but I guess you’re my lucky charm today, shyeheehee!”

“I bet that’s even less pleasant when your hearing is so good.” You supplemented, politely making conversation.

Ruggie shrugged, lifting his arm to rest his hand in his wet hair, “Eh, it’s not that bad. Now, a bug flying in there is a completely different story.”

“Oh, I bet. I wish I could wiggle my ears like you can.” You’ve always admired Ruggie’s ears, but not really because you wanted to have your own look like that. You just thought they were a friendly shape. Ruggie’s honestly very cute.

He gave you a pleasant, closed-lipped smirk and opened the door to his home. It smelled amazing in there. Ruggie wandered to the bedroom and you followed the smell. Vita grinned at you as you entered. She’s got a gap in her front teeth, and cute little fangs like Ruggie has.

“You’re just in time, kiddo! Ruggie come back with you?”

“Uh… yes?”

She giggles, much like her grandson, and plates up the creamy-looking pasta, “Well, you better go get ‘em.”

You had no idea where to look, but you obediently went looking regardless. Your search through a dark house was not particularly fruitful. The lights didn’t turn on for you, as you have zero magical ability, so you crept through the house. This house is not particularly large, and as you walked, you made a mental map, of sorts. The main hallway opens into the living area, which is attached to the kitchen. The kitchen has two entrances, one that goes into the hallway and the other that is attached to the living area. In the hallway, there is at least one door. As you feel around for the second one, you stumble blindly into a dark room because there was no door. Your toes hurt from the way you stumbled. You regained your balance, and after taking a step, you heard a soft click, which made your blood freeze. You went stiff, waiting for a second click or some other noise, and then something touched your back and you shrieked.

Ruggie took a couple steps away from you, raising his hands as you shot him a nasty look.

“Where were you?” You frowned.

He simply laughed and grabbed your hand, guiding you back to the kitchen. Vita was waiting, patient as can be. She smiled and took a seat. Ruggie followed suit, and you followed Ruggie.

As you ate- which, by the way, was amazing even though you were certain the meat came from a zebra because it tasted gamey- you listened in on the conversation that Vita and Ruggie shared. You felt like a bystander, but a welcome one. This was a pocket of domesticity, despite how unusual it felt to be here.

“So, how’s school going, whelp?” Vita asks between bites.

Ruggie swallows and tilts his head so he can look at his grammy as he shovels food into his mouth, “It’s going okay. No trouble.”

“Mmm. You’re getting good grades?”

“Of course.”

You quietly ate as Vita’s eyes turned to you. Her eyes narrowed as she smiled, flicking between you and her grandson, “And you scored yourself a nice partner. They’re so polite!”

Ruggie coughed, then sat up a lot straighter than you’ve ever seen him sit up, “Uh, heh- Grammy, we aren’t dating.”

“You aren’t? What a shame. Maybe things’ll change soon.”

It was your turn to cough. You choked and a noodle came out of your nose. Ruggie and Vita just stared as you intensely wished to be anywhere but your seat at the table, and then Ruggie, very gently, incredibly gingerly, pulled the noodle out of your nose. It burned, but not as bad as the embarrassment, but Vita and Ruggie went back to eating as though that didn’t happen at all.

After dinner is over, Ruggie washed the dishes and you dried them. He kept laughing to himself. 

“What’s so funny?” As soon as the words left your mouth, you wished you could take them back.

Ruggie glanced up at you, those pretty sky-after-rain eyes narrowed in mirth, and then he did not mention the noodle incident at all, instead pointing at the little knob of bone that was inside the zebra steak earlier on a single plate. It’s fully cooked.

“Grammy left it out, ‘cause you’re human. I just thought it was funny.”

“I- I mean, I guess I could have eaten the marrow?” You placed the dishes in their places and Ruggie shrugged.

“Do you want the marrow?” Ruggie asked, a sort of sardonic tone to his voice.

“Not really.”

He nodded, then picked the little bone chunk up and popped it in his mouth. He casually grabbed the plate it was on and washed it. For a moment, you thought he was just sucking the marrow out of the bone, but then a horrible crunch resounded from his jaw and you just stared for a moment.

“Are… you okay?” You asked quietly.

Ruggie politely finished chewing, handing off the now-clean plate to you, and turned around so his back was to the counter, “Yeah.”

Okay. So he just… crunched on a bone. Wonderful. You silently made a note to never put your hand in his mouth and put the final plate away.

There was a comfortable silence as Ruggie stared out the window, and then he broke it, “So typically, Grammy takes one cot while I take the other. Do you want your own cot?”

“What?”

“To sleep on.” His lips quirked into a smile and you blinked a couple times.

“I don’t need my own cot. I usually sleep with Grim on my head anyway.”

Ruggie nodded and covered his chin with his knuckles as he snickers, “Shyeheeheehee! Well, I’m not as cute or compact as Grim, but if you want, we can share a cot.”

The two of you already shared a shower. Sharing a cot is honestly something of a step down, “That’s fine.”

Ruggie gives you that soothing grin and grabs your hand, “Promise I’m not a sleep fighter like Grammy. Let’s get to bed. Tomorrow I wanna give you the grand tour.”

So, of course you found yourself lying against Ruggie as he quietly snored. His grammy doesn’t snore, but you actually couldn’t tell if she was asleep or not. Before the two of you laid down to go to sleep, it was mutually and silently agreed that neither of you wanted to be a spoon, so you decided to lie shoulder to shoulder, but Ruggie is apparently a bit of a sleep cuddler, since as soon as he fell asleep, you were bundled against his chest. 

You weren’t really complaining. Ruggie is a piece of shit and emotionally intelligent, so you harbor the belief that he knows. You weren’t really subtle about your affection for him, but you weren’t overt either. You would share your lunch with him. You would forage on your down time, just hoping to catch a glimpse of him but often bumping into Jade. Whenever Crewel decided to have a shadowing class, where you had to look at what your upperclassmen were doing, you’d go to Ruggie’s side as soon as humanly possible. And now, here you were, having decided to stay the whole week of spring break with a guy who probably saw you as some kind of younger sibling.

Oh well. You closed your eyes and heard that clicking noise again. You sat up and Ruggie’s eyes opened, but you didn’t really think he was awake, since they closed after a moment of him staring through where you were. It was that thing that you’ve seen so many animals do. Grim did that too. It’s that protective thing that animals do when something slightly disturbs their rest. You had the thin hope that you didn’t fully wake him up as you stared into the darkness near the doorway. There was nothing there, and you’re not stupid enough to go wandering into the dark and chasing a noise. You laid back down, shutting your eyes as your head rested on Ruggie’s arm and shoulder.

Sleep didn’t come easy. It hadn’t ever since you ended up in Twisted Wonderland. You attributed this to the stress, honestly. You dreamt about the darkness, spreading like ink through cloth. It bleeds into the world around you and you see it crawling up your feet and ankles, as though you’re a ragdoll, something soft and made of cloth and being tainted. When it reaches your elbows, you felt something heavy in your stomach, bringing you to your knees. The ink crawled up your shoulders, to your neck, and your mouth opened, darkness spewing out of the depths of your very being. As you looked up into the dark sky, you had a resounding, loud thought within your dream, “Is this what overblotting feels like?”

You woke up to the sound of sniffling and someone shushing someone else, as well as a soft, rolling massage against the base of your ear. As you woke a bit more, you realize that you were the one crying, and Ruggie’s hand is massaging your neck as he shushed you like he was talking to a distraught child. 

“Shh, shh… It’s okay, you’re alright.” He whispers.

You rolled onto your back and looked up at the sunlight coming through the window, then back at Ruggie’s soft smile. Your head hurt, “What…?”

“You were crying in your sleep. Are you okay?”

“Oh. Yeah. I’m good.”

Ruggie very obviously didn’t believe you, but he moved back and Vita appeared in the doorway, holding a steaming cup. She smiled and passed it down to Ruggie, who passed it to you.

It’s just hot water, but it’s relaxing and your headache eased as you sipped it, offering a sheepish grin to Ruggie and Vita, “Sorry. The… The crying doesn’t usually happen.”

Ruggie tilted his head and Vita’s ears flicked as she sighed. Both of them are wearing different clothing, Vita was wearing a sleeveless shirt and a pair of loose khaki shorts and Ruggie was wearing a sports jersey and a pair of basketball pants. 

Vita mumbled something about getting to work and left the room, and Ruggie placed a hand on your wrist. His hands were warm and he tilted his head, his voice soft, not even above a whisper as he gently squeezed your arm.

“You’re safe. With me, you’re safe.” He let go and stood up, stretching with a little whoop on his tongue, “Well, lemme find you something to wear. We gotta go soon!”

You stood up as well, far more comfortable in the house now that the shadows clung strictly to the corners of the walls and behind the doors, and took your still-warm, empty cup to the kitchen sink. You washed it, drying and putting it away before you returned and Ruggie promptly passed off a bundle of clothing to you and tweaked your nose.

“I’ll be right outside, okay? Shyeheeheehee, don’t have a heart attack without me.” He slumps out of the room.

Ruggie is a chronic sloucher. You thought it was kind of funny, really. He’d look a lot taller if he stood straight, but it was kind of cute. He doesn’t walk, he lopes. It’s cute.

You paused your fuzzy thoughts as you pulled the sweatpant shorts up your legs to shoot a look at the window. You could have sworn that you saw something from the corner of your eye. You stared at the window a moment longer, then quickly finished dressing, putting on the old tank top that Ruggie lent you.

You left the room in a bit of a haste, slamming into Ruggie. The impact knocked both of you down and Ruggie shot back up to help you up.

“Hey, what’s the matter? Are you okay?”

“I, uh, I saw something in the window?” It sounded stupid when you said it. You swallowed and shook your head, “Nevermind, I- it’s stupid, I’m just… seeing things.”

“It’s not stupid.” Ruggie reassured you, a smile on his face as he grabbed your arm to steady you, “You’ve got to trust your eyes and ears, right? What’d you see?”

You shook your head, “I didn’t get a good look.”

Ruggie nodded so understandingly that you almost burst into tears, his hand snaking down your arm so he could grasp your hand, “Alright. That’s fine. C’mon, I gotta show you around. You’re gonna feel something today, shyeheeheehee!”

You followed him around as he showed you the neighborhood. It’s actually rather large, considering. He explained that this section was mostly hyena beastmen, which might have been why you felt so freaked out at first. A lot of the littler neighbors, the kids, were more or less nocturnal. It’s a thing they grow out of as they adjust their schedules to tasks that usually operate during the day. The dim haze in the area persists, despite it being broad daylight out. 

Ruggie showed you to the showers again, then to the somewhat sparse community garden, where Vita happened to be. She waved and Ruggie squeezed your hand as the two of you waved back. A lot of these houses were falling apart, plenty of the neighbors wandering around looking overworked and overtired. You noticed some older kids, the human one looking kind of familiar with shaggy blond hair and green eyes while the other has black-streaked brown hair and hyena features and wide brown eyes, getting into a fist fight. You took a step forward to stop them and Ruggie stopped you with a hand on your belly.

“It’s fine. They’ll figure it out themselves. C’mon.” He led you away.

That didn’t sit well in your stomach, but this was Ruggie’s turf. Who knew? Maybe you’d have gotten stabbed by one of those kids. Anything can happen.

A chill runs up your back and you look around, noticing a man leaning against the shower stalls. You furrowed your brow and Ruggie turned to look at whatever had caught your eye.

“What is it?” He asked.

You shook your head. It wasn’t worth making a big fuss about some dude just minding his business. Ruggie showed you some kind of herb shed next? It was kind of hard to explain, but top to bottom, it was drying racks for herbs and mushrooms. And almost everything else is either houses or someone else’s property.

“What do you think?” He asked you with a kind of lopsided grin. 

“It’s not what I was expecting,” You admitted. This place was a part of Ruggie, of course it was, and even though this place wasn’t perfect, you don’t imagine the guy you have a crush on would be who he is without it, so you tack on, “It’s very home-like. People working together for the community. Plus, those were some really bomb herbs.”

Ruggie’s grin turns into a beaming smile and he tilts his head, his fist coming up to his chin as his shoulders jerk and he contains his giggle, “Shyeheehee, that’s big, coming from you. Well, since we’re up, we better get moving. There’s a nice little spot over there and I’d bet that there’s something worth foraging there.”

“I can forage!” The words spilled out of your mouth, making your cheeks burn, but Ruggie laughed it off, tweaking your nose again.

“I know that. C’mon.”

Ruggie walked off, and you followed him, that prickle on the back of your neck fading as you entered what seemed like an oasis in the middle of the desolate land that everyone lived in. There were a couple little kids napping in the two trees, two to a branch. You didn’t think he had seen them at first, but as he scanned the ground, Ruggie called up to them.

“Your parents wouldn’t be too happy if any of you fell.” He said, his tone rather neutral. 

The kids groaned but filed down the trunks regardless. There were eight of them, six girls and two boys. They’re all skinny and dirty, and a couple of them are tugging on their ears, a couple others sucking on their thumbs, some of them doing both. They’re the cutest little things you’ve ever seen. 

Ruggie spread his hands, “Not in the mood to play today, guys? Shyeheehee, I would think a bunch of active kids like you would be running around like crazy!”

All of the kids shook their heads, one of them, a sort of tall girl with her hair cropped short, spoke up, leaning back and forth with her arms limp in a dramatic display of exasperation, “No. It’s too hot today, Ruggie.”

“Too hot?” Ruggie said, sort of exaggeratedly.

You piped in, “Well, this area doesn’t have any scary crocodiles or whatever. How about hide and seek? Ruggie and I will look while we’re foraging, and you guys can go hide.”

Ruggie shot you an alarmingly pleased smile and nodded, “Shyeheehee, of course. But if we find you, you gotta help us find the rest of you… and help us forage.”

The kids didn’t seem very impressed. You smiled, “It beats doing nothing, doesn’t it?”

They seemed to concede, more or less, and you turned around to face one of the trees and started counting while Ruggie started looking for good forage. 

Once you got to twenty, all of the kids were gone. You walked over to Ruggie, who stood up, holding what appeared to be some kind of onion or leek, and nudged you with a dirt-covered hand. “Quick thinking.”

“Not really.”

Ruggie smirks and hunches back down, “Well, if you wanna go look for kids while I grab these onions, you can go ahead.”

Ruggie didn’t correct you when you said that this area wasn’t dangerous, so you chose to believe the implication. You wandered casually around the bushes, spotting four of the littler kids almost immediately. One of the boys fashioned a sort of breathing tube from a chunk of dried reed, but he seemed to forget that water is see-through, so when you reached in he jumped out of the pond and stomped his foot, shaking the water from his ears as he pouted. 

So, now that you had a troupe of five kids following you like ducklings, you wander towards the edge of the oasis. From where you stood, you could see that one of the boys and another girl had gotten bored and decided to help Ruggie dig up onions, but were mostly just making mud castles, which left just the big girl.

There weren’t really many places for a gangly kid to hide, but you looked up and, sure enough, you spotted her. You grin and point up at her.

“Alright, found you! But you won!”

The big girl doesn’t respond at all. She was staring away from you, into the brush and bramble. She just stares into it, flinching as the sound of a twig snapping crackles through the silent and still air. She quickly dropped down and cowered against your side. Children are familiar little creatures and can make friends as easily as breathing, so you weren’t entirely shocked by that, but her tail wagged once and the other five kids rushed towards where Ruggie was. You hold her as close as you can with mobility and rushed back toward Ruggie again.

Once you’re near Ruggie once more, you bent down and looked into the kid’s eyes, “What’s the matter?”

She looked up at you, her right ear twitching towards the direction she was staring in, and very solemnly whispered, “I heard someone in the leaves, new friend.”

You nodded, just as seriously, and squatted down so you could get more on her level, “I believe you. But I bet it was just someone looking for something good to eat later, like us. Are you still feeling hot?”

She nodded slowly and swiveled her torso side to side.

You smiled at her and tilted your head towards the gaggle of other kids all playing in the mud, “Your family might make you clean up before you go inside, but I bet that mud is nice and cold… And it makes some really nice castles.”

She gave you a sort of blank look and a soft little smile lit her face before she went over to bury her hands in the mud as well. You watched her go, Ruggie’s eyes catching yours in the corner of your vision. Was he watching you?

By the time the sun was high in the sky, Ruggie seemed satisfied with all the forage that you had collected, and the kids were sleepy and ready to go back to their respective homes. Whatever the big girl had seen in the bushes never showed itself.

That didn’t change the uneasiness that settled in your gut as you looked back towards the oasis. The kids ran ahead with Ruggie, who laughed and dodged their filthy little hands, and you cast one last look at the oasis.

You didn’t see anything. It was all greenery against the dim sky, nothing but green and the murky blue of the sky.

The sound of your name pulled you out of your staring, and you turned to see Ruggie standing a little ways away. He gave you a very sweet, concerned look, his eyes wide and ears pointed towards you. 

You shook your head and walked towards him. He was using his shirt as a makeshift basket, humming to himself as he led you back to the neighborhood.

Once the two of you got back, he put you on veggie-washing duty again while he made a quick roux. 

“Ahhh, what a good haul! I told those kids to come by later to get some soup. This is gonna be so good!” Ruggie sighed, very obviously pleased with himself.

“Oh? This is a lot of onions.”

“Yeah. We’re making onion soup. Don’t worry, it won’t be too pungent, shyeheehee!”

You heard the end of your sentence before you managed to register what you said, “Well, just don’t kiss me after you eat this.”

As soon as the sentence is punctuated, you paused, your movements halted entirely as your muscles locked and you glanced at Ruggie from the corner of your eye. The discomfort of stretching your eyes in that direction without turning your head made the whole thing more embarrassing. 

You let out a stilted laugh, “Uh, well, haha, I don’t- I mean-”

“Do you want me to kiss you?” There had to have been a shit eating grin on Ruggie’s face. You weren’t looking at him, but you can hear it in his voice, “Shyeheeheehee, my cute underclassman wants me to kiss them?”

That had you turning to face him, just in time for him to lean up on his toes and plant a kiss on your forehead. And then he laughed and turned back to his roux.

You liked Ruggie. He was a piece of shit, but he was emotionally intelligent, so you were certain he knew. As you carefully chopped up the wild onions and Ruggie stirred in some kind of broth and the other already chopped foraged vegetables, you thought about how you could still feel his lips on your forehead despite him standing several feet away from you. Being around him made you feel like a total space-case, your head floating up in the stars and the clouds, looking at the way the world glitters. Your feet were on the ground, of course, but you felt lighter when you were near him. 

These thoughts carry you as you took a seat next to Ruggie after the soup was done. You sat on a blanket that one of the kids brought over. One of the other kids managed to convince their mom to let them bring some bread out to enjoy the soup with, so in the center of your circle sat a chipped old porcelain plate with a small stack of sliced, white bread on it. The kids all chattered between themselves and Ruggie, but you were stuck, thinking about how soft his lips were on your forehead and how nice he always was to you. Perhaps it was just a habit for him to always be polite, but politeness didn’t usually consist of someone inviting you to stay spring break in their hometown. 

You tapped your fingertips on your forehead and the big girl from earlier tugged on your elbow.

“Friend, can you go get me just a little, itty bitty piece of sage? Please?” She asked, her bottom lip poking out.

You glanced at Ruggie, who shrugged and nodded, so you ruffled her hair and smiled, “Yeah, okay.”

The herb shed isn’t that far away. It’s out of sight of the picnic blanket, which did kind of frighten you, but you weren’t as freaked out as you were the first night. You opened the shed and jumped in fright as someone cleared their throat behind you. 

It’s that guy who you noticed earlier during Ruggie’s tour. He gave you a broad smile, the dim sunlight shining off of his bald head. He’s more ape than hyena. You offered him a polite smile and stepped to the side, holding a shriveled up sage leaf. The man didn’t enter the shed, simply looking at you.

“Hard out here for us.” He said.

You didn’t know what that meant. The way the man’s kind-looking eyes stared through you was disturbing, so you laughed awkwardly, “Uh… yeah. I’ll get out of your way.”

He nodded and you returned to the blanket. You couldn’t see the shed from where you were sitting, but you could almost still feel the strange man’s eyes on you.

You finished eating and helped clean up. You nearly dropped a bowl and Ruggie looked kind of concerned, but didn’t say anything about it. As you just stood there after putting away the last of the dishes and the kids all ran off, Ruggie rested his knuckles on your forehead.

“You’re kind of warm. C’mon, let’s hit the showers.”

“Oh, okay.”

Just like the first night but far more comfortable, you showered with Ruggie. The water was lukewarm this time, so it was a lot nicer, and after you got out, you did feel a lot cooler. The sun was low in the sky, just resting on the horizon. Ruggie grabbed your hand, squeezing it as the two of you walked back to his home.

Vita was back by now, but she had a few other ladies in the living area playing a card game. You stood by, idly, listening as they talked about Ruggie with him right there, asking him about sports but not listening to his answers, really. Vita’s eyes laser-focused on your hand in his and she shot you a grin before going back to scowling at her deck of cards.

About as soon as you got back to the bedroom, you noticed that you forgot your borrowed shorts.

“Ruggie, I forgot something.” You said, stowing the rest of the clothes.

Ruggie gave you a wide-eyed look and turned back to dressing up the cot, “Alright. You should hurry and go get them then. Grammy’s gonna be out tonight, so it’ll just be us.”

You were a bit curious, but you went back out to the showers. The sky was that same pitch black that it was on the first night, and as you walked, you felt those prickles on the back of your neck, like you were being followed. You looked behind you as you got to the showers. The single, weak lamp in front of the stall felt useless in the dark like this. You grabbed the balled-up shorts and stepped out of the safety of the light and into the inky blackness of the night.

Almost immediately, you felt like you were suffocating. It was like your nightmare. You could see a little bit in front of you, the moon affording you just the outline of the buildings. You tripped over your own feet as you stumbled into a run and returned to find Ruggie’s home completely dark.

You took a deep breath and reassured yourself that he had just decided to go to bed before you got back. Your hand presses against the wall as you walk, the only way for you to tell where you’re headed. Something in that room made a soft clicking noise. You froze for a moment.

When your blood stopped roaring in your ears, you whispered, “Ruggie?”

There was no response. A pressure against your back, like a weighted blanket and a harsh grip on your chin prevented you from trying to call out for Ruggie again. Your silent assailant swiveled and turned you so you’re facing the now open door.

You recognized the silhouette, the friendly shaped ears and messy hair, the sort of gangly build with the skinny limbs, but it’s his eyes that made your heart beat faster.

You didn’t know he had these. Tapetum lucidum, the lining in the back of his eyes that gives him a biologic advantage over stupid creatures that can’t see in the dark. It made for an eerie sight, though. He was a shadow standing in the door with two bright green, glowing dots for eyes. You wondered if this is what prey animals felt like when they saw wild dogs. He raised his hands up to put them behind his head, just a shadow in movement, and let out a big sigh.

“Grammy’s gonna be real mad if you get blood and whatever all over her floors. Let’s take this outside.”

The calm tone of Ruggie’s voice paired with his rather jarring appearance set a pit in your stomach. You couldn’t stop the sob that punched out of your chest.

You sounded as betrayed as you felt. “Ruggie? What’s-”

The man holding you clubbed you with something harder than a fist and dragged you out of the house, following Ruggie.

You cried the whole time. You didn’t even know where they were taking you, but this felt worse than a usual betrayal. You thrashed and sobbed and begged, only getting a quiet, “Knock it off,” from Ruggie’s direction.

You knew. You knew Ruggie was a duplicitous little snotbag and that he would eventually crush your heart in one way or another, but this is not the way you wanted. You wanted him to hurt you in a way that meant you could still be friends, where he told you that he didn’t see you the same way, where he tweaked your nose and watched as you cried. Not like this, not being dragged off by some stranger to who knows where. Your bawling was cut short by Ruggie clicking on a light and you being unceremoniously dumped on the floor.

You rolled over and shot the individuals looming above you the dirtiest look you could manage. Of course, one of them is Ruggie, staring down at you with the light above his head almost mockingly making him appear like a heavenly being. One of his eyes looks like it usually does, only a bit more dim, while the other only has that reflective lining in the back of the pupil visible, that eerie green glow pinned onto your face. The other individual is the bald man from earlier. You appeared to be in a sort of shed-like building. There was a shelf, casting the absence of light over you, as though you’d been covered in paint and left to rot.

Two shadowed figures and shadows below. It’s similar enough to your dream, the one where the darkness swallowed you whole.

Ruggie nudged the man with his elbow and held out his palm, his fingers waving back until the man dropped a stack of cash in it.

Your heart pumped so hard you could feel it in your throat and stomach simultaneously, “You sold me?”

“No.” Ruggie responded, flicking through the wad of money, “Just your organs.”

As if it wasn’t crushing enough. Your lips parted and your eyes were dry, but you felt as though a bucket of ice had just been dumped over your head. The bald man’s grin looked silver in this light as he angled his hand to reveal a standard kitchen knife, glinting in the shitty light of this shed and primed to slice into you.

You couldn’t take your eyes off of Ruggie as the man squatted down to sit on your stomach, couldn’t look away as the man crushed your windpipe with his giant hand.

You couldn’t stop looking at Ruggie as he leaned against the wall to watch for a moment, then cleared his throat and stood up straight, as though he was putting on a show for you in your final moments. Your vision was spotting out, considering that the bald guy was strangling you, but Ruggie spread his arms and grinned.

His voice was startlingly loud, overshadowing the sound of your own pulse as you struggled to breathe, “Both kings and hyenas are my friends! Laugh With Me!”

The man on top of you stiffened, then his hand on your neck relaxed as he sat up, his free hand joining the one on his knife as he raised the blade above his head.

As you stared up at the stranger, the creases in his jacket creating splotches of shadow that hid more of his face from your view, you tried to quickly come up with a way to brace yourself for the pain you would soon experience. Betrayal and heartbreak are not the same as getting your ribcage cracked open, not that you had extensive experience with one or the other. You squirmed, trying to get your arms out from under the man atop you, your eyes glued to the light streaked along the knife. The looming figure of the man atop you is stiff, and… you saw Ruggie doing much of the same from the corner of your eye.

For a moment, you thought that this is maybe what you deserve. You play stupid games, you win stupid prizes. You grow a festering affection for someone without integrity, he sells your organs and kills you so he doesn’t have to watch the guy supposed to be doing the job choke you to death. You let another powerful sob punch out of your chest and writhe, shutting your eyes so you don’t get tears in your ears from crying on your back.

You heard a dull noise. Kind of like a slab of meat getting cut, or someone putting their hand into a bag of pudding. Maybe the two of those noises combined. You waited for the pain, because you could feel something warm spreading along the base of your ribs. Maybe it just didn’t really hurt when you got stabbed. You’d be willing to accept that.

There was a moment before you opened your eyes. The first thing you saw was the terror in the bald man’s eyes as he sat on top of you. He sputtered and blood sprayed over your face. It cools on your face as you gape up at him. His knife is buried in his own gut.

In the still moment, you heard a quiet little laugh. It bounced off the walls until you couldn’t hear anything but the laughter. You turned your head and noticed Ruggie, his hands pressed fist to fist to abdomen, his face stretched in a hellish grin as he cackled. You can still only see one of his eyes clearly, the other still that little dot of reflection, a glowing green facet, looking right at you. His laughter calmed as he looked at you, a serene smile replacing the maddened grin he was wearing moments before. He made a quick jerking motion, pulling his hands up so his hands rested at the base of his own ribs, still holding an invisible knife. 

The man atop you spluttered again, pitching forward a bit as his blood gushed over you. It got in your eyes and nose, covered your mouth and ears, tainting your perception with a bitter copper coating. 

Ruggie theatrically threw his invisible knife to one side and tilted to the other. You weren’t sure if it was the motion Ruggie started or if it was the man just being dead, but you attacker hit the ground hard, the knife skittering to a stop on the other side.

The human body is fascinating. It always has been. You, having had a degree of understanding, thanks to being born into such a form, weren’t prepared at all to have a man disembowel himself while sitting on top of you. The sight set you into a hysteria. 

You could hear your own breathing, the reedy gasps for air you sucked in as you stared at the bald man’s organs and blood spreading across the floor. In all the scientific diagrams, they looked so different. The lungs were red, the heart was pink, the intestines were orange and purple. The diagrams lied to you, or perhaps you were too stupid to realize that the very simple vector diagrams that you’d always seen were color coded for your ease. The slick sacks of flesh spilling onto the ground before you with their sheen of blood were all varying shades of flesh. No bright colors, just peaches and reds and pinks, a thick, puss-looking yellow being tainted on the sides of the gash. Adipose resembles lemon curd, sort of. You could hear soft footsteps coming towards you. You had nearly forgotten Ruggie was here, even though he was the very maker of this nightmare. You felt one of his hands turning you over, rolling you so you were looking up at him.

The smile on his face was so sweet and kind, the type of smile you’d expect to see on a kid who had just gotten a kitten for their birthday. He brushed a hand along your hairline, his eyebrows furrowing. It made him look concerned. 

“Did you really think I’d trade you for money?” His smile took on an uncanny, eerie edge, and his eyes narrowed, “Shyeehee, maybe I should become an actor.”

You didn’t respond, staring up at him as he helped you sit up. He pressed a hand against your collarbone, sighing at the sanguine dampness left on his hand afterwards.

“Aw, that guy made such a mess. Don’t worry, we can take another shower.” Ruggie curled one of his arms around your shoulders, the opposite hand tilting your chin so he could look at your face. “I bet you’re pretty mad, huh?”

“Wh-What… why did you…?”

“I didn’t. The man who paid me for your organs has had his sights on you since we got here. Guess he got cursed or something and needed a fresh human heart.” Ruggie wrinkled his nose before smiling at you again, his fangs looking even sharper in this low light, “Grammy even noticed him. So yesterday morning, before you woke up, I tracked him down and made a little deal. He gets you, but I wanted to watch. Of course I was gonna just bleed him dry, shyeheeheehee!”

You had no idea what to say to that. You stared at Ruggie and he leaned close, his lips brushing against yours for a moment. The blood transferred from you to him resembled a kind of sick, clumpy lipgloss. Knowing that it’s blood makes it all far worse.

Ruggie sighed and leaned against you, still crouched beside you as you lay partially sprawled on the dusty floor, trying not to think about the dead body less than a foot away from you. His cheek pressed against your forehead, and he sighed again.

“Of course I couldn’t go through with it.” He almost sounded like he was more so talking to himself than to you, “You’ll always be safe with me.”

To Whisper Your Name (NSFW)

Yandere! Reader x Watanabe

Summary:

When you first saw him, you couldn't help but to want know his name. So, when you can ever come close to this certain construct, you can whisper his name.

Tags: Yandere themes, obsessive behaviour, mild and implied sexual acts, dark themes, Not Smut, one sided, reader is not a commandant, Song inspired fic, one-shot, short fic.

[[⚠️This work contains mature content and themes. To read means you are willing to view at your own risk. This work is not to be consumed by 18 below. Nor, is it allowed to be redistributed.⚠️]]

This fic will be post privately, if you wish to read this you can ask for the link. I will DM it you.

Do not ask for the link if you are 18 below. Thanks.

Dissiri

domini album

#9 Tobirama Senju

#64 "Get it over with. Please."

dissiri – (v.) to violently tear and rip apart; to tear into pieces

word count: 1,575

note: i am warning you now, this is a very, very dark fic that i wrote to test the limit of how dark i could go with my writing. this is the product and imagining some of the scenes makes even my stomach turn. i purposefully put off posting this fic for a very, very long time (it was written just before Noctuary) because i'm not sure how it will be received. please do NOT read this fic if anything in the warnings bother/upset you to interact with

warning: descriptions of death, body horror, torture, blood, and sadism

The jutsu ripped apart your body and you screamed, writhing against the wall you were chained to as the shinobi in front of you watched in grotesque amusement.

“Look,” one of them spoke, sadistic glee in their tone. Their voice was an echo in your ears, timbre a vibrato of near static as you choked around another scream, blood slick and dripping from your open mouth as you panted. “I think the kunoichi’s had enough – I’m sad, I thought she would be more fun to take apart.”

“Awh, Sho,” another answered, leering. Something prodded into your broken ribcage and a sharp, shrill scream slipped from your throat. “Leaf nin are supposed to be the strongest, remember? And that pretty little ring says she’s a Senju too – I think she’s got a more left in her before she’s dead, don’t you think? A dishonor on her clan if she dies now, right, Senju-chan?”

Your skull slammed into the stone behind you as another burst of hostile chakra tore through your cells, ripping like litchenberg strikes through your body and deconstructing you atom by atom. Your research – you’d discovered the torture was a demented application of a transportation jutsu that was being used to murder. You’d found plenty of victims over the last few weeks and you knew how this would end: a hardly recognizable corpse, marked only as having once been human when the hitai-ate were found buried in the gore.

Though the discipline of your shinobi training had been forgotten the first time the rouge Cloud nins had jabbed you in the gut with chakra laced fingers, you had no more tears to cry.

“She sounds so pretty when she screams,” one of them said. “You think the other Leaf kunoichi sound so pretty too, Sho?”

It was getting harder to breathe; your lung was collapsed – you had no doubt about that. They’d broken most of your ribcage and both of your arms when you’d stumbled across them and fallen prey to their ambush.

“Look! Look!” the one called Sho leered, prodding something stiff and…warm against your cheek. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you, Senju-chan? Have you ever seen your own bones outside your body?”

He was jabbing you in the face with one of your ulnas. You’d long lost circulation to your arms, but there it was – your right forearm bone was stained with blood from broken vessels and cracked, leaking marrow.

Your stomach turned and your body tried to vomit, but you shuddered instead, and your head dropped only as far as into the other shinobi’s fingers.

“Awh, are you not feeling too well, Senju-chan?” He was a man, his age perhaps just a bit beyond yours, but when he spoke you were reminded of a child, teasing and projecting innocence. “You were doing so well too – much longer than the last one! Wouldn’t you say, Sho-chan? You think so too?”

Sho snapped your ulna into halves, expression set with irritation as bone splinters and marrow fragments flew. You tasted a faint trace of bile that had forced its way through the pressure of your collapsed chest cavity. “Maa, she’s not screaming as much as the others. She’s not as fun.”

Black dots were fading and sharpening in the corner of your vision – effects of blood loss, or maybe shock, or maybe exhaustion. You were a doctor, and you knew only death could save you from the mutilation. No amount of chakra could put you back together – no, the body was an intricate thing, a working mechanic functioning for the mind that controlled it, and you were missing too many parts.

Sho gripped your chin and tilted your face towards him. His smile was manic. “Scream, Senju-chan.”

Another chakra burst.

This one tore through your jaw and down your throat, leeching into your aortic arch and shredding the artery walls. Your flesh opened as skin cells were vaporized by the chakra surge, tears that let you see muscular structure. But you didn’t scream – couldn’t scream. You felt your body shaking, heard the chains rattling with your full weight as you sobbed tearlessly, bones dissolving around your sternum as Sho jabbed you again, this time over your collarbone.

It was happening – you were dying.

You’d been dying, you’d known you were going to die the moment they’d rent apart your liver with broken fragments of your ribs, leaving your gut torn into a gaping, bleeding hole.

“Scream, kunoichi bitch!”

They both jabbed you, fingertips slick with your blood.

You gasped and wheezed around your broken bones and through your bleeding lung, as the black dots began to form a mass across your sight. You were dying, and you laughed.

The two shinobi paused, watching you as you shook against the blood slicked stone wall.

“Why are you laughing?” one of them demanded, grabbing your face again. You couldn’t see them – you hardly felt them. Your body was shutting down, senses retreating as your mind prepared itself.

You were still laughing, garbled, wet sounds when your heart finally, finally gave out.

You wheezed, eyes falling shut as your mind pulled itself away from the pain.

Something nice, you thought, watching the mind that had been you begin to darken, for my one last thought.

The study was warm, and the fire ate the wooden logs as you tapped your pen against the parchment spread before you. You glanced up from the text and exhaled gently as your gaze trailed over Tobirama’s face. The firelight cast shadows across his face, making his jaw appear sharper, and his crimson eyes brighter. Half of his hair was the color of amber, the other half steel grey in the shadows.

He noticed you staring and glanced up, the lines around his eyes receding as his focus shifted. He softly smiled at you, but you’d forgotten what he said, and you tipped your head to the side stick your tongue out at the man in front of you. He chuckled, but the sound was lost to you, and the room lost its glow as the hearth gradually faded.

The memory was the last of who you were before you died.

…

Tobirama found your body leaning against an old oak tree.

From a distance, you almost looked like you were only sleeping. He knew better.

He could smell your blood from yards away, and when he dropped to his knees beside your broken body, the heavy scent of drying blood was overwhelming.

Someone else on the squad retched, and another cursed violently, but Tobirama ignored them all.

Gently, as though he would hurt you further, he traced the jagged edges of the bones in your left hand with the tip of his finger. Your hand was stained and smeared with dirt and blood, but your bones…they were probably the only ones in your body that hadn’t been broken.

And Tobirama knew why.

Your black wedding band was intact on your finger, though the white kanji symbols of Senju he’d painstakingly carved into the metal was smeared with what he knew was your blood.

You’d insisted on wearing it, regardless of wherever you went. “I’m a researcher, not an active nin, Tobi! Wearing your name is my duty as your wife, you grump.” You’d laughed and he’d muttered something about it being a bad idea, but he’d let you leave Konoha with the ring in the end.

You hadn’t told him you’d consented to an ANBU mission. It’d been top secret, Hashirama had spoken quietly, voice breaking the silence in the cold study. You’d been a jonin before you’d been reassigned, and he hadn’t thought it would be too much trouble to send you out to investigate with the ANBU.

A tear fell, splattering across your mangled arm and Tobirama’s chin dropped. His jaw was clenched so hard that he felt as though his teeth would crack altogether, and he gripped your hand in his, trembling.

Your skin was cold, and you were dead, and he wished he’d taken that ring from you before you’d woken up that morning you left Konoha. Two weeks ago, you’d pressed your lips to his cheek, left hand curling around his cheek as you said goodbye. He’d merely smiled, and you’d jogged out of the gates, waving back at him. He hadn’t waited for you to disappear down the path, and shunshinned into the office he shared with you beneath the hospital. Now, he held your left hand to his face, tears soaking over your fingers.

In the end, Kagami pulled him away from your body.

He stood over the Uchiha as Kagami gently removed your wedding ring and unraveled an empty sealing scroll. He watched in silence as Kagami placed the scroll over your body, blood sticking to the parchment, and then…then you were gone, and the scroll was rolled up, your wedding band strung through the binding tie around the scroll.

Kagami set the scroll in Tobirama’s hand. The Senju held it in silence, staring down at the place your body had once lain.

He blinked, eyes catching a subtle movement.

Your hitai-ate.

He hadn’t noticed it when he’d found you, your skull having been resting against the forehead protector. It was caught in the bark of the trunk by the black fabric, and a sick feeling swelled in his gut as he read the kanji scrawled across the metal.

楽しい時間を過ごしました

We had fun.

Babies doodles

Breaking [My Heart]: Act I Capturing

"There's nothing simple when it comes to you and I, Always something in this everchanging life" - Everchanging [Rise Against] Winston has issued the recall towards rebuilding Overwatch. Angela - formerly known as "Mercy" - is captured by Talon, who are searching for any information that can stop the rise before it begins.

AO3 | FF.net | Works | Pandora Playlist

Trigger Warnings & General Statements This is a dark torture story. As such, there's going to be bad things happening - for the sake of not spoiling, I will not tag what, exactly will be appearing at any time. While I don't think any of the scenes are terribly graphic in nature, I do want to stress that the scenes are present and aren't for everyone. I did try to make the reactions and trauma realistic, following both real-world medicine / research and in-game universe canon (such as Angela's nanotechnology). There will be multiple POVs per chapter - two sets for both Angela and Reaper as well as a fifth from an additional character. Please, read at your own risk - and enjoy!

There’s no pain that I won’t go through, Even if I have to die for you. - Die for You [Starset]

Angela idly ran her fingers along a familiar storage container as she moved to her closet. It had been a long time since she had opened it to don her Valkyrie suit and carry her Caduceus staff, since she had been Mercy – and she wasn’t changing that today. Instead, she tugged on a mismatched set of scrubs, a pair of boots, and her medical coat. Angela pulled her hair up off her neck into a tight bun before slathering herself with sunscreen. Her pale skin would turn red and blistered if she didn’t take the precaution; she didn’t particularly want to be more miserable than she already was here. With a long-suffering sigh, she left her small apartment and stepped into the heat of the day. She missed Switzerland; it was so hot here in Cairo compared to her cooler homeland. But her comfort didn’t matter – no, what mattered were that people were suffering here. They may scoff and scowl at her, growl that she was not welcome, but that didn’t matter either. What mattered was that she could help these people, regardless of what they thought, and that was what she would do. Immediately, sweat prickled along her skin, but she ignored it. She pulled out a tablet instead, swiping through the information there to determine how her day would pass. There were many patients to check in on, either to look over their bandages or to provide medication. She had a surgery planned for later in the day – some poor man was losing his arm. All of this assumed that nothing happened to upset the delicate balance. No new attacks – terrorist or gang, it all ended the same for her – or significant accidents that left everything spinning out of control. Not that she would utter one word of complaint; these people deserved the best she could provide after all they had been through. It wasn’t their fault that the world had fallen to pieces. No, that burden fell across her shoulders and all those who had been with Overwatch when it had collapsed. They had done much good, but they had also been the cause for so much horror as well. Now, Winston was trying to resurrect the organization, to pull Overwatch back from the ashes. Her communicator – a relic from her past that she couldn’t seem to let go of – had been blinking when she had returned home two days ago. In a different, better, lifetime, Angela would have carried it with her everywhere she went; now, it was an awkward paperweight on her kitchen counter that she sometimes remembered to pocket on the chance that one of her friends would call. She had been curious – who wouldn’t be? – so she had watched his video message. Once it was over, Angela had sat back with her arms crossed, teeth worrying at her lower lip. Did she want to go back? Her life had been so much different since the fall. All her life’s work had been taken from her by the UN and WHO to be distributed among others after Overwatch had fallen. She had become a pariah where once she had been much sought after for her prowess in both the research labs and operating rooms. Now, she faced scorn everywhere she went. She had been the last defender of Overwatch, after all. Angela had been one of the most visible members of Overwatch – her wings had made that almost a foregone conclusion, even if they weren’t excellent PR material – and thus many recognized her, even outside of her Valkyrie suit. In the aftermath of the fall, Angela had stood in the spotlight to try to appease the masses. Did she want to pick up the pieces and start over again? All she had ever wanted to do was help people. Mostly, she had succeeded at that in Overwatch. Angela had helped minimize – and mitigate – civilian loss, both in the planning and execution phases of strike missions. As often as she was able, she had served on the front lines to help defend not only the agents of Overwatch, but the innocents caught in the middle. She had spearheaded innovative research that was, even now, being expanded upon to better the world. Could she do it all again? She wasn’t sure her heart could survive a second round. It had nearly killed her the first time to bury the victims and support the survivors. Angela didn’t even know where most of her friends were on most days. Genji had gone to Nepal and, as far as she was aware, hadn’t left. Similarly, Winston had holed up at Watchpoint: Gibraltar to safeguard Athena and what files remained of Overwatch. But the rest? Last she had heard, Lena was prowling around England, and Cassidy had racked up an enormous bounty in North America. Reinhardt had convinced Torbjörn’s daughter, Brigitte, to follow him across Europe as he continued to protect the weak. Torbjörn had told her about it a few months ago, grumpy in his worry for the two. Two of her medics, Remington and Daigneau, crossed her path occasionally. They had followed in her footsteps – or steps just like them – and had joined the Doctors Without Borders. Angela wondered which, if any, of them would answer the call Angela wasn’t sure she would. This wasn’t a decision she could make lightly. One would make her a criminal – Overwatch was disbanded and forced into inaction by the PETRAS act. The other would make her – what? A coward? She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that if she didn’t answer, her life would continue as normal. It wasn’t glamorous – quite the opposite, in fact. It was hard and dirty, but she would be helping people. If she answered, her life would change again. And this time, there were no guarantees – Overwatch was rising, starting from nothing to try to safeguard the world once more. Angela wasn’t sure what the right path was – so she left the blinking “Y // N” unanswered.

---

For once, her day went mostly as planned. Usually, some sort of emergency occurred, throwing off her day and putting her timetable into disarray. She thrived in the chaos: hurriedly reprioritizing patients and rushing around, trying to keep everyone alive and comfortable, made it easy to forget the nightmares and the heartbreak that was her life. Not that her day wasn’t busy, even without interruptions or surprises – it just was orderly. She opened the door to her apartment with a sigh, rubbing at her back with a free hand. Maybe she would take a bath tonight and try to force her body into some semblance of relaxation. Angela locked the door before flipping the lights on and striding further into the small space she currently called home – and then froze, eyes widening. It was only her years of combat experience that kept the keys within her suddenly numb fingers. The Reaper was here. He was settled on her only couch, lazily reclined as if this was his home and not hers. His face, hidden by a bone white skull mask, had turned to regard her. Despite his casual pose, his very presence was menacing – and that was before she took in the shotgun on the cushion next to him. She wasn’t fooled; Angela was confident he could have it in his hands and fired before she could reach the door. Her hand dropped to her waist automatically, where her blaster used to sit – but she hadn’t carried the weapon in years. Angela knew that she should have started carrying it again after the cryptic phone call she had received a week ago. It had been a warning of impending danger and that she should leave Cairo to find help before it was too late. The caller had had enough information about her to make her nervous, but she hadn’t been willing to allow it to drive her away. Danger? Ever since she had joined Overwatch, that had been her life. Angela had served as the Medical Director, a powerful position made even stronger by her will and sheer genius; there were very few Overwatch operatives that were more valuable than she was. Then, she had enlisted as a combat medic and protected their strike teams – and she had the scars to prove it. Now, her life wasn’t much different from that of her time in the field; uncomfortable lodgings, dangerous surroundings, long work hours, and generally ungrateful patients that laid the blame for their troubles at her feet. She should have taken precautions when she had stayed. Angela should have called one of her friends – her protectors – about the warning, but she hadn’t wanted to get them worked up over what was probably nothing. She should have carried her weapon, but she had worried that it would bother her patients – and she already had enough trouble with that. She could have even moved to make it a little harder for an enemy to find her, but she barely had time to eat most days. Besides, she had believed that it was probably little more than a prank. Even now, years after the fall, people still grumbled about Overwatch. She’d had her fair share of curses thrown her way, and, in the early days, she had received plenty of prank calls that varied in nature. There was little to make her believe this was more than that. Angela had been safe – from terrorists, anyway – for years; there was no reason to think that had changed. Angela cursed her pride. She had become complacent, thinking she knew best. Now, she would pay the price for her hubris. “Well, well,” the man growled, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, clawed fingers steepled before him, “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come home, Mercy.” Angela grimaced. She hadn’t answered to that name for years; it was a callsign that was as dead as the organization that had coined it. “That is not my name anymore.” Angela corrected automatically; it was a habit so ingrained she couldn’t stop the words from falling from her lips. She kept herself from wincing at the foolish declaration and instead donned an air of cool detachment. Her pride demanded that she keep her fear hidden from him, that she could show no weakness before her obvious predator. And he was a predator. The Reaper was well known for his violence; terrible, mutilated bodies were left in his wake wherever he went. More than one ex-Overwatch member had been his victim. That he would appear here, before Overwatch’s guardian angel – their Mercy – meant she was in his sights now. She wondered what it was he wanted from her – and if she would give it. The doctor was fairly sure that he wasn’t here for her blood. After all, why speak to her if all he wanted was to kill her? “That’s too bad.” He rose, grabbed the shotgun, and aimed it at her in one singular, fluid motion. “It’s Mercy I am looking for.” It had been a long time since she had stared down a barrel of a gun; she had forgotten just how terrifying it was. Angela forced herself to stiffen her spine and raise her chin slightly in defiance. If she were going to die, it would not be cowering. “What do you want from me?” She demanded, somehow managing to keep the words steady. That he hadn’t pulled the trigger meant that he was willing to overlook her verbal misstep earlier. It meant that whatever he wanted was more important than spilling her blood – right now. “Information, of course.” The gun remained trained on her, but Angela forced her eyes to move past it to his body. Hopefully, should he decide to pull the trigger, she would see it telegraphed in his body language and escape. It was a dubious hope, considering his kill sheet, but it was all she had to hold on to now. “I haven’t been active in years,” the doctor deflected. “I could not possibly have any information you need.” Angela knew it was a lie even as the words fell from her lips. She had information that would be valuable to the wrong organizations. Locations of prominent members – such as Genji, who had, for all appearances, fallen off the map – was only the tip of the iceberg. While she had been removed from research by the UN and WHO, she still was one of the greatest medical minds of their time. Under her guidance, medicine had improved by leaps and bounds; it was a pity she no longer could continue such works. They had relegated her to the sidelines, only contacted for advice or ideas. Reaper clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “And here I heard you were a genius.” Nothing could have kept her still when he started stalking across the room towards her. She backed away, keys dropping to the floor, until there was nowhere left to go – and then he was barely an arm’s length away from her. “You expect me to believe that Overwatch is on the rise, and no one told you?” “Overwatch is dead and gone.” The words did not tug at her heart, did not cause any emotional response at all. She had long since come to terms with the closure of that chapter of her life. Angela would not acknowledge the call that had been put out, would not confirm or deny that Overwatch was trying to reform. While she had not decided if she would return, she would not risk the safety of those who answered. “That’s not what I’ve heard.” Resolution filled her. This man, monster, wanted information on her friends; she would not – could not – give it to him. Even if it killed her, she would protect them. They were still hers to shield, whether she was with them or apart. That was her last, final burden from her days with her Overwatch, and it would be hers to carry until she died. “Then you clearly know more than I do.” Angela lied easily. It surprised her that Talon already knew of the recall. They must have intercepted the transmission; the idea of any prior member of Overwatch turning to Talon was a hard pill to swallow, even considering how the organization had fallen. “Lying will only make this worse for you, Mercy.” Her callsign was a taunt, bait that she refused to take a second time. Pure terror had flooded her veins; it was only an act of sheer willpower that had kept her knees from giving out underneath her. This was the worst she had faced yet, but she would face it standing. “It is not a lie,” Angela insisted. “Overwatch is dead.” Even if she rejoined under Winston’s banner, she was certain that she would always consider Overwatch – or at least, her Overwatch – dead. How could it exist in a place that her friends, her family, did not? “Last chance.” He warned; it surprised her that he gave her one at all. Even so, Angela did not consider, not even for one moment, to provide him with the information he wanted to protect herself. In defense of others, she was at her most stubborn and determined. That cost had come to her in the form of bullet wounds and nightmares when she was with Overwatch; here, that cost would – hopefully – be her demise. She was all too aware that there were many things worse than death. Angela remained silent, her eyes staring a challenge at the slits where she knew the Reaper’s eyes peered from. If he would not accept her lie the first two times, it would be pointless to voice it again. After a long moment, the man let the gun drop so he could crowd her against the door. One clawed hand rose to grip her throat, tilting her chin to look up towards the mask that hovered above her. “Just remember, you brought this on yourself.” He growled, rebuke and glee twisted around the words. He increased the pressure, cutting off the blood flow to her brain; despite the futility of the action, Angela’s hands raised to try to pry his fingers away. Her vision swam as she desperately clung to consciousness. It was a useless effort; within moments, she was unconscious.

The Reaper watched as Angela regained consciousness through the single window into the concrete room that was now her home. She looked insubstantial, almost ethereal, under the lights meant to keep her blind to her surroundings. The woman was hanging from chains in the precise center of the room. She barely had enough slack to rest her weight on her feet properly. While she had been unconscious, her wrists and shoulders had held that weight entirely in a way that was designed to be painful. Gabriel watched through the Reapers’ eyes as she pulled against the chains that held her. Saw the confusion play across her face as she heard the faint clanking, which turned to pain as she realized the stress her wrists and shoulders had been placed under. Then, her eyes fluttered open, blinking painfully in the too-bright light, before futilely trying to look up at the chains. He saw the curious detachment turn to stark panic before smoothing away into a neutral façade. He was unsurprised that she didn’t test the bonds further, that she didn’t call out, and kept her noise to a minimum. While Angela hadn’t had any special training in this aspect of their lives – they had never expected anyone to actually succeed in capturing her, not with the number of people willing to lay down their own lives for hers – she was a smart woman. Angela knew the grim reality she now faced. She had to know that the chains were the least of what she would meet in that room of gray and white. The Reaper supposed he should alert someone that she was, finally, conscious. Still, he lingered for a few minutes longer, relishing in her helplessness. After so long, he was going to see her pay for what she had done. The Reaper had fantasized about this day for years. Slowly, agonizingly, they would exact his revenge upon her flesh. He would drink down her pain and agony until, finally, the angel before him was no more. He had been tempted to be the one to break her – to split her flesh and flay her heart. It would be the least that she – that he – deserved after the pain she had inflicted. The council had even offered it to him, knowing the history that lay between the two. It surprised Gabriel that they hadn’t ordered him to do it, to prove his loyalties yet again to the terrorist organization that he had once fought against. He wasn’t sure if he felt rage or relief that they had not taken that choice away from him. Instead, Gabriel had found the strength to decline. The Reaper, usually the stronger of the two after so long, had been forced to accept his decision. They would observe, either from this little room or through the security feeds, whenever their other duties allowed. The Reaper, the dark, violent portion of his soul given life, would like nothing more than to tear apart, piece by piece, the woman who had turned him – them – into this. He would revel in the blood and agony, far more than any other member of Talon would. It was only fair, after all. Knowingly or not, she had condemned Gabriel to an existence that was the antithesis of everything he had once stood for. Everything she stood for. Gabriel wanted her to hurt, to feel what she had done to him – but he couldn’t be the one to do it. He knew that, should he go in there and break her, he would also break himself. The last, tenuous grasp he had on his humanity, on Gabriel and not the Reaper, lay within the blonde doctor trapped in the room before him. She had grounded him, had reminded him of his purpose, even while she was completely unaware of the shadow that stalked her. Even now, after everything, there was a part of Gabriel that loved her. There was a part that still remembered the promises he had made her – that they had made each other. He had given his heart to her, long ago in a place that he had destroyed, and she had never returned it. Instead, she had ripped her own from his grasp and left him with nothing but darkness and pain. All that remained was a monster that consumed the living with a terrible hunger that was never sated. On that dark day in Zürich over five years ago, Gabriel had destroyed her world. On that same day, Angela had forced the shadows upon him and shattered his psyche. He wondered if it had been a purposeful act, a punishment for the pain he had wrought, or a mere accident of science. That she hadn’t sought him out, had said nothing about the Reaper and who he might be, made him believe it was the latter. That Moira, a geneticist who – within her specialized field of study – could outsmart even Overwatch’s miracle worker, could not replicate it only reaffirmed that belief. That did not slake his anger in the slightest. The Reaper turned and stalked out of the small observation room, eager for them to begin his revenge. He was ready to drown in her blood and pain. The Reaper’s only hope was that she put on a good show before she eventually broke.

Angela wondered, vaguely, how long it would take for people to realize she was gone. Then, once her absence was noted, how long would it take before they realized it was by force rather than by choice? How long would it take for someone – anyone – to come looking for her? And, when they did, would they even be able to find her before it was too late? She tried to recall the last time she had spoken to any of her friends. There was no set schedule – sometimes she could go months without hearing from one or more of them, leaving her to worry that perhaps this time they had actually died and she would never hear from them again. Had she spoken to anyone recently? Stressed as she was, Angela couldn’t remember. She knew these thoughts were just a byproduct of her fear, but that did nothing to stop them – or to keep them from affecting her. There was nothing but pain and terror for her now. Either she could imagine the horrors that would be inflicted upon her in this room, or she could worry about the rescue that would never come. Angela was a firm optimist when it came to everyone but herself. She could hold on to hope that she could save others, but she did not believe anyone would save her. How could they? Angela was going to die in agony in their defense – and they would, probably, never know it. Or, perhaps, Talon would take pity on them. Maybe they would dump her mangled body for some poor soul to stumble upon. The media would go crazy – the last of the old guard, Overwatch’s angel, had perished – and her friends would mourn, but there would be closure. It wouldn’t be a mystery, whose answer had only been assumed after so many years of silence, like the deaths of their Commanders. Her friends. Her family. Despite her determination to show no fear for as long as she was capable, the door slamming open made her jump. The motion made her sway unsteadily on her feet, her shoulders complaining at the movement. Angela would welcome the distraction from her thoughts if it weren’t for the fact that it heralded far worse than what her mind could conjure. The blinding lights, shining hot and bright from the ceiling somewhere above, kept her from seeing her captors as they entered the room. There were at least two – perhaps three – sets of footsteps before the door slammed shut again. Suitably warned of her audience, though she was confident that someone was watching her even when she was alone, she kept her chin up and her face schooled in a calm veneer. It was a well-used expression that came easily to her after so many years of practice. Silence. Angela wondered if they expected her to break it, to demand answers that she would never receive. Perhaps, were she standing on her own ground, she would challenge them, but here? She was positive that she had never been more aware of her fragility. Of her mortality. She didn’t know what game they were playing, what tactics they were using. It didn’t particularly matter; Angela had plenty of patience. While she wasn’t certain her silence would bring a better or worse outcome – she wasn’t versed in interrogation (her mind skittered away from the more horrible word that applied to her situation) techniques – she would remain silent, regardless. Angela wasn’t under any illusions that she would escape this unscathed. She didn’t even believe she would escape at all. Still, her pride demanded that she make whatever stand she could. She was Dr. Angela Ziegler. She was the last bastion of Overwatch, their Mercy. Angela could – would – rise to the challenge and don the mantle of a hero one last time. A hand yanked her head back by her hair suddenly, turning her vision a blinding white before she could screw her eyes shut against the light and pain. That was when the demands began. Where were the prior members of Overwatch? Who would answer the call of reformation? Where would they make their home base? They enumerated names – Cole Cassidy, Howard Remington, Wilhelm Reinhardt – throughout, asking for specific information on every person she might still be in communication with. There were questions about her medical research, words awkwardly shaped by mouths that didn’t understand what they were asking. Angela refused to answer. Every time a question was met with silence, they would strike a blow. On her chest, just below her collarbone; her back, mere inches above her kidneys; her stomach, choking her as she gasped for air and swallowed back bile. She had never experienced violence, not personally, without her Valkyrie suit. She lamented its absence, wishing for the pain relief it brought. Instead, she had to grit her teeth and bear it. She reminded herself firmly that she had suffered before. Angela had been shot multiple times on varying occasions, had a building collapse on her, had darted through flames – but she’d had the Valkyrie suit to support her through it. Without it, those experiences were minimal compared to all that would come in this room. Her head bowed, hairs that had come loose from the bun she had tied just this morning – was it still the same day? She didn’t know – fanning around her face, and her eyes closed as she forced herself to do nothing more than grunt in pain. As they methodically dealt blows to her, she could feel the nanites within her body, putting her back together. They were her miracle, her salvation, her devastation. Angela’s body would heal much quicker than any human could naturally heal – though not anywhere near instantaneous – and prolong her agony in this terrible place. If they waited long enough, her body would be just as whole as it was when they brought her here; they wouldn’t have to lift a finger in her care. Angela didn’t know how long they stayed in the room with her. With her medical prowess and combat experience, she knew that they had done no lasting harm in this opening act. There were bruises, but they had broken nothing. They had taken care to avoid her kidneys and spine when they struck her back – and they hadn’t once touched her head at all after they released her hair at the very beginning. They were only warming up. The men – she assumed they were all men, as the lights had been far too bright for her to make out any of their features – had filed out as quietly as they had come. Angela did not hear it lock, but why would it? She wasn’t a flight risk; she couldn’t even protect herself, much less stage an escape from these chains. The lights remained on as she stood, swaying slightly on her feet, in her cage. Her head remained bowed, and her breathing was coming in ragged gasps through bruised ribs. Angela had told herself to be brave, to protect her friends and family unto death itself – but that was a simple decision when it was calm and still. It was so much harder when the pain was real, not imagined, and death was approaching one slow, agonizing inch at a time. Each blow that struck her body had also struck her resolution, battering against the walls she had erected around her heart and soul so she could be this last, final defense. She could only hope that she could hold her conviction close in the coming days when things would be even more desolate. Somehow, despite it all, she must survive.

The Reaper had watched, arms crossed and face impassive behind his mask, as the doctor was beaten. Gabriel wasn’t sure what he had expected to feel, watching her bite back sounds of pain and struggle to keep herself hidden away behind her aloof mask. The Reaper had no such qualms. He held a vicious glee, born from the sight of her dangling helplessly from her chains. It wasn’t quite the same as the euphoria he had felt when he had held her helpless form in his hands, but it had a terrible similarity. Her invisible flesh, hidden behind the scrubs she had been wearing when he had captured her, tempered the emotion. Though he was familiar enough with her body to imagine the mottled purple-black that would decorate her skin, it wasn’t quite the same. Indeed, he felt rage and resentment, ever-present whenever the Reaper looked upon the woman that had cursed them. It had grown, bottled up inside his dark heart, and was now finding some release as he took in her battered form. The relief was minor; without her blood, her bruised flesh, her screams, it was barely worth the effort of watching this first session. Angela had taken many painfully calculated blows, but it had been gentle compared to the misery he knew those men were capable of. He wasn’t sure if they had underestimated the doctor, as he had, or if they were just testing the waters. Gabriel had known that she would take blows – she was far too stubborn for her own good, just like another specter from his past. What he hadn’t expected was that she would remain silent the entire time. The Reaper felt robbed, somehow. Cheated. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to break, to scream, cry, beg, do something other than hang there in near-perfect silence. Angela had never had the highest pain tolerance, relying heavily on the Valkyrie suit to ignore injuries, and yet she had endured with barely a sound. Even now, she was collecting herself, her labored pants turning to soft breaths as she hung there with her head bowed. But maybe he was the fool. It had been years since he had experienced the power that was Dr. Angela Ziegler. He had forgotten how fiercely protective she was. Had forgotten that she forced her way onto battlefields to defend what was hers, because that was her duty. Had forgotten the iron steel that surrounded her heart, that she had to have to carry the burdens she so willingly shouldered. Had forgotten that she never showed weakness before anyone, that she always hid it away to deal with in private. Gabriel had only forgotten because, at one time, he had been the only exception to her rule. He had been the one she had turned to when everything – the research, missions, surgeries, nightmares, deaths – became too hard to carry alone. While Gabriel had never succeeded in taking the weight from her shoulders, it had been his honor to support her while she recovered. He had been the only one to see how terribly affected she was by everything. When she graced everyone else with steely eyes and gentle smiles, she had allowed him to see her nagging self-doubt and endless guilt. He had seen her, all of her. From grief-stricken after Ana’s death to worry when Jack had been airlifted back to Zürich. Her incandescent rage when Gabriel had demanded she stay out of the field to pure terror after he had taken a bullet for her. The stark relief when he returned home after a dangerous mission to mindless bliss within the safety of their bed. Everything that she was, he had seen – and could still see, even now. Gabriel could read her better than anyone in the world. He knew the little signs, the tells that gave her away to him; even after all this time, she was still the same. Angela had a tight grip on her emotions – always had – but Gabriel could see the terror that she had masked behind the stone wall of her face. Others might miss it, think she was just as unfeeling as her reputation had claimed, but he knew better. She felt more intensely and more purely than any other person he’d ever known. But, to survive as a child prodigy, as a medical genius ten years younger than her peers, she had to become more. As a girl and then a woman, Angela learned that the world would use her emotions as a weapon against her – so she had hidden them from sight. Even among friends – even alone with him – she’d had a hard time dropping those walls. Here, those walls would be put to the ultimate test. The Reaper intended to see them fall, brick by brick, until there was nothing left but a quivering human in the place of the angel. And then, once she had been brought back to Earth, he would kill her like the mortal she was.

Cole frowned down at the communicator in his hand. He had called to check in on Angela the afternoon before, but he hadn’t heard from her. That was unlike her; since the fall of Overwatch, she had always answered – or called back if she truly was incapable of answering – when they called. He knew she worried about them, the family that she had been the heart of, even now – perhaps especially now – when they were no longer her responsibility. Angela would drop nearly everything to go to one of them if they called, no matter how far the distance. Cole knew that he – and many, if not all – of the others would do the same for her. She was theirs just as much as they were hers. The cowboy wondered if it was Winston’s message, sent four nights ago, that was keeping her silent. Perhaps she thought one of them would try to talk her into – or out of – recreating the organization that had brought them together. That didn’t sound like the Angela he knew, though. Cole thought she might be more likely to receive a call right now. She wasn’t one to avoid a conversation just because it might be uncomfortable. It was that knowledge that had him dialing another number. “Hi there, Cassidy,” Winston’s voice filled his ear. At least he knew it wasn’t technical difficulties keeping him from hearing from their doctor. “I wasn’t sure I would hear from you.” If Angela hadn’t gone dark, Cole wouldn’t have called in at all – not yet, at least. He hadn’t decided if he wanted to go back, to try again after everything that had happened. “Hey there, big guy.” He and Winston weren’t close – their paths hadn’t crossed much during their time with Overwatch, given that Winston wasn’t exactly stealthy – but they were amicable enough. “I’m not callin’ ‘bout Overwatch, not right now, anyway.” He admitted, quickly changing the subject. “Have ya heard from Ange in the last coupla days? I can’t seem t’get ahold’a her.” “Dr. Ziegler?” Cole rolled his eyes. Angela had been Winston’s first friend and champion – had gotten into quite a bit of trouble over the gorilla, in fact, if he recalled correctly – and Winston still didn’t call her by name. “I haven’t heard from her since I sent the recall out. Athena,” Winston turned his attention away from Cole for a moment, “did Dr. Ziegler view the recall?” “My files indicate that she viewed your message one hour and thirty-seven minutes after you sent it.” A digitized feminine voice replied after a moment. It had been a long time since he’d heard Athena’s voice. She was an AI that his friend, Dr. Liao, had created, and now served as Winston’s assistant and advisor after Overwatch had disbanded. She was amazingly smart and had been a great asset for all of them – just as Dr. Liao had once been. “So, she got th’ message,” Cole mused. “Wonder why she ain’t answerin’ then.” Clearly, it wasn’t a problem of technology. She simply wasn’t answering or returning calls – at least, not his calls. Just because Winston hadn’t heard from her didn’t mean she wasn’t calling people. “Can Athena tell if she’s talked t’anyone?” Winston relayed the question. “I do not show that Dr. Ziegler has made any calls since Winston sent out the recall. I show that she has received three calls – two from Cole Cassidy and one from Lena Oxton. None were accepted.” The amount of information Athena could access was terrifying. All their electrical equipment – communicators, comm systems, probably Angela’s staff for all he knew – were connected to Athena since before Overwatch fell. Most had left those systems alone, though he was pretty sure some people had disabled it. “That ain’ like her.” Now Cole was even more worried. He had hoped it was just him – either she was avoiding talking to him for some reason, or their communicators were just busted – but she wasn’t talking to anyone. Before the fall, he could maybe see Angela getting distracted enough to forget to return a call or two, but now? Since the fall – since they’d lost so much – she had always answered and made time for them. “No, it isn’t.” Winston agreed gravely. There wasn’t much either of them could do about it, though. Cole was hunkered down in an abandoned house in the middle of Arkansas, trying to let the heat die down. His bounty, somewhere in the ballpark of seventy million the last time he’d checked, made it hard for him to get around sometimes. Likewise, Winston was stuck in Watchpoint: Gibraltar – though he might be moving since Talon was aware of his location and he was trying to raise Overwatch back from the dead. “Her communicator is still at her last known address. The Valkyrie and Caduceus systems are down.” Athena added helpfully as the two tried to figure out what to do. “Last known location is also her last known address.” That wasn’t like her. Angela didn’t go off the grid – she was the goddamned grid. Everywhere she went, she made waves, whether she wanted to or not. “Lemme make a call, see if I can’t get someone to go look in on her.” Cole only knew of one person in that part of the world. Hopefully, she’d be willing and able to get away long enough to help them out. He disconnected and dialed a second number. “C’mon, pick up already.” He grumbled under his breath as it rang and rang. “You have reached Captain Fareeha Amari of Helix Security International.” Of course he’d be sent to voicemail; that was just his luck. “Please leave your number and a detailed message, and I will get back to you as soon as I can.” There was a brief pause, and then a beep indicated that it was his turn to speak. “Hey there, Fareeha, it’s Cole.” He worried about leaving his name on her voicemail – he didn’t want her to get in trouble for associating with a criminal. “Y’might not remember me, but I used t’work with your mom. Couldja call me back, soon as ya get this? It’s real important.” He left his number and hung up, hoping he hadn’t made a mistake. Now came the waiting.

---

“‘lo?” He answered groggily, shoving his hat back into place and rubbing at his face with his free hand. It had been hours since he had left the voicemail; he wasn’t sure if he would even get a response today – or ever. “Cole?” Fareeha’s voice was quiet, like she was trying not to be overheard. That was fair – he was a criminal with an enormous bounty on his head. Someone like her – a Captain, taking after her mother – shouldn’t be seen interacting with someone like him. If it hadn’t been for Angela, he never would have called at all. “Yeah – yeah, it’s me.” He sat up, more alert now. Cole had forgotten what a pain time zones were; he’d probably called her in the middle of the night, just like she had. At least he had woken up. “Sorry for callin’ outta th’ blue like this. Doubt ya even remember me.” He’d spoken to her a few times before everything came crashing down, but Ana had tried to keep Fareeha separate from Overwatch as much as possible. “You let me wear your hat, once.” Her voice was wistful, reminiscent of her younger days. “My mother took a picture; I have it somewhere.” Huh. So she remembered him, after all. Now he felt a little guilty, not calling and checking on the younger Amari. Ana would have wanted him to do that. Angela had, he knew – but she checked on everyone. “What’s happened?” God, she sounded so much like her mother. Ana always cut to the heart of the matter, too, rarely tolerating idle chit-chat when there were things to be done. “It’s Ange. Uh,” she probably didn’t know Angela by that name, “I mean, Angela. Dr. Ziegler – Mercy.” The names tumbled over each other awkwardly; it had been a long time since he had used any of them. “We can’t seem t’get ahold’a her. I was wonderin’ if you could maybe go check in on her?” It was a long shot, but it was the only shot he had. If he had to go, it would be days before he reached Cairo. “I don’t know if I can get away,” Fareeha said after a moment of consideration. Cole relaxed a little; she wasn’t going to blow him off. “Where is she? If it’s close, maybe I won’t have to ask.” Cole pulled up the address and read it off to her. “Hmm, too far.” Fareeha sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.” It wasn’t much, but it was better than ‘no’ at least. “I really appreciate it, Fareeha. Really.” He tried to pump as much sincerity into the words. Fareeha didn’t have to do this for a stranger from her mothers’ past, but she was willing to try, anyway. “She’s my friend, too.” She hung up before he could respond. That blade of guilt twisted in his heart again. He was an ass. If they were both alive at the end of this, Cole would make up for it. Do what Ana would have done for them, what Angela did for them. He looked at his silent communicator, blinking the time – it was just a little past three in the morning. With a sigh, he set it back onto the floor next to him. Cole leaned back against the wall and pulled his hat down over his face once more. Maybe they were all overreacting. Maybe something had kept Angela busy these past days, so busy she came home too exhausted to do more than crawl into bed. That was something he could see her doing – she was notorious for it – but wouldn’t she call back in the morning? It just didn’t sit right with him. Cole closed his eyes and tried to get comfortable on the hard floor so he could get some rest. He had a feeling he was going to need it.

Here you are down on your knees again, Trying to find air to breathe again; And only surrender will help you now. - Again [Flyleaf]

Act One | Act Two | Act Three | Act Four | Act Five | Act Six

Breaking [My Heart]: Act II Exposing

"There's nothing simple when it comes to you and I, Always something in this everchanging life" - Everchanging [Rise Against] Winston has issued the recall towards rebuilding Overwatch. Angela - formerly known as "Mercy" - is captured by Talon, who are searching for any information that can stop the rise before it begins.

AO3 | FF.net | Works | Pandora Playlist

Trigger Warnings & General Statements This is the second part of a dark torture story. As such, there's going to be bad things happening - for the sake of not spoiling, I will not tag what, exactly will be appearing at any time. While I don't think any of the scenes are terribly graphic in nature, I do want to stress that the scenes are present and aren't for everyone. I did try to make the reactions and trauma realistic, following both real-world medicine / research and in-game universe canon (such as Angela's nanotechnology). There will be multiple POVs per chapter - two sets for both Angela and Reaper as well as a fifth from an additional character. Please, read at your own risk - and enjoy!

I want someone to hurt Like the way I hurt It’s sick but it makes me feel better - Sometimes [Skillet]

“How’s our doctora?” Gabriel didn’t react to the woman that was suddenly at his shoulder. One of her favorite ‘pranks’ was to sneak up on various agents to try to startle them. Instead, he suppressed a long-suffering sigh and glanced towards her briefly – not that she could see, with his eyes hidden behind the mask – before turning his attention back to Angela and her interrogators. “See for yourself.” The Reaper gestured towards the window with one clawed hand. He knew that Sombra knew how Angela was; there were two cameras inside that chamber. If anyone thought for a single second that Sombra couldn’t access every electronic in this base, then they were an idiot. She had come down here to needle him, as she was wont to do. The Mexican woman hummed, leaning forward to press both forearms against the small desk that sat against the wall directly under the glass that showcased the woman in question. The space was meant for someone to take notes, but with the cameras it was made pointless. Instead, it was used to set down whatever the observer didn’t want to hold while watching; perhaps a file folder, maybe a drink – it varied depending on the person. Right now, the desk was completely empty. Angela was still hanging from the chains with her head bowed as she fought for silence, her breaths coming in heavy, desperate pants. They had sliced her top clean through along her spine, leaving it to hang limply from her shoulders. If her arms weren’t chained above her head, the cloth – and the doctor – would undoubtedly be on the floor. There were three men in the room. One stood before her, barking questions. They were all a variation of the questions they had asked her the day before: prior Overwatch members, how Overwatch would reform, questions on her medical research and the nanites within her. Every time Angela refused to answer, he would nod at one of the other two men in the room. One would land a punishing blow somewhere on her body – sometimes with a fist, occasionally open-handed, but all calculated to inflict the most pain. The other would strike with a whip across her back. While it was impossible to see her back from here, Gabriel knew that they hadn’t started breaking skin until a few questions ago. Now, dots of red were speckling the ground at her feet. Still, the only sounds Angela made were soft grunts of pain and heavy breaths. Every strike left her off balance; the chains forced her to remain in one place, but there was no way to brace against any blow. Without the slack necessary to stagger and redistribute her weight, she would lose balance and hang painfully against her wrists and shoulders before forcing her shaking legs beneath her once more. Most of her face was hidden, but he could see how her jaw locked and her throat bobbed as she swallowed back screams. After Gabriel had considered it yesterday, he wasn’t surprised at her silence. Angela had been all too ready to bleed – to die – for those she protected when she worked with Overwatch. It was such a fundamental part of the woman; how could he have expected it to change, even after all these years? “Didn’t know the chica had it in her,” Sombra commented after a moment. She rose and crossed her arms, weight shifting so that she leaned to one side as she glanced sidelong at him. She waited for a few seconds as if expecting him to add to the conversation. When he didn’t, Gabriel could practically feel her eyes roll. “Didn’t know you had it in you, either.” The Reaper turned towards her then, but she was still looking at the bloody blonde who was fighting to remain quiet. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He demanded after it was clear that she wasn’t going to elaborate – that she was going to make him work for it. Sombra glanced over towards him, only the vaguest hint of her typical mischief shining in her currently blue eyes. She changed eye color as often as she changed her clothes, but he suspected their actual color was brown. “Didn’t think you’d be the one to bring her in, that’s all.” She turned her back to the glass and lifted herself to sit atop the desk, feet dangling as she regarded him. It was unsurprising that she would be unfazed by the scene behind her; he imagined she had dug up far worse throughout her life in her search for the perfect blackmail material. No one in Talon was innocent. “You have a history with her.” Sombra shrugged, a lazy motion as if it didn’t matter – but Sombra never did anything without a purpose. It hadn’t been a secret that he had been a part of Overwatch, but they had left out his exact role. Only a handful of people in Talon knew who truly lay beneath his mask – and what the woman in chains had once meant to him. The council, of course: they would never allow him to sit at their table without knowing who he was. Sombra, because she knew everything about everyone – and if she didn’t know it, it wasn’t worth knowing. Widowmaker possibly knew who he was as well, but he wasn’t sure how much the brainwashing had erased. They had known each other – had been friends, even – before she had become Talon’s mindless assassin and he had become the Reaper. A whimper drew the attention of both. Sombra shifted to glance back over one shoulder. It was a quiet, strained sound that had escaped from Angela’s throat. Gabriel wondered what expression had crossed her face, but it was shielded from his sight by her loose hair and bowed head. Her interrogator, much closer and with a better angle, probably could see whatever emotion had crossed her face – if she had allowed any to show at all. Another question. Another stroke across the back. No sound. He knew her, so he knew she hated that small break in her armor, that she had shown them any weakness at all. The Reaper could practically hear her teeth grind in protest. Just as they were determined to rip anything from her throat, she was determined to remain silent. A slap, directly across the welts and gashes in her back, elicited another strangled sound of pain. Finally, finally, she was beginning to break. His mouth twisted into a malicious grin. It was a minor victory in the ongoing war being waged in that room – he knew she was too stubborn to be defeated so soon, but they had dragged sound from the mute doctor. Soon enough, it would be words – begs, pleas. Then, finally, she would break entirely to give them what they wanted. “It will only get worse,” Sombra remarked casually, as if commenting on the weather. She had turned away from the glass once more, eying her nails critically. She didn’t react to the slaps of leather-on-flesh or the demanded questions that were sometimes answered with a whimper but were usually followed by silence. “This is the least of what she deserves.” The Reaper growled, harsh even to his ears. But there was truth – his truth, if nothing else – in the words. He had lived in torment, forced to feed on the life force of other humans or live in excruciating pain, because of her. She deserved everything they would give her and more. “Huh.” Sombra slid off the desk and turned towards the door. “And here I thought you were just pretending to be a cold bastard.” There was a hint of disapproval in her voice, but Gabriel wasn’t sure what, exactly, she was disapproving of. His words? Angela’s captivity? He watched her leave without a backward glance, the door shutting silently behind her, before turning his attention back to the doctor so that he could revel in Angela’s pain.

She hurt. Pain was an old bedfellow, but that didn’t make its presence any less unwelcome. Every breath hurt; her back was a mess of pain and blood that shifted every time she inhaled. Her wrists felt raw – probably were raw – from her trying to brace against the swaying and staggering during her latest interrogation. And it was only going to get worse. Her nanites were working diligently, but she had no way to direct them. Whatever was determined to be the worst, the most life-threatening, would be what they targeted – which was precisely how she had programmed them. Angela simply had to hold on while they relieved her pain and extended her miserable existence in this chamber. She hated that one of her greatest creations was being used against her in such a macabre way, even as she desperately longed for the relief it would bring. Angela was strong – but hers was not a physical strength. She could cow people with a look, take command of a room just with her presence. It was that strength that had allowed her, at the tender age of twenty-two, to take and hold the position of Medical Director for Overwatch. Her strength wasn’t meant for blood and chains. The doctor did not look up when the door opened again. There was no point – the lights made it impossible to see. Instead, she left her head bowed and eyes closed. Only one person this time. Their footsteps were heavier than the men who had come before. Mentally she tracked them as they circled her slowly, as they paused to take in her bloody back, before coming to a stop in front of her. If she weren’t shackled, Angela was certain she could reach out and touch them. “And here stands the famous Dr. Ziegler.” The Reaper somehow made her name sound like an insult. Her eyes flew open as if she could see him – as if seeing him would somehow make her less helpless than she was right now. Angela forced them closed again, forced herself to appear unperturbed by her current situation, mentally berating herself for showing any reaction. “Nothing to say?” He growled. “No pleas for Mercy?” Again, her name twisted into something bitter and hateful. Her entire body was tense, screaming as the half-healed lashes broke open and blood rolled sluggishly down her back, as she waited for whatever new injury was coming. She maintained her stony silence and listened as he paced before her. “You brought this upon yourself, you know.” He growled from somewhere to her left. His statement had so many layers of truth, more than the man knew. From the day her parents had died, she’d walked a path that would inevitably lead her to this room – or another very like it. It was only a surprise that she had not been taken sooner; her medical genius under the thumb of Talon – or another terrorist organization – could turn the tides heavily in their favor. Her knowledge of Overwatch – the protocols, the backdoors, the agents, everything – would only be a bonus. “You’re too stubborn for your own good – you always have been.” The words were rushed as if he needed to get them out now before it was too late. Angela’s mind whirled as she tried to make sense of his angry words. How could this monster know what she had ‘always been’? “You never knew when to quit, never.” Now he was snarling as his footsteps stormed closer once more. Only the chains kept her in place as she instinctively tried to back away from the obvious threat. There weren’t many people that she had been close to during her time with Overwatch. Not well enough that they could know what she ‘never’ would do, at least. The words revealed more than she thought he wanted; she knew the man under the mask, even if she didn’t recognize him. “If you did, we wouldn’t be here right now.” One clawed hand was suddenly around her throat, yanking her head up from its bowed position as her eyes blindly flew open once more. It was firm enough to terrify her, but it didn’t hamper her in any other way. Angela was sure he wouldn’t kill her – she hadn’t uttered a single word since he had taken her from her apartment in Cairo. Why go through all this trouble if he was just going to rip her throat out now? That didn’t lessen her terror in the slightest, no matter how logical the conclusion was. “Dr. Ziegler, Mercy, an angel, a God.” He squeezed slightly, voice mocking, before releasing the pressure. “I thought you doctors weren’t supposed to play God – but that didn’t stop you, did it?” Angela had no idea what he was talking about; she didn’t play God. Like every other doctor, she used every tool available to preserve the broken lives that came before her. She had just created better tools during her time with Overwatch. Overwatch. “I told you to let go, to let me die – and you didn’t.” Now his mask was in her face, impossible to miss even with the lights, his grip a vice that didn’t allow her to lean away. “Instead, you turned me into this.” Angela went cold, her mind stuttering to a brief stop as she took in his declaration. If he was to be believed, she had created the murderous monster that had stalked the world since the fall of Overwatch. The Reaper had appeared only a few months after the fall. “You didn’t listen because you thought you knew best.” His breathing was ragged, as if he had run a marathon. She could feel it, hot and heavy on her face, as he glared down at her. Who had she healed, despite their – apparent – request for death? Genji had hated her for what she had done. That thought whisked away as quickly as it had come: this wasn’t Genji. He had wanted to survive, but he hadn’t realized what it would cost him. Genji had been angry, bitter at his loss, and it had been a nearly insurmountable rift between the two of them. They had worked together when needed, but Genji had made his opinions of her – and what she had done to him – very clear. Neither man nor machine, he believed she had taken away his humanity; she had thought he would never forgive her. It was only recently that he had come to terms with himself with the Shambali monks in Nepal. Someone who wanted to die – who she had decided to save anyway. “You always thought you knew best.” He scoffed, his claws digging into the delicate flesh of her throat, just enough to draw blood that slid in thin rivers towards her collarbone. She tried not to flinch – what was one more injury after what she had already endured? – but her face must have given something away. He chuckled, a low humorless sound that made her hair stand up. There was no one – no one – that she had saved that had wanted to die. “Oh, you should have let me go, Angela, mi corazón. ” He had leaned in closer, the words whispered into her ear for only her to hear. Her heart seized, and now she was sucking in desperate breaths. No one living knew of that endearment. “Now, we both pay the price for your pride.” He had died – he had died – there was no way that it was -- “Ga-Gabriel?” Her voice was rough with disuse, tentative and weak. It was the first word she had spoken in what had felt like an eternity, forced past his hand at her throat and through numb lips. It couldn’t be him. She had buried him – mourned him, despite his betrayal. He was dead. His head yanked back from her, quick as a striking snake. “That isn’t my name.” His grip tightened, claws digging further into her skin as the pads of his fingertips cut off all air. “I haven’t been Gabriel for a very long time.” Her hands twisted futilely in their bonds, trying desperately to reach down and tear his hand away. Just before she lost consciousness, he relaxed his grip enough for her to gulp down air in small, wheezing gasps. “Everything I am, everything I’ve done – that’s on you, because you didn’t listen to me.” The whisper seemed to echo in the room, the accusation striking deep in her heart. Then the air was gone again, but this time he didn’t let go until she was unconscious.

It was supposed to make him feel better. He hadn’t said everything he wanted to – Gabriel could still feel cruel words festering in his heart and soul – but he had said enough. Gabriel would have said more, would have yelled and screamed until his throat was hoarse, but then the Reaper had dug those claws into her throat. The Reaper wanted to ruin her, hurt her as he had hurt for all those years – but Gabriel couldn’t do it. He’d had to force himself out of the room before the Reaper did something Gabriel would regret. It should have been a relief to finally tell her exactly what she had done, but all that was left was a hollow emptiness. It had started perfectly. Angela was helpless in chains, at his mercy instead of the other way around. Her terror had been such a sweet nectar, a prize worth waiting all those years for. Then, his simmering rage had bubbled over until his claws were red with her blood, until the brutal truth came out. Then it all turned sour. That look on her face. That fucking look. The Reaper wanted to claw it off, rip her eyes out so she couldn’t look at him like that again. All it took was two little words, and she was completely undone. Her walls had come down in a way only he could manage and allowed him to see what lay beneath. He had watched the emotions that had flown through her with breakneck speed. Terror of being in the Reaper’s grasp had turned into shock at his name for her, his heart. A brief flash of love for the man she remembered, the man he no longer was, the man she had buried despite the lack of body. Hope, flickering and fleeting, that he might help her – before she remembered that it was he who had brought her here. Sorrow for her loss and the monster he had become had followed closely afterward. Gabriel had waited for the anger that would come next. He had shattered her world in so many ways and then left her to try to pick up the pieces that cut and sliced as she grasped at them. Gabriel had forced her to bury him, to mourn him, despite his betrayal. Then, he had turned into the monster that stalked the night and murdered the agents she had sworn to protect. He had shackled her and let her be tortured without lifting a finger to stop it. It should disgust her at what he had become and all he had done. Instead, the sorrow had remained, and she had called his name. She shouldn’t be sad. She should be horrified, enraged. He wanted her anger. Needed it. But Angela just looked up at him with those blue eyes that pierced through the Reaper and straight into Gabriel. He’d had to pull away, to escape those eyes that saw far too much. But there was no escaping them. Even here, in the hallway with a door between them and Angela left unconscious, he could feel them. It should have been sweet, this victory – it had been sweet – but all he could taste as he stalked through the hallways was ash. He gathered his guns and various supplies from the armory before leaving the Oasis base altogether. The Reaper told himself it was to hunt, to take the edge off the pain that was always hovering over him. Gabriel knew it was to bloody their hands in a way they couldn’t – wouldn’t – with the caged angel of his past.

Angela woke all at once, her body screaming in pain. Every part of her hurt, even with the help of her nanites. She shifted, taking the weight off her shoulders, and felt another of the lashes on her back reopen. Angela hurriedly turned a whimper of pain into a hiss of air through clenched teeth; there was no telling who was watching, and she wanted to give as little of a reaction as possible. It was only after she trusted herself to keep her face blank and impassive that she allowed herself to consider the Reaper. Gabriel. And it was Gabriel. The two of them were the only people who knew of that endearment, whispered in quiet moments in the privacy of her – their – bedroom. They had never spoken it where anyone else could overhear and possibly report it back to their enemies. Not even in front of their friends – their family – did they use those endearments. No, that one had been for her ears alone. Mi corazón. Mein herz. It was the closest thing to wedding vows that they would ever take, but that had suited them just fine. The two of them were prominent members of their organizations – her as Mercy and the Medical Director of Overwatch, him as the Commander of Blackwatch. It wasn’t safe for people like them, with such responsibility and power, to foster relationships. People in their positions couldn’t afford such luxuries – such weaknesses. Amélie and Gérard had been a horrible reminder of that lesson. Amélie had come from a family that had once been influential but had been in decline long before she was born. Between the slight influence of her name and her fame as a talented ballerina, she had experienced some power. Amélie had had a taste of what she needed to be to stand at Gérard’s side. Gérard was a power far more influential and dangerous than what Amélie had ever held. Gérard had been their expert on Talon. He had commanded agents, ordered life and death, and was one of the largest targets in the entire organization due to his vast knowledge. In Overwatch, only the Strike Commander and his Captain – Jack and Ana – were more valuable. Amélie hadn’t been ready for that burden, the weight that marrying Gérard carried. The ballerina had thought she understood the risks, the danger. It was understandable, really. No one could understand, not without actually experiencing it. Angela had acclimatized with relative ease – as a doctor, she had always carried around the burdens of life and death. Amélie had never needed to worry about her words, worry about her next breath, not as she had once she was Gérard’s wife. Oh, they had tried to help her. Angela had befriended her in a way she had never attempted before. All her friends had been fostered through her work, through medicine or missions. Amélie wasn’t even a part of Overwatch – but Gérard was. They needed Gérard, and so Angela tried her best to help him and his new, beautiful wife. It had been an awkward, stumbling start, but somehow they had become friends. Angela had helped Amélie learn to shoulder the constant threat and fear, something Angela had long since come to terms with. Angela had been there when Amélie couldn’t sleep, terrified that Gérard was going to die while out on a mission. She had soothed the ballerina when Gérard was recovering from the bomb that had nearly killed him, even though Angela herself had almost lost Gabriel in that same explosion. Angela had become for Amélie what Gabriel was for her. Angela always made time to search out the woman, to give her counsel or just a shoulder to cry on. They talked about many things – from Angela’s research to Amélie’s hopes for the future. Eventually, Amélie took up ballet again and started living the life she had put on hold while she got her bearings. They had let their guard down after her being safe for so long – and that had been their undoing. Talon had kidnapped Amélie, just as they had abducted Angela now. Unlike Angela, they had returned the ballerina – not that Overwatch had realized she was being returned at the time. Amélie was recovered, almost no worse for her two weeks in Talon’s clutches, and life went back to normal. That is, until Amélie assassinated Gérard. It had been a horrible discovery. Somehow, the sweet woman had been brainwashed into murdering the husband she had once loved. No one saw it coming – not even Angela, who had looked her over and had spoken to her every day. It was all normal – until it wasn’t. Amélie had returned to Talon before they could stop her and was now one of their best assassins: the formidable Widowmaker. Gabriel and Angela hadn’t wanted to follow in their footsteps, to risk one of them being used against the other. They kept their relationship private – only their closest friends and a few UN members knew about them – to protect themselves and each other. Neither had been willing to endanger the other for something so trivial as a wedding or a ring. They didn’t need material proof of the love between them. That had been a source of grief after the fall. Nothing material meant there was nothing to hold on to after he was gone and buried, besides her memories and what few photographs she could salvage from the wreckage of her personal effects. Gabriel had thoroughly shattered her life, her world, when he had destroyed the Zürich base that had been her home. She had found him that day, broken and dying in the rubble, when she had gone searching for Jack - her Commander, her friend, her brother. Angela hadn’t known of Gabriel’s betrayal then, hadn’t known that he had caused the wanton destruction that surrounded them – but knowing wouldn’t have changed the outcome. She would have still tried to save him because that was who she was and what she did. Angela had been forced to abandon him before stabilizing him due to the building crashing down around them. She had barely escaped with her life. After seeing his injuries, she didn’t believe for a single moment that he had survived the collapse; even when his body hadn’t been recovered, she didn’t think he survived. Angela was certain he had died, believed it enough to mourn and bury him. Angela had given him a grave when the UN had refused: even traitors deserved a place to rest and be remembered. Graves were for the living. She had been the one to give aid to what was left of his family after they had denied his death benefits; his family had done nothing wrong, after all. They had simply had the misfortune of being related to him. She had mourned him most, over all the others who died, despite his betrayal – especially because of the betrayal. Because she had loved him, fiercely and desperately. It hadn’t been easy, loving Gabriel. Sometimes it was hard and painful, like hugging a porcupine, when he was at his most difficult. Sometimes it had been nearly impossible, faced with his position as the Blackwatch Commander and all that entailed. But it had been worth it, all of it, including the end. He had been her first real friend, the first person who saw her for Angela and not just Dr. Ziegler – or, later, Mercy. Gabriel was her confidant, the one she turned to when the weight of the world was too much to bear, who soothed her after she woke up screaming and stayed up the rest of the night so she wouldn’t be alone. A piece of her had died with him in the rubble of the Zürich base. She wrestled with herself for a moment, forcing down tears and choking back a sob. Gabriel’s death had been a wound to her heart that she had thought was healed. The revelation of the Reaper’s real name had ripped through the scar tissue and split her open more viciously than her back had been. Angela had known she would face pain here, trapped in a torture chamber deep inside the black heart of Talon, but she hadn’t expected it to be this kind of pain. He had died. Angela had buried him, just like she had buried the other members of their family by choice – Ana, the mother; Jack, the brother. Just like Gabriel, their bodies hadn’t been recovered either. She had taken flowers to his grave twice a year: once for his birthday in May and again for his death day in August – the anniversary of the day she had lost everything – the only personal time she ever took for herself. The only time she allowed herself to remember, to be anything but numb. Despite all that, he was alive. He was alive, and now she was his hated enemy instead of friend and lover. He was the Reaper, a dark and deadly serial killer that had rarely left survivors. He was with Talon, an organization he had once dedicated his life to stopping. He had brought her here, condemned her to be tortured and broken before being tossed away. He had gloated over her capture. It was that fact, more than anything else, that made her believe the Reaper. He wasn’t Gabriel – not her Gabriel, at least. Her Gabriel would never have put her in danger; he had been nearly smothering in his protection. That Gabriel would have yanked her down out of these chains and whisked her away or died trying. No, her Gabriel was dead, and a monster had taken his place. Angela couldn’t stop a few stray tears from streaking down her cheeks as she mourned his loss all over again.

The only person from Overwatch Fareeha had spoken to since her mothers’ death years ago had been Dr. Ziegler – Angela. The doctor kept in touch throughout the years – even after the collapse – checking in periodically and remembering to call on holidays and her birthday. So, when she awoke to a voicemail – left at 1:37 AM – from Cole, she had been surprised. Fareeha remembered the man; between his drawling accent and the cowboy outfit, he was very unforgettable. It also helped that her mother had taken a picture of the two of them, helpfully labeled ‘Cole and Fareeha, 2062’. He wanted her to check on Angela. If it had been anyone else, Fareeha might have said no. Even if she had known Cole nearly a decade ago – or more, actually, but she wasn’t entirely sure – that didn’t mean she owed him anything now. But Angela was an entirely different matter. The doctor was her friend after so many years. Clearly, she was Cole’s too – why else would he reach out after all this time? His urgency had driven her to request a few personal days off – something she rarely did - and then she had traveled out to the address in Cairo he had provided her. “Angela?” She had called, knocking at the door. There was no answer, but Fareeha wasn’t sure that was unusual. She knew that her doctor friend could keep long hours, so perhaps she was already out – or still asleep. Fareeha stood at the door for several minutes, considering what her next steps should be. The woman pulled out her communicator and called Angela, as she had done – twice – on the way here. Faintly, Fareeha could hear the sound of Angela’s communicator inside the apartment. Was that normal? Did she usually leave it behind? “Angela?” Fareeha had called again, pocketing the communicator. This time, she jiggled the knob – and was surprised to find the door unlocked. That was unusual, Fareeha knew. Angela wouldn’t leave her home unlocked, not with the equipment she hauled around. Cautiously, the Egyptian pushed the door open and sidled in, regretting that she hadn’t brought a weapon with her. Fortunately, there was no need for a weapon. Unfortunately, the apartment was empty of the doctor. Fareeha found a set of keys on the ground, which only proved her belief of foul play. She scooped them up and tested them on the door; they were an exact match, which meant that Angela probably hadn’t left the apartment willingly. She poked around, but nothing else jumped out at her as out of order– just the keys and the unlocked door. She left everything as it was and locked up the apartment. There was a medical camp nearby; she would investigate there next. Hopefully, they had better news than the apartment did.

---

Fareeha waited until 5:00 PM to call Cole back. It had felt like an eternity, but their radically different time zones necessitated the wait. “Fareeha? What’d ya find?” He sounded alert; perhaps she could have called him earlier. It didn’t matter. Quickly, she relayed what she had found: the open door, the keys on the ground, and her absence at the medical camp for the past three days. “She’s not here, Cole.” Fareeha had been worried before, but now she was terrified. There was no sign of the doctor anywhere, though there was ample enough proof that she had been here. Her absence meant nothing good. “Did it look like there was a struggle, back at her place?” The cowboy had asked after a long, considering moment. “Besides the keys on the ground? No. It all looks… normal.” Fareeha glanced around the apartment she had been searching while she had watched the clock. “It’s kind of empty – but that’s normal, right?” Cole made an affirmative noise; the past apartment Fareeha had visited had felt a lot like this one, too. “There’s no food out. The bed looked slept in.” Fareeha stalked through the small apartment, glancing around for anything she could relay to the cowboy. “Her equipment cases – you know, the ones that carry the suit and staff?” Fareeha had once convinced Angela to pull it all out so she could look at it. Of course, she had seen pictures, but that was nothing compared to having it right in front of her. The pictures didn’t capture the faint scratches and dents in the armor, proving how dangerous the doctor’s life had been before the fall. “Yeah, I know ‘em. They still there?” There was some hope in his voice; if they left the equipment behind, her captors probably weren’t exceedingly dangerous. But- “No. They took those, too.” Fareeha sat gingerly on the couch, bracing her head against her free hand. “What do we do now?” She was a fighter, the one you called when you wanted things killed – she had no idea where to begin searching for a missing person. “I’ll put some feelers out, call in some favors.” The cowboy seemed distracted, probably planning the next steps. She remembered a little about him: he was a cowboy, he was a great shot, and he had been part of Blackwatch – the covert intelligence division of Overwatch. Not that she had known at the time. She hadn’t known what the skull insignia had meant until long after Blackwatch had been revealed to the public, and everything came crashing down. “Call me if there is anything I can do.” Fareeha insisted. Helix would let her go if he called – and if they didn’t, then they weren’t worth staying with. Angela Ziegler was too crucial to the world to let a job stand in the way. “‘course I will.” He paused, considering briefly, before continuing. “Actually, can ya get her pictures and stuff, keep ‘em safe ‘til one a’us can come an’ get them?” It wasn’t what she was expecting to be asked to do, but if Cole thought it was important enough to be mentioned, she could do it. “I can do that. Let me know if you need anything else.” They said their goodbyes and disconnected. Fareeha swept her eyes around the apartment, suddenly grateful the doctor traveled light.

Your touch used to be so kind, Your touch used to give me life. I've waited all this time, I've wasted so much time. - Falling Inside the Black [Skillet]

Act One | Act Two | Act Three | Act Four | Act Five | Act Six

An Angel’s Ransom

You just refuse to bend So I keep bending ‘til I break - Right Here [Staind] Febuwhump Day 21: “Torture” | Fandom: Overwatch (Pre-Fall) | Angela / Gabriel

AO3 | FF.net | Works

They had blindfolded her and half–carried her along; she wasn’t sure, but she thought that they had taken her underground. A door opened, the sound echoing hollowly. Before she could consider her location too much, Angela was shoved unceremoniously to her knees; if it weren’t for the Valkyrie suit they hadn’t stripped from her, she knew it would have been painful. “What are you doing?” Angela demanded breathlessly, as if she were in any kind of position to demand anything. She was ignored as they yanked roughly at her arms. Her wrists were handcuffed, the metal biting deep enough into her wrists that – even through the Valkyrie suit – she could feel it, above her head on either side of her. They were pulled back slightly, just enough to strain at her shoulders no matter how she shifted. Angela didn’t particularly want to be cooperative in her capture, but she didn’t struggle – she didn’t think anything good could come of her resistance. Then again, nothing good had come from her capitulation, either. Brusquely, they moved to chain her ankles together, pressing them so tightly together that Angela doubted even a hair could fit between them. It left her kneeling uncomfortably on the ground, forced to hold her weight either in her thighs or to rest awkwardly on her ankles as she was pulled ever so slightly backwards. It was then that they removed the blindfold. Blinking, Angela took in her surroundings. The floor was hard–packed dirt that was nearly as unyielding as concrete. Tarp and plastic covered the walls; what wasn’t covered looked to be the same material as the floor beneath her. The space was lit by two bare bulbs, hanging loose on their wires that drooped haphazardly from the ceiling. The man left the room, slamming the door – metal instead of wood, surprisingly – behind him. Before the echo could fade away, Angela was pulling against the chains that bound her. It was a fruitless venture that didn’t last very long – the chains were too strong to pull away from the wall or apart from itself, and they were too tight against her flesh to allow her to do anything more than flay her skin. Angela worried at her lip briefly, considering her situation – which was rather grim, all–in–all. She had no idea where she was. They hadn’t used an aircraft to take her away – probably because Overwatch would have noticed such a thing – so Angela knew she couldn’t be too far away from where she had been captured. Still, that left a lot of places to hide. Based on the room she was in – and the stairs she was pretty sure they’d carried her down – it could be an unfinished construction site or even the beginnings of a basement addition to an existing building. She didn’t know who had captured her. She did know they were vicious and ruthless – there had been no reason to kill those civilians, except for the fact that that room had seen the three men who had taken Angela. They also had left her staff behind; that was a marvel of medical engineering that many would kill to get their hands on. Briefly, Angela hoped that the staff made it back to Overwatch instead of enemy hands. She didn’t even know what they wanted from her. No one had spoken to her after that man’s declaration: ‘I lied.’ That Angela was chained away in this room told her that she wasn’t wanted for her medical expertise – if they had, wouldn’t they have just taken her to whatever room or ward their injured or sick were within? But, she did know some things. There was no end to the knowledge they might want to pull from her, whether it was Overwatch or medical in nature. She was a valuable asset, even if she weren’t a soldier or military leader. She knew her position as Chief of Medicine was a dangerous one – though, of course, not nearly as dangerous as the roles Jack or Gabriel held. That she went into the field as a combat medic only added to that fact. She was the innovative, ground–breaking medical researcher that had developed nanotechnology that had revolutionized the world. Based on limited conversations and stupid movies that Gabriel had picked for them to watch, Angela also knew that her chances for survival were low. They hadn’t hidden their faces from her, and they had killed all witnesses to her capture, after all. She shifted again, doing her best to find a comfortable position even as she knew it was impossible, and tried to stave off her terror and grief.

---

Angela hated sitting idle, alone with nothing but her thoughts to occupy her. She had already exhausted her worry for what might happen to her here at the hands of these men. From the absolute best–case scenario – where the chains were all she faced – to the worst–case scenario – where she was brutalized and left to bleed out slowly: Angela had tormented herself through them all. Considering her medical expertise and history with traumatic injuries, it wasn’t hard to imagine all sorts of horrors happening to her here. Now she was stewing in guilt. Angela had caused the deaths of – at least – twenty men, women, and children. While she may not have pulled the trigger herself, they had only died because Angela had come to them. They may not have survived – probably would not have survived – without medical attention; where typically her presence guaranteed survival, this time it had guaranteed nothing but death. It was agony, despair eating at her from the inside. Angela was no stranger to death and the guilt that it brought – but this? The screams still echoed in her ears, hours later. Angela knew they would haunt her nightmares for years to come, just as surely as whatever she would face in this room would – assuming she ever left it. Her cool, calm facade – the outward face of Dr. Ziegler that everyone saw, that caused people to whisper that she was ‘cold’ and ‘unfeeling’ – was normally summoned and held with barely a thought. Here in this room, where the fear of the unknown and her hopeless thoughts ran free, she found herself struggling to hold onto it. But her pride demanded that she not give these men – these monsters – anything that they did not drag out of her.

---

She was exhausted. Angela, per her usual, had only slept a fitful six–or–so hours before waking up on this horrible day. It had been only a handful of hours later that she had left Zürich in her Valkyrie suit. Angela had no way of telling how long she had been held here in this room of dirt, but she knew it had been hours. The adrenaline had worn off long ago, leaving only nervous anxiety and nauseating terror. Fear was exhausting. The chains, forcing her to hold the uncomfortable positioning, were exhausting. Her whole body tensed when the door opened again, head jerking up to watch three men enter the room; none were familiar to her, though one, surprisingly, had his face covered. One busied himself against the wall directly across from her; she ignored him in favor of the two approaching her. “I trust you have found your accommodations acceptable, Dr. Ziegler.” The one directly before her remarked cheerfully as the third man – the one whose face she couldn’t see – peeled away to stand somewhere behind her. It was an act of will to not crane her neck to see where he went; instead, she fixed her eyes on the speaker. “Your bedside manner is lacking,” Angela responded acerbically. She knew she shouldn’t push – this wasn’t her home, where it was safe to say such things – but fear made her tongue looser than it should be. “I would be more than happy to give you some lessons.” Surprisingly, the man threw his head back and laughed – and then struck her face, hard and fast. Angela’s teeth caught the inside of her cheek, and she could taste blood as her head turned with the force of the blow. The pain was sharp but brief as the Valkyrie suit wicked it away. The surprise – and the visceral fear – was, unfortunately, left behind. “You will watch how you speak to me, doctor,” he growled. As her tongue probed the inside of her mouth, assessing the damage, the man stepped back. “Now,” his voice was bright again, showing none of the malice from his previous words, “we have much to do.” His eyes moved past her form towards the man behind her. “Proceed.” Rough hands landed upon her suit, wrenching at her right–wing in a manner that was wholly ineffective at removing it from her back. Instead, they cracked it and ripped some of the ‘feathers’ away to scatter around her before leaving it to droop limply. It brushed against her leg, though she wasn’t exactly how bad the damage was. “Perfect,” the speaker announced eventually. The hands pulled away. “It’s all about appearances,” the speaker explained as if imparting some great life advice while the man behind her moved into her line of sight. “I’m sure you, of all people, understand that, Dr. Ziegler.” While Angela was definitely one for keeping up the appearance of professionalism, she had no idea what the man meant in this context. “Now, for the doctor herself.” Before Angela could realize what his words meant, the breath was knocked from her as she was punched in the stomach. The Valkyrie suit may be able to remove pain, but it couldn’t fix her retching and desperate gasps as she tried to regain her breath. Before she fully recovered, Angela took another blow to the chest and a third to the back. “Wait.” The speaker demanded after the fourth blow – a kick to her bound legs. Hard fingers gripped her chin and tipped her head back, the man staring down at her contemplatively. “How interesting,” he remarked after a moment. “I had heard you were emotionless – and that was clearly an exaggeration.” Angela had tried to wall away her terror and mounting horror, but, clearly, her aloof facade was breaking down. “But I didn’t hear that you couldn’t feel pain.” The speaker must have signaled the masked man, because another blow landed heavily against her shoulder blades. “How disappointing,” he sighed. “I hate settling, but we have a timetable to follow.” He released her, stepping back once more. “Rough her face up a bit; at least she can look beaten even if she doesn’t feel it.” He ordered over one shoulder as he went to speak quietly to the third – mostly forgotten – man against the far wall.

It had taken Gabriel almost no time at all to reach the war room. He had only remained in Rome long enough to bark orders and delegate his duties, then he had made his way to Zürich. He had just landed when a grim–faced Jack had met him, urging Gabriel to follow the blonde. It was only the two of them, standing because neither could bear to handle this sitting down, when they watched the recording. It started with proof of life. A device showing four clocks bearing different time–zones was held before the screen in an attempt to prove that this video had been taken less than an hour ago. Gabriel knew there were ways to fake such things, but he held on to the hope that it was true regardless. Then, the device fell away to reveal Angela. She was still in her Valkyrie suit and Overwatch blues. One wing had been damaged and was dangling behind her; Gabriel doubted the damage was done during Angela’s capture, considering the ‘feathers’ scattered around her. No, that had been done deliberately to make her appear more fragile and broken – though Gabriel hoped, prayed, that they would recover her before that truly occurred. Her head was bowed, hair hanging limply to block her face as her shoulders rose and fell in short, panicked breaths. He ground his teeth as he took in the chains that bound her. Gabriel recognized the stress position for what it was; he had too much experience with Blackwatch interrogation not to. He couldn’t tell from the camera’s position how tight they were, but he doubted it was anything comfortable. Then, a man strode into the frame then. In one smooth motion that told Gabriel that this wasn’t the first time that man had done something like this, the man in the video grabbed Angela’s hair and yanked her head back. Gabriel shifted uncomfortably, hands bunching into fists, as he took in Angela’s face. Her eyes were bright and watering. Gabriel wasn’t sure if it was from terror, pain, or just an uncontrollable physical reaction – but it didn’t matter. Already, her face was swelling with the beginnings of bruises and there was blood on her lips. They had gagged her; with what, he wasn’t exactly sure, but it was held in place by a black cord. It was far too tight – he could see where it bit into her cheeks. After a long pause, the man released her hair. Angela allowed her head to drop forward, hiding her face from the camera once more. Gabriel wasn’t sure if it was from exhaustion or some attempt to protect them – him, Jack, anyone else that saw this video – from the sight of her battered face. The man began speaking, listing his demands. First, he wanted the release of five men and two women. Gabriel recognized the names as some of the captives within Blackwatch interrogation cells – and from the way Jack stiffened, Gabriel assumed some of those people were being held by Overwatch. Second, he wanted the Watchpoints in Tashkent, Uzbekistan and Karagandy, Kazakhstan to be dismantled. Finally, he wanted Strike Commander Morrison to be stripped of his position and removed from Overwatch entirely. Were the situation less horrific – if it weren't Angela being held hostage – Gabriel might have made a quip about that last demand. Gabriel's eyes bounced between the speaker and Angela as he spoke. He noticed Angela tense before slumping in resignation at the demands they all knew could never be fulfilled. Not even for the prodigal doctor, their Mercy, could even one of those terms be fulfilled. Once the demands were laid out, the man turned slightly to regard Angela with cold eyes before looking back to the camera. “You have one day to comply with these demands. If, by tomorrow at this time, you have not complied – well.” He looked at Angela again. “Your angel here will bear the weight of your failure.” The video cut out then. “Play it again,” Gabriel demanded; he had to figure out where she was – now that he had heard the message, perhaps there was something in the video that could help find her. After a second viewing, Gabriel sank down into one of the many chairs within the war room to think. “You know we can’t give them what they want.” Jack choked out. Gabriel tensed at the reminder; his people had nothing to go on and hadn’t had luck in finding her yet – there was no way to save her from whatever they had in mind for her tomorrow. “Send the footage to my analyst; maybe he can figure out where it came from,” Gabriel ordered, completely ignoring the blonde's words – as if that were enough to protect Angela. “Cassidy and Genji are out in the field now, searching. I’ll—” “We need you here, Gabe,” Jack interrupted. Gabriel knew, rationally, that he had a responsibility to Blackwatch – and Overwatch. He knew that he couldn't just go off into the field – but it was Angela. “I need to be out there,” he snapped back, even though he knew it was wrong. He knew Angela wouldn’t want him to abandon his duty – his responsibilities – for her sake, but that didn’t matter either. “It could be a trap, Gabe.” Jack reasoned. “They could be using her as bait for either one of us.” While the relationship between Angela and Gabriel was a tightly held secret, the friendship between the three was well known. Jack’s shoulders dropped. “You know she wouldn’t – doesn’t – want us to go after her without a plan.” No, she wouldn’t want them to go after her at all if it meant one of them – one of those she did her best to protect and put back together – would be hurt. “They will break her, Jack.” He whispered finally, one hand over his face as he slumped back in his seat. “Angela is strong,” Jack replied, though Gabriel wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. They both knew that she was strong – but this required a different kind of strength, a type that Gabriel wasn’t sure Angela had. “We have to find her, Jack.” Gabriel rose; there was far too little time, and there was too much to do – too much to say. God, how he hated Jack at this moment. They had been at odds for the last year, but he hadn’t hated the blonde man until now. Gabriel knew it was irrational – knew Jack wouldn’t risk Angela unnecessarily or without care – but it didn’t matter. “Meet back here in a few hours?” He ground out; there would be time for arguing – time for laying the blame and vengeance – once Angela was recovered. Jack nodded his understanding as Gabriel turned away. Gabriel strode away, heading for the room that had once been his office – and still was, for all intents and purposes.

“It really is too bad that the suit was in the way,” the speaker remarked, one hand running along the Valkyrie suit. They had torn it from her body, destroying some of the buckles and further damaging the wings with their rough handling, before tossing it onto a table they had dragged in – apparently for that express purpose. “A chained angel? What a perfect visual,” the man sighed. “But, I must uphold my end of the bargain since your friends,” he dragged the word out mockingly, “have decided to not to uphold theirs.” Angela had known, even before the terms had been laid out, that Jack – Gabriel – would not have given in. Not even for her could Overwatch capitulate – not without setting a far too dangerous precedent. “Shall we begin, then?” He asked, as if it were really up to her. They struck her from behind this time, eliciting a cry from her; without the Valkyrie suit, Angela was vulnerable to the pain. The blows rained down, battering and bruising her. Mostly she grunted and groaned, though some left her gasping, and once or twice she let out a sharp cry. “That's enough for now.” The speaker announced finally in a bored voice. As she gasped and shook, tears streaking her cheeks, the man continued speaking. “You know my demands. For each day you do not comply, her,” Angela assumed he gestured towards her, “punishment shall only get worse.” Before Angela could get the breath to say anything, to try to yell out something to her friends that would surely see this video, it was too late. What would she say, even if she could? She couldn't tell them it was okay, that she would be fine – not with the bruises peppering her skin and the blood in her mouth. But could she really beg them not to give in, knowing how bad she already hurt and, as the speaker said, that it would only get worse? Angela knew she couldn't beg them to find her, to end this before it went too far. She couldn’t lay that burden on them, not when it was her stubbornness and insistence that had led her to this room. Not when this had always been a possibility every time she went into the field. Not when she knew they were probably half–killing themselves as they searched and drowned in guilt and rage. No, there was nothing – nothing – she could say. One would be a lie, and one would hurt them even more than they already were.

---

The next day, they removed her chains and forced Angela to her feet. Her muscles protested and rebelled, but her captors didn't particularly care about her body’s limitations. They pressed her, chest first, against the wall and chained her arms above her head. She could taste the dirt of the wall with every breath, but that was the least of her problems. It wasn’t long before she discovered her newest punishment: whipping. There was something sharp at the tip that sheared through her thin catsuit and into her back. Angela couldn’t see it, but she knew that there were trails of blood slicking down her back with every stroke. Angela swallowed some of her screams, trying to hold to the knowledge that her friends – that Gabriel – would be seeing this. Still, some burst free along with the tears she tried to keep hidden. Once it was over, they pulled her down from the wall. Instead of chaining her back to the floor, they threw a hood over her head before carrying her bodily out of the room. She didn’t know where they were taking her – or why. Angela briefly entertained the hope that her friends were closing in, so they had to move before they were caught – but she wasn’t convinced. No, the more likely reason was that it was safer now to move her than it had been when they’d initially captured her. Hours later – this time they flew somewhere – she was chained back into the awful, familiar position. This time, the room was drywall and stained concrete; Angela didn’t look too closely at the stains. She tried to force back the despair, but it was hard. Even if her friends had been closing in on her location, she was long gone now – how would they ever find her? Angela knew they couldn’t give in to the demands, wouldn’t give up searching for her – but she didn’t know how long she could hold out.

---

On the fourth day of her capture, they whipped her again. Angela wasn’t sure if she should be grateful that they hadn’t escalated as much as they had promised or not – and then felt disgusted at the very thought. Before they began on the fifth day, the speaker approached her again. The last two days – videos – he had simply been a silent herald of her pain. “It seems you aren’t as valuable as the world has been made to believe, doctor.” He twisted the title into an insult. “It’s terribly disappointing – for you, most of all, I'm sure.” His voice was full of false sympathy – as if he weren’t the one that was orchestrating it all. The man paused, giving her time to reply – but what was there to say? Her pride would not allow her to beg – not yet, anyway – and Angela would not engage him in conversation as if she weren’t his prisoner. “Nothing to say?” He shrugged, a loose, uncaring motion that didn’t match his hard gaze. “That’s alright. You’ll speak soon enough.” With that cryptic remark, he waved at one of his men. They hadn't moved her to the wall – she was still in her uncomfortable, bordering painful, position on the ground – so Angela knew that this had to be an escalation of some sort. They pressed something to the open flesh on her back, just below Angela’s right shoulder blade. Then, her whole body was seizing; her back arched as her legs locked up, her mouth opened in a silent scream as her vision went white. What felt like an eternity later, her vision cleared and she panted, slumping heavily against the chains that held her arms up. “Again.” The speaker ordered; it was all the warning Angela got – but how do you prepare yourself for an electric shock? Her trembling body seized again, and this time a scream – sharp and shrill – managed to burst past her lips before her throat locked up as well. They repeated the cycle – blinding, screaming pain into shaking, gasping recovery – five times before the speaker was satisfied. As they filed out, despair truly overwhelmed her. Knowing there was nothing she could do – nothing anyone could do – to free her. In theory, Angela knew that Overwatch could capitulate, but she knew better. Her only escape would be rescue – or death.

---

Angela counted the days based on their visits; once a day, as the speaker promised, they punished her for the inaction of Overwatch. Sometimes the speaker would taunt her, but she bit her tongue and bowed her head; begging would get her nothing and nowhere. It had been two weeks of absolute hell. On the fifth day, when they fed her, they had tended to her wounds. They wouldn't want her to die too quickly, after all – though by now it should be obvious that her pain wasn’t going to break Overwatch, even if it was eventually going to break her. The seventh day had been mock–drowning; a rag was thrown over her face as her head was yanked back by her hair and held there roughly. Then, the water came down; rounds and rounds they went, agonizing and terrifying, before they’d left her there, soaked and shivering. They mixed it up the next few days; sometimes, she would be whipped and drowned; other times, she was electrocuted and beaten. And still, Overwatch refused to bend to the will of her captors – whoever they were. On that fourteenth day of her capture, they dragged in a table; it was placed with exceeding care before the camera. Dimly, Angela wondered what new horror they were going to inflict upon her.

It had been two weeks since Angela had been captured. They’d almost caught the bastards; they’d found the building they’d been holed up in, but by then, it had been two days too late. His analysts couldn’t pinpoint where the videos were originating, and the man in the videos was an unfamiliar enemy. The people he had demanded had been from three different groups – which narrowed it down slightly, but not enough. The Watchpoints affected two of those groups, which narrowed it down farther: so, they focused their gaze on them. It was all they had, and it was nowhere near enough. He and Jack were in the war room again; another video had been delivered. Gabriel was pacing, restless and terrified of what they were going to see this time. Gabriel could barely stand to be in the same room as Jack anymore – and when he did, he spoke in short, clipped sentences. Each day Angela was missing drove a wedge further and further between them. Every video, every wound, every scream was etched into his mind and soul – and Gabriel blamed Jack for each and every one. He was pretty sure Jack blamed himself, too. As always, they were alone for the first viewing. This was an unspoken agreement between the two; they would leave their animosity at the door for those horrific minutes that the video was playing. The emotions were too heavy, too raw, to watch the videos with anyone else, despite their growing rift. The videos were too horrible to watch with an enemy. Instead, they leaned on each other as they hadn’t since he had taken up the mantle of Blackwatch Commander. They suffered together through Angela’s torture. Jack’s grief and horror were equal to Gabriels’, his shame and guilt surpassing anything Gabriel could feel. These were laid bare, uncensored and unashamed, as they forced themselves to shoulder the weight of Angela’s pain. “You don’t have to watch this,” Jack said, as he had before every video. Gabriel shook his head; Jack was wrong. Gabriel had to watch them, had to see exactly what their failure was costing the one person he’d sworn to protect over all others. With a resigned sigh, Jack turned it on. A table came into view. The camera was angled so that it looked down slightly so that they would have a perfect view of whatever they were going to do to Angela this time. On the far side of it was Angela, still chained and bloody. “We’re going to try something different today,” the speaker announced cheerfully as he entered the room. Angela tensed but didn’t look up from the ground – not even when they began to unchain her. Gabriel wondered if she had struggled before – where they couldn’t see, when they were positioning her off–camera. Had they beaten it out of her, or had she realized the futility and, therefore, didn’t waste the energy? They half–carried, half–dragged her to the table; it was only once they forced her to bend over it, her hands chained to the far side, that he realized the nature of this particular horror. “Stop it,” he whispered hoarsely; Jack was quick to oblige. They might be at each other’s throats most days, but Gabriel knew that Jack didn’t want him to hurt – even though this whole thing, the loss of Angela, hurt. Gabriel took several deep breaths, one hand running over his head. “Do you know what they’re about to do?” He asked, low and solemn as he stared at Angela’s face. He could see it there – a new fear – but she hadn’t yet figured out what was coming. Jack let out a heavy breath. “Yes.” The answer was so quick that Gabriel wondered if Jack watched it before him – but if Jack had, Gabriel knew the blonde would have been far more desperate in his request for Gabriel not to watch. “You don’t—” “Yes, I do,” Gabriel growled, cutting him off. “You shouldn’t—” “It’s my burden, too.” This time it was Jack’s turn to cut him off, his quiet voice resigned but firm. Gabriel didn’t want Jack to see Angela like this – but, selfishly, he didn’t want to be alone to watch Angela suffer in this way – as if Angela wasn’t sitting somewhere, right now, suffering in the aftermath. He ran his hand over his head again before nodding sharply. “Start it.” It was once they started ripping and cutting away her catsuit that Angela realized what was happening – but, by then, it was far too late. Angela was bound, wrist and ankle, to the table. She thrashed and writhed then, trying to stave off what Gabriel knew was inevitable, to no avail. “Please,” she begged – and she never begged, not for anything or anyone, “please, don’t do this!” The words fell on deaf ears as they continued to restrain her. They forced her to look towards the camera with one heavy hand; her eyes were squeezed tight, but Gabriel didn’t have to see them to see her despair. “No!” She screamed when he entered her, eyes flying open to stare blankly as she struggled to escape again. The man pushed her head down harder with one hand, the other holding her hips in place. “Stop,” the word was a broken sound as the man pushed into her again with a groan. “Please.” Gabriel could barely hear the word for how soft it was. “Please.” The man ignored her pleas and continued thrusting. Slowly, her struggles became weaker and more feeble – and then she wasn’t struggling at all; Gabriel wasn’t sure if it was from pain or resignation. Instead, her hands were balled into tight fists and she trembled as the man continued to use and abuse her body. Around the same time, Angela had stopped begging; now, she was crying soundlessly in a way that tore at Gabriel’s heart. The minutes he spent watching that video were the longest and hardest minutes he’d ever endured – and he knew it had been infinitely worse for Angela. When her rapist finished, he was buried deep inside her. Angela sobbed then, a heartbreaking sound, as the man pulled away. “You know how to stop this,” the speaker said over Angela’s heavy, desperate breathing and pitiful cries. “Until tomorrow.” The video cut out, and for a moment, neither man could move. “No one else sees this,” Gabriel growled. It was bad enough that Jack had seen her in such a position; no one else has to see it. “I mean it, Jack – no one.” Numbly, Jack nodded. Before Gabriel could say – or do – something he would regret, he stormed out of the room.

---

Gabriel splashed cold water over his face with shaking hands. He was seething, absolutely enraged at what he had just watched – at what had happened to Angela. She never should have been in a position to be taken; she should have been protected, she should be safe. Jack should never have allowed her to be in the field without backup – no matter how much experience she had, she wasn’t a soldier and never would be. He wanted to tear into Jack, rip him apart for how he had failed Angela – but now wasn’t the time. Angela needed them, both of them, no matter how angry he was at Jack; until she was recovered, his rage would simmer until he could finally make it known. What parts of Gabriel that wasn’t enraged was sickened with guilt, with shame, with the terrible knowledge of what had happened to Angela. It had taken them too long; they hadn’t done enough – and she was the one paying for it. He wanted to be out there, searching and tearing the world apart until they found her – but instead, he was forced to remain here, in Zürich, trying to coordinate everyone. It felt like he was doing nothing – nothing except bear witness to the horrors that Angela was forced to carry on their behalf. When they found Angela – and they would, because they had to, because no other outcome was acceptable – he would kill every last one of them. Even if they hadn’t touched her, they had been a part of that, and he would not stand for her captors – her rapist – to continue breathing. But right now, he needed to find some semblance of balance. His rage was not helping Angela – this inactivity, here in her rooms that he had taken over during the search, was not helping her. His guilt, his shame, was not helping Angela – but that didn’t stop him from rounding her – their – bed to sit on her side of it. It had been so long that Angela’s pillow barely smelled of her anymore, but that didn’t stop Gabriel from pressing it to his face anyway. He sat there, simply breathing, as he tried to pull himself back together. He would put aside his rage, his shame, his everything, because Angela deserved nothing less. She deserved to be here, in their bed and safe – and he would make it so.

“I told you that you’d speak eventually,” the speaker whispered tauntingly as they stripped her bare. They chained her limp, naked body to the floor again and left her there, shaking and dripping. In that moment, she hated it – hated Overwatch – hated her position that had led to this room. Hated what these men were doing to her body, hated that she was being used as a – ineffective – weapon against everyone she loved. Hated everyone – these men for hurting her and her friends, even Gabriel, for not finding her and releasing her from this hell. All she wanted to do was curl up into a ball and cry – but she couldn’t even do that. Instead, she slumped heavily against the chains and let her head droop. Distantly, she felt the bite in her wrists and the ache in her arms, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

One | Two | Three | Four | Five

Broken Chains

My heart’s an endless winter filled with rage I’m looking forward to forgetting yesterday - Cold [Five Finger Death Punch] Febuwhump Day 26: Recovery | Fandom: Overwatch (Pre-Fall) | Angela / Gabriel

AO3 | FF.net | Works

Angela was nearly certain it had been a week since that horrible day that they had ‘tried something different.’ She had stopped tracking the days, stopped counting the times they hurt her, tried to forget how they were hurting her. If only she could forget how they were hurting her. That second day - the second time they had used the table, had used her - she had fought, struggled, anything to escape. It had been laughably - they had actually laughed - easy for them to chain her down. Angela would have bruises, and some of her half-healed lashes had burst open, but it hadn’t stopped them for even a moment. Instead, it had just made everything far more painful. The speaker had expressed his disappointment - as if she had spilled juice on his favorite shirt rather than fight to escape their torture - that they hadn’t captured any of it on video. The next time, they had whipped her bloody and raw - and she had hoped, prayed, that they would stop there, that it had been enough. Of course, they hadn’t; instead, they had pressed her bloody and torn back to the table before hurting her further. It was then that Angela had stopped counting the days, had started actively seeking her death. She tried to force them to hurt her more, to push too far and break something fragile within her that couldn’t be put back together. When the others - the ones who didn’t expressly hurt her, but were the ones that cleaned her wounds and fed her - came to her, she had tried to avoid eating. Starvation was a slow killer, she knew, but at least it would kill her - free her - eventually. Not that they had allowed her even that choice. Overwatch - Jack, Gabriel - hadn’t capitulated, hadn’t even given her captors an inch. Not one person released, not one agent removed from the required bases, nothing. The speaker had taken great pleasure in informing her of that as they prepared for the next round of pain and horror. Angela had known they wouldn’t, had known they couldn’t, and yet now, almost a month later - or was it longer? - she wished they would compromise just once. Surely she had done enough - given enough - for that? Instead, her captors increased the pressure on her friends - the friends that had left her here, had watched what had been done to her and had abandoned her anyway - by slowly destroying her entire being.

---

Angela barely slept anymore; her nightmares, always present even before her chains, had somehow begun eclipsing her real-life torture. Instead, too tired to remain alert and too terrified to sleep, she slumped against her chains in a half-conscious state. The doorknob rattled, drawing her from her haze and into wide-eyed terror. They had already come for her today, had already hurt her - hadn’t they? It had to be the other ones, the ones that kept her alive only to be broken further. It had to be. The door opened and she inhaled sharply, unsure if she should be relieved or terrified. Genji, the man she had saved from certain death not even a year ago - or had it been? - stood framed within the doorway. She blinked, unsure if she was hallucinating, but he was still there. It didn’t make sense. If she were hallucinating, surely she would have imagined someone more appropriate - Gabriel or Jack, or even Cassidy - but Genji? But for him to be real made just as little sense. He hated her, hated what she had done to save him, and had made that no secret. That he would appear before her now, when she was at her most vulnerable, was no comfort at all. He said something, but she couldn’t hear it over her rapid breathing and pounding heartbeat. After a long moment - was she supposed to respond? - Genji shut the door, locked it, and quickly closed the distance between them to crouch before her. Trembling, Angela shrank back as far as her chains allowed, which wasn’t far at all, as he reached out. “Don’t—” Her eyes squeezed shut as she cringed away, expecting the worst because that’s what this room was. Because Genji would never save her, not after what she had done to him. Surely he was only here to add to her misery. “I am not here to harm you, Dr. Ziegler.” His voice was harsh, making it hard to believe the words. Not when he had locked the door; not when she was at his mercy, naked and chained and bleeding. After a long silence, he sighed, and then she flinched as his cold, metal hand touched her left wrist. He drew back for just a moment, and then he was fiddling with the manacle again. It took far longer than she had become accustomed to, but he eventually opened it. Before her arm could fall lifelessly to her side, his hand - this one warm and made of flesh - was there again to lower it carefully to her lap. Then she was hanging by her right arm in a way that should hurt - did hurt, but she had been through worse, so what did it matter? Instead, she peered up at him cautiously, confusion and despair warring with the beginnings of hope. As he was working on her right wrist, a piercing wail broke the silence between them. Angela jumped, eyes wide as she searched for the source. Genji cursed, her movements having knocked his hands away and forced him to start again. Before he could get very far, the doorknob began twisting and rattling. Instantly, Genji was on his feet. As she hung there, he drew the short sword at his waist and put himself between her and the door. The speaker burst through, a gun in hand, but drew up short when his eyes landed on Genji. “Who the hell are you?” Angela shook, ducking her head as she looked away from the men before her. She’d only heard that tone a handful of times - it never meant anything good for her. Genji remained silent, with nothing but the alarms to provide an answer. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter, does it?” The speaker said acerbically, and then there was a gunshot - loud and echoing - that had her head whipping up so fast that she swung slightly. Genji was still between the two of them, but he was now closer to the speaker than before. With quick, precise movements that Angela could barely follow, Genji disarmed the speaker and had him unconscious on the ground. All she could do was stare at the growing red stain on the speaker’s shoulder. Angela hadn’t realized Genji had returned to her side until his hand touched her wrist again - and she flinched so hard that she would have completely fallen over if not for the manacle. Her eyes tore away from the speaker to find Genji, who had pulled back and had his hands held before him carefully. “I did not mean to scare you, doctor.” Genji’s hands turned, the gesture suddenly changing from one of surrender to one of supplication. “Will you let me remove the chains?” Angela’s eyes darted back towards the speaker - how was he the one with a bullet wound? - before returning to Genji. Hesitantly, she nodded. Quickly, Genji began working at the cuff; she couldn’t help but allow herself to stare at the speaker again. After everything he had done to her, she had thought she would feel some sort of relief to see him hurt - or killed, though Angela could tell he was still alive at the moment. She just felt empty. “Hold on,” Genji murmured, drawing her attention only briefly. Then, he was catching her weight as she collapsed on herself. Angela couldn’t help the broken whimper or her flinching at his touch. As soon as she was steady, he released his hold on her. Angela watched him, trembling, as he moved towards the door once more. When had the door closed? It didn’t matter because he was yanking the door open, and for a moment, Angela was terrified that he was going to just leave her here. For all that she knew he hated her, he had at least removed some of her chains - had, somehow, shot the speaker without a gun. Before she could squeak out something desperate, a second man shoved past Genji and into the room. As he drew closer, Angela couldn’t settle on one emotion. Hope: that she was finally going to escape this room - and not through death? Anger: that they had taken so long, that so much had been taken from her? Shame: that, surely, Gabriel knew - had seen - what had happened to her. “God, Angela,” Gabriel exhaled, dropping to one knee before her. “G-Gabe—?” Angela choked out, one hand rising of its own volition. Before she could pull back, Gabriel caught it with his own - warm and real. She gasped, shuddering with tension and emotion, and clung to his hand like a lifeline. “It’s me, cariño,” he murmured, voice far kinder than this room deserved. “We’re getting you out.” With his free hand, Gabriel pulled out some cloth - seemingly from thin air, but he had to have a pack that she hadn’t noticed - to drape carefully over her shoulders, the movement made awkward as he could only use one hand. “I know, I’m sorry,” Gabriel murmured as she flinched. After a moment, her free hand rose to clutch the cloth closed around her chest, despite how it dragged at the wounds on her back. Cold fingers brushed her ankle, causing her to jump with a terrified noise. “It’s just Genji, Angela,” Gabriel soothed, his thumb rubbing against the back of her hand. “You’re safe now.” Her wide-eyes found Genji, who had come to crouch behind her to unlock the chains there. The ninja had stopped again, hands hovering as he waited her out. “Sorry,” she whispered, ducking her head as her fingers tugged the cloth even tighter around herself. Angela should have known it was him - his hand, if nothing else, should have given him away - but she couldn’t help herself. “Sor— Angela, you don’t have anything to apologize for,” Gabriel insisted, incredulous. “I’m the one who should be sorry.” Angela twitched at the reminder that she had been abandoned here for so long. “I am sorry, Angela - God, there aren’t words for how sorry I am.” He sighed, and even though she wasn’t looking at him, she knew he was running one hand over his head. “Not that it means a damn bit of good.” Silence descended, broken only by her shallow breaths and the soft clank of the metal chains. Gabriel clearly didn’t know what to say - or do, based on how he was hovering around her. Angela was so raw - in more ways than one - that she didn’t trust herself to say anything, so she just kept her eyes focused on her lap as she clutched at his hand and the cloth around her. “Done.” The chains were gone from her ankles. Despite their absence, Angela made no move to change her position, to get any kind of respite from the kneeling position she had spent so much time in, or to draw closer to Gabriel. “Secure the door,” Gabriel ordered the ninja. Angela watched Genji move away from the corner of her eyes; shuriken were in one hand as he slipped into the hallway. “Angela,” Gabriel hesitated before sighing. “I have to pick you up now, cariño.” Before she could protest, Gabriel scooped her off the ground and rose. Angela whimpered and shuddered as his arms brushed against her broken and battered skin, her whole body shaking in his hold. He remained still, murmuring soft words that she didn’t really hear - but there was no time for him to delay for longer than a moment or two. Gabriel was still murmuring as they followed after Genji. When they drew closer to the speaker - Angela had forgotten he was in the room with them - Gabriel slowed. Angela pressed against his chest, trying to put distance between herself and her tormentor, as she stared at the bloody man. “Cassidy,” Gabriel growled as they stepped into the hall; Angela was unsurprised to see the cowboy guarding the door, considering the other two that were here. They were a team, after all. “Get in there and grab that bastard, will you?” Angela tensed - she knew, from horrible experience, precisely what they were going to do to that man - but remained silent. It wasn’t like she couldn’t say he deserved it; not even she was that kindhearted. Instead, she pressed her cheek against Gabriel’s body armor and let him carry her out of hell.

---

“—ob, Jack - one job,” an angry voice growled, somewhere near her. “You’re acting like I meant for this to happen,” another voice snapped back. Before she could realize it was just Jack and Gabriel, arguing like they so often did since Ana’s death, she was pressed against the back of the bed. Her feet dug into the mattress, and her legs shook as she tried to make herself as small as possible. Wide-eyed, she stared at Jack and Gabriel - who were staring right back, their argument completely derailed now that she was awake. “I—” Angela licked her lips nervously, her eyes darting between the two men. She had half-convinced herself that her rescue had been a dream and that, when she finally awoke, she’d still be in chains. Angela still didn’t entirely believe that she wouldn’t. “You’re home, Angela,” Jack told her gently, when it was obvious that she didn’t actually have anything to say. Angela let her legs relax some - just enough to stop the shaking - and moved to wrap her arms around herself. The movement was stymied by the IV in her arm; Angela frowned and forced herself not to rip it out. She was cognizant enough to realize that she was in no position to be making medical decisions for herself. Now that she wasn’t blindly trying to escape, she realized that her back - her whole body - wasn’t in agony. Nothing hurt - at least, nothing physical. Her heartbeat was announced by an EKG machine, revealing her stress to the two men. “You’re safe,” he continued, clearly trying to fill the silence. Angela tensed, her eyes dropping to stare at her knees. She wasn't sure whether to scream or cry, to be angry or relieved, so she remained silent. “Ang—” Jack started, filling the silence again. “Jack.” Gabriel’s voice cut off whatever the blonde man was going to say to Angela’s relief. “Could you give us some space?” There was no trace of the antagonism that was usually present when he spoke to Jack; instead, Gabriel just sounded tired. “Please?” Angela hunched her shoulders, curling into herself some as she felt Jack’s eyes on her. After another tense silence - shorter this time - Jack sighed. “Alright. If you need anything, call me.” Angela was sure he was speaking to her, and she bit back her response. She had needed him weeks ago; now, he was far too late. After a pause - Jack clearly had expected some sort of answer - he quietly left the hospital room, the door closing softly behind him. Angela looked up at the sound, staring hard at the door. It was just a door, one she had probably seen a thousand times - and yet, she found herself struggling for breath. Her heart began to pound, her fingers curling in the sheets that covered her. “Angela?” Gabriel’s voice pulled her attention to the right, away from the dreadful door. “How can I help?” He was leaning forward, hands on his knees as he watched her. Her body hummed with tension as her eyes darted back to the door, unable to keep her eyes away for long. “The door?” His voice offered no judgment. She found herself nodding, a quick, jerky motion. “Alright.” Gabriel rose and crossed the small room to open the door. As soon as she could see the hallway, her shoulders relaxed. Once it was fully opened and he was moving back inside, she felt like she could breathe again. “Thank you,” Angela whispered as he sat in the chair closest to her bed. “You don’t have to thank me, Angela,” he replied, voice low. “I haven’t done anything to deserve it.” The derision in his voice was almost enough to pull her from her own malaise, to distract her from her own roiling emotions - but not quite. Because Angela couldn’t find it in herself to disagree with him, she remained silent as she turned her gaze back to the open door. Silence descended once more. “Do you want me to leave?” Gabriel asked some time later, when her heartbeat slowed and her muscles had loosened. Eyes wide, her eyes flew towards him; he was carefully not looking at her, but she could see the tension in his jaw and fisted hands. “No,” the word spilled out quickly, desperately. Even though she had been silent, incapable of finding words, Angela didn’t want to be by herself. She had spent far too many hours - long, painful hours - alone. “Please,” Angela continued, as if he had already begun walking out of the door, “don’t leave me.” “Alright,” the tension was gone as he turned his gaze on her once more. “I won’t go anywhere, Angela,” Gabriel assured her. Angela knew that wasn’t, strictly, true - he was the Commander of Blackwatch, after all. He would have to leave her eventually; his duty would force him to, just as it had forced them to leave her in that room. But for the moment, it was enough.

One | Two | Three | Four | Five

Some of y’all have probably seen me accidentally posting prompts over here [I see you guys liking them]. I’m actually posting them on a sub-account [alternate account? I’m still new to this tumblr thing] @promptsforbrighteye. I’m always flipping through for inspiration; if you see one that catches your eye, feel free to send it my way and I’ll see what I can do.

Breaking [My Heart]: Act III Crushing

"There's nothing simple when it comes to you and I, Always something in this everchanging life" - Everchanging [Rise Against] Winston has issued the recall towards rebuilding Overwatch. Angela - formerly known as "Mercy" - is captured by Talon, who are searching for any information that can stop the rise before it begins.

AO3 | FF.net | Works | Pandora Playlist

Trigger Warnings & General Statements This is the third part of a dark torture story. As such, there's going to be bad things happening - for the sake of not spoiling, I will not tag what, exactly will be appearing at any time. While I don't think any of the scenes are terribly graphic in nature, I do want to stress that the scenes are present and aren't for everyone. I did try to make the reactions and trauma realistic, following both real-world medicine / research and in-game universe canon (such as Angela's nanotechnology). There will be multiple POVs per chapter - two sets for both Angela and Reaper as well as a fifth from an additional character. Please, read at your own risk - and enjoy!

You can't fix your broken promise Our ties have come undone I will not be used to be battered and abused It's the reason why I choose to cut my losses - White Rabbit [Egypt Central]

Whenever they removed the shackles, Angela would collapse into a heap on the ground, legs too shaky and weak to suddenly accept the full burden of her weight. Depending on how healed they were, her wounds might burst open once more and spatter crimson drops along the concrete. Still, she would grit her teeth and force herself to sit up, to be strong in a way that she wasn’t. Then they would put food and water before her. If she ignored them, they would force it upon her. She had tried twice, in a vain attempt to take back some control of her life, but now she always quickly ate and drank what was before her. It was always too little, always left her hungry and wanting, but it was better than nothing. Once she finished, they would leave her to her own devices for a time; Angela would take this time to curl up in a corner of the room to try to rest. Sometimes, it was too much effort to stand, so she would crawl instead of walk. The small comfort of two sides being protected by the walls was worth the humiliation of crawling across the too-bright room. There, she would press as close to the two walls as her wounds allowed, clutching the torn shirt around her ragged body. Angela would bury her face into her knees, hugged as close as she could manage to her bruised chest, to try to block out the blinding lights so she could attempt to sleep. What little rest she was able to get was always disturbed by nightmares. Angela was used to nightmares – she had devoted her entire life to ridding herself of them, after all. She would fail a patient, and they would haunt her, so she would become better and create better tools to ensure that she wouldn’t fail another person in the same way. Before her capture, Angela rarely slept without nightmares. Occasionally she had managed to exhaust herself so completely that not even the horrific images could keep her away. Those nightmares were daydreams compared to the ones she now experienced. Even in her dreams, her interrogators hurt her, demanded from her. They ripped into her in a way they had not in her reality, in a way they would if she continued along this path of silence. Piece by piece, she would be taken apart until she woke, screaming with tears on her cheeks. Sometimes she would see Gabriel as he was before the fall, and then he twisted into the Reaper to rip into her, too, until there was nothing left. Those nightmares were the worst, leaving her trembling and weeping as she mourned his loss all over again. The time on the ground was always short-lived and never enough. Eventually, her captors would barge into the room, toss her shirt aside, and string her up in the chains once more. Sometimes the questions came immediately. Other times, they’d leave her hanging for what felt like an eternity before eventually coming to question her with their tools and her blood. Angela forced herself to accept the abuse and humiliation. She needed to suffer as silently as possible, because once she allowed herself to make noise – to speak – it would only become harder to maintain that vow. Angela was realistic. She knew that, eventually, she would break her silence and that they would force her to beg. She only hoped that she could hold out, keep the information from them until they broke her beyond all repair. Because there were still so, so many ways they could hurt her. So many ways they would hurt her, when her silence continued.

---

Time had lost all meaning, precisely as they had intended it to. Angela wasn’t sure if she was released from her bonds on a regular basis or if they kept it purposefully irregular to throw her off. She certainly knew the torture – no longer did she hide behind such gentle words as ‘interrogation’ – sessions came irregularly. On one occasion, the blood had barely dried before they had come in for another round. Angela had been released from her chains four times but had been tortured at least nine times – possibly more or less, because they blurred together after a while. Between the two intermittent events that now made up the sum of her life, the perpetual blindness, and exhaustion, she was completely unaware of how long she had been here. On the worst side of the spectrum, Angela thought she had been here for ten days. On the best, it could be as little as three – but she highly doubted that. However long it was, her friends had to have noticed she was missing by now, right? If nothing else, the medical camp in Cairo would have noted her absence. Eventually, they would have sent someone to check on her and discovered she was missing. Angela couldn’t help the desperate hope that someone – anyone – would find her, even as she knew that it would never happen. That hope had remained, flickering dimly in her heart as she hung from her chains. But she doubted the Reaper – Gabriel – would have been so careless as to leave behind a clue pointing towards Talon as her kidnappers. In fact, she wouldn’t put it past him to have laid false trails – he had been the Commander of Blackwatch for years, after all. Angela wasn’t sure if it was a relief that she hadn’t seen the man since their last, earthshaking encounter. She knew that, were he the one barking questions and splitting her flesh, she would break, and nothing would be able to put her back together. Whether he was her Gabriel or the Reaper didn’t matter, not for this. Just the thought was enough to make her nauseous, and she had to convulsively swallow to keep from vomiting up what little sustenance they had allowed her. He could tear her apart with a few well-placed words – and yet, he had been curiously absent. Angela wondered if, when they broke her spirit, they would break her mind, too. Certainly Gabriel – the Reaper – was capable of both, simultaneously crushing her heart while he was at it. They could save so much time by sending him into this room with her, but they had not. This, too, fed the weak spark of hope that sheltered inside her. She teetered between being glad for his absence and hoping that she might see him again. Angela knew that, should he appear again, it would only herald her end – in one way or another. All it had taken was two words to break her the last time; she wasn’t so sure, even strengthened with knowledge, that she wouldn’t shatter just upon seeing him. And yet, she still wished she could see him. How many times had she begged for one last time? Angela knew something of Gabriel was still within him. He had memories from before the fall, from before she had – apparently – turned him into the Reaper. Whether he would admit it or not, there was a part of him that still held her Gabriel; it was that part, no matter how infinitesimally small, that she wanted to see one more time. The door opened again, and she barely suppressed the shudder of fear. Angela blanked her face and shored up her defenses. Each time, it was just a little bit harder.

---

She knew time was not on her side. The longer she stayed imprisoned, the more likely she was to break – or die. Angela knew she couldn’t rely on a rescue, so she had to try to take matters into her own hands. It didn’t matter that she had no idea where she was or where an exit was. It didn’t matter that the beatings and the lack of nourishment had weakened her. It didn’t matter that, should she fail, it would become so much worse for her. It didn’t matter that her chance of success was probably a negative number. She had to try. For the ones she protected, for her pride, she could do no less. It had been difficult to piece together some semblance of a plan. It was hard to keep her thoughts focused, even after such a short time in their care. They were constantly hurting her, affecting her, whether they were in the room or not. The blinding lights gave her horrific headaches and made it nearly impossible to get any rest – she might be known for rarely sleeping, but she still needed it. They only gave her enough food and water to stay alive, and her body was already wasting away. Added to that was the stress of hanging from those despicable chains for hours on end and the drain from the nanites piecing her back together after each visit. And then there was the fear of failure, despite her resolve. She knew that it would get worse, whether or not she tried to escape. That didn’t make the decision any easier – but she had never been one to take the easy path if it was the wrong one. In this act – perhaps, hopefully, her final one – she could be no less. Angela would become Mercy one last time. She would charge into the battlefield, regardless of her safety and health, to protect those under her care. They may no longer be Overwatch, but she had sworn an oath forged in the fire of the ruins of the Zürich base and tempered with the blood of the fallen. No matter where they went, they were hers – until her death, or theirs. So she had planned, as quickly as she was able. The hardest part was the waiting. They had to let their guard down around her – as if that were a difficult feat to accomplish. Why would they think her a flight risk? She was a doctor, a pacifist, the healer; the thought of her being any kind of threat to anyone was laughable at best. Her captors already didn’t take her seriously; whenever Angela was chained, they left the door tauntingly unlocked. The only time she had ever heard it lock was when they left her sprawled on the floor. That would be the time to strike – when they dropped her from the chains, but before they left. Already they were only sending one guard in – it didn’t take two people to release her from the chains, after all. So, when the guard unceremoniously dropped her to the ground for the fifth time, she was – more or less – ready. Angela scooted away – just a little, in an effort to conserve what little energy she had – from the offerings that they laid before her, face turned up and away, watching the guard from the corner of her eye. It took him a moment to realize that she hadn’t fallen upon her food like she had the last two times – after the lesson of the first two meals, she hadn’t given them any excuse to hurt her more. The man made an annoyed sound; clearly, he had places to be, and she was hampering those plans. Angela watched as he stalked closer, let him snatch her hair into a tight grip that brought him within her meager reach. Her hands flew up to grab his, as he expected – it was a natural response that they had yet to beat out of her. What he hadn’t expected was for those hands to release and reach further. Angela had considered trying to strike, to hit, but realized she would never be able to put enough momentum or strength behind the action to be useful. Instead, her hands reached for his pelvic area, grateful that her guard was a man – was always a man. Before he could react to her surprising action, Angela had his genitals in her grip. Before he could yank her away, she twisted and pulled as savagely as she was able. He made a strangled noise and dropped like a rock to his knees. That brought his head – more or less – within her reach as well, as she had intended. Her head smashed into the bridge of his nose, fully incapacitating the man and temporarily stunning her as her headache flared to life once more. Angela was almost sure she had hit him correctly, that she hadn’t concussed herself, but she was in no place to diagnose herself. As quickly as she was able, Angela patted at his hips and pockets for whatever access key or card he had; while she had no idea where she was, she knew it had to be at least somewhat secure. She also knew it was only a matter of minutes before they raised the alarm, either from whoever was behind the cameras or the other guards realizing something was amiss. Before that point, she had to find a way out – whatever that way might be. Angela left her shirt behind; trying to clutch it to her body would only hamper her movements and take up precious time and energy. Instead, she staggered out of her cell, half-naked and barefoot with a black keycard in one hand. The other hand pressed against the wall, helping her stay upright as her legs trembled. Here was another part of her plan that had relied on luck: there weren’t any guards within sight of her door. She went right – as good a direction as any, especially since she couldn’t hear any signs of people. Angela was grateful that the nanites had managed to at least seal the gashes that streaked across her body; it would be utterly pointless if she left a trail of blood behind her. As she shuffled along, her eyes searched her surroundings for something, anything, that could help her. There was nothing. Of course, there would be nothing in the halls lined with torture chambers; if a prisoner escaped, as she had, they wouldn’t want them to be able to arm themselves. Once, Angela had to crouch low in the shadow of a counter – the only cover she had, but absolutely useless considering how her pale skin stood out. It was only because someone called the guard away, back down the path he’d come, that she had been spared. She had waited for a single, precious minute before somehow climbing back to her feet to press on. Angela managed to find a stairwell. There had been an elevator, somewhere along the hall behind her, which had been tempting – but taking that would have been foolish. Better to suffer through the stairs than be trapped inside the metal box, practically gift-wrapped for her captors. She had checked the markings on the wall, just inside the stairwell before mounting them: Floor B1. How ironic that her ‘home’ with Talon would match where she had practically lived in the Zürich base. Angela shoved the keycard between her teeth so she could cling to the railing with both hands before painstakingly climbing the single flight to the ground floor. This was the part where she was most likely to fail, and the thought made Angela shake even more than she already was. But she had already started; no matter what, she had to see it through. Angela cautiously pushed open the door and found the coast was clear. It was only after she stepped out, carefully ensuring the door closed with as little sound as possible, that a siren pierced the air. Angela highly doubted she was lucky enough that something – anything – else had caused that siren to go off. They were actively hunting her now, and here she was frozen in plain sight against one wall. Voices clamored down the hallway towards her, so she shuffled in the opposite direction. There was a door on her right – she pushed through it blindly, hoping to hide until the voices had passed her by. The door opened into an armory, very similar to the ones she had geared up in when Overwatch had still existed. Guns, ammo, and any other weapons-related supplies lined the walls and filled shelves. It was precisely the worst hiding place because she was almost certain those voices were heading this way – as if they needed a gun to catch her. It was also the worst because someone was already inside the room. Angela had barely registered the other person in the room, aside from that they were there, before she was turning towards the nearest gun rack. Whether she would use the gun on the other person or herself was anyone’s guess, but she knew her best chance at escape now relied on her getting one of those weapons. Her fingers just brushed the grip of a gun when rough hands grabbed both of her arms, yanking her away from the rack with contemptuous ease. Her captor ignored her frustrated cry and slammed her against one wall painfully, driving all breath out of her and making her head swim with pain. “Did you really think you could get away?” Angela went cold, and if it weren’t for the punishing grip on her arms, she would be on the floor. Of course she would have been caught by the one person she had most wanted to avoid – and, paradoxically, had most wanted to see. Everything she had considered saying to him when she saw him again flew out of her head as she peered up at his mask. There were so many things she should say. Something proud and defiant that showed she hadn’t been cowed or broken by her time in that horrible room – as if her escape attempt didn’t prove precisely that. Perhaps a demand, not a plea or beg, for her release. A threat, as useless as one would be, possibly. Something that showed she wasn’t afraid, even though she was absolutely petrified. “I’m so sorry, Gabriel.” She whispered instead. It should be censure and anger, but all she could manage was a heartfelt apology that was years too late to bridge the chasm between them. Limpid eyes tried to see past the mask to the man beneath, even while knowing it was impossible. Angela felt him stiffen, his grip turning painful as the claws on each finger dug savagely into her biceps and made her bleed. “I don’t blame you,” the words came tumbling out, unbidden, surprising them both. “I don’t blame you for hating me.” With what little she knew of how Gabriel had come to be the Reaper, she understood. It was similar to what had happened with Genji – it hadn’t been until recent years that he had come to terms with himself and forgiven her. Unlike Genji, she hadn’t been present in the aftermath of her bloody work on Gabriel – and now they all suffered for it. Before he could react, say something scathing to slap her back down and grind her heart beneath his heel, the door was tossed open carelessly as the guards she had been fleeing entered. They were chattering, amicable voices stuttering to a stop when they took in the sight before them: a demon and the broken angel within his grasp. The Reaper turned, forcing her to move as she dangled from his hands, and practically threw her at them as if he could no longer stand to touch her. A man caught her, hands just as rough and uncaring as the ones that had thrown her. “Take her back to her cell.” The Reaper commanded from the space behind her. He said something else, but there was a ringing in her ears that his voice could not break. Nausea rose and she screwed her eyes shut as she forced herself not to be sick all over the guard and herself. Gabriel had given her to them again. He had seen what they had done to her, how low she had fallen, and he had carelessly tossed her back to the wolves. As they hauled her limp body away, despair crashed over her. She had failed. Failed to get out, failed to end it all, failed. The hope that had been flickering in her heart stuttered – and died.

It wasn’t until he had ripped into the third person that he realized they were all young, blonde women. It was then that the Reaper had become furious with himself. He was the Reaper; people cowered in fear when he appeared, worried that those blood-soaked hands would dig into them next. He was the Reaper, and he had fled the Oasis base like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, running from the chained angel with those damned eyes that saw too much. Instead of watching the doctor get torn into pieces by the hands of others, he had come to hunt her likeness and was left desperately wanting. These replacements – for that was what they were, he’d come to realize – were nothing like the real thing. Wrapping his hand around their throats didn’t bring that same sense of power that holding Dr. Angela Ziegler in his grasp had evoked. The eyes he had clawed out weren’t the same expressive, knowing eyes that he was trying to escape. There was no fight or steely determination, merely whimpers and broken pleas for their lives. He’d been off-center ever since he had carried her limp form into that cell. She was the bitch that had cursed him to this half-life of misery and called it ‘love.’ She was the angel that he had, in another lifetime, sworn to protect against all harm. She was nothing. She was everything. With a snarl, the Reaper left Baghdad to return to the Oasis base. He would dump the guns and gear that he hadn’t even bothered to use before looking in on the doctor. He’d find out if she had broken during the days he was away, if she had given up anything besides the occasional pained whimper. The Reaper had just put his unused guns away when the siren went off. It was the call of an escaped prisoner, alerting everyone to search for their missing prey. Of all the things – of course she would run. Of course she wasn’t broken. Who had he been kidding? Stubborn to the core, of course that damned woman would somehow manage to break free of her chains and get away. He briefly considered grabbing his shotguns again but decided against it. The only weapon he needed for her was his claws. The door opened – of course, others would think they needed a weapon to capture an angel. Let the fools arm themselves; he would find her and rip the wings from her back, shatter the halo into a million pieces that not even she could piece back together. The Reaper turned, ready to stalk out and hunt her – only to discover that his prey had found him. Angela looked so small, so frail, standing half-naked in the doorway with one hand pressed to the wall. She looked thinner than she had been when he’d brought her in, but Gabriel couldn’t be sure. Bruises, ranging from fresh dark-purple black to almost healed yellow-green, coated her skin like a blanket. What little unmarred skin was left was pale – paler than her norm, which was really pale, considering she barely went out into the sun even before capture. There were strips of wounded flesh, barely scabbed over, cutting haphazard tracks across her stomach and breasts. When Angela turned, staggering in weakness and terror, he could see the tracks were worse on her back. The healing was more complete there, the nanites having focused on the significant bleeding that would have been present from all those stripes. It was a wonder she was on her feet at all, but Angela was nothing if not stubborn. Even though there was nearly an entire room between the two of them, the Reaper still reached her before she crossed the few feet that stood between her and the weapon she was desperately seeking. He yanked her back – yes, she had lost weight – and slammed her against the wall. Pain flashed across her face, and she gasped desperately for breath in shallow pants. “Did you really think you could get away?” He growled, glaring down at her from behind his mask. She felt fragile, like spun glass that would shatter if held too tightly. That was wrong. This woman, even after the abuse thrown at her, had broken free of her bonds in a desperate bid for freedom. That took strength, more like a steel wall than the glass she appeared to be. The woman sagged in his grip, leaving him to support her weight – trusting Gabriel to hold her up, as she had always trusted him, as she shouldn’t trust him. Her hands didn’t fly up to grasp at his arms; she didn’t struggle to try to get out of his grip – they both knew it would be futile. Instead, she stared up at him with those sad eyes. Damn her eyes; they should be terrified, angry – and still, they were sad. “I’m so sorry, Gabriel.” Her whisper was hoarse from disuse and dry from too little water. Did she think an apology would save her? That her apology, no matter how sincere, would change anything? The Reaper tightened his fingers on those fragile arms, digging the claws in deep until she bled, and pain erased the sorrow in the eyes that still peered up at him. Finally, finally, there was something in those eyes that he wanted to see. “I don’t blame you.” A pause, surprise coloring her face briefly, and then, “I don’t blame you for hating me.” Her absolution, her forgiveness, was so quiet that he could barely hear it. For a moment, all he could hear was the rush of his blood and her panting breaths. She didn’t blame him? Did she think he needed her forgiveness, that he wanted it? His mouth opened, a verbal lash ready to strike her where it would hurt the most, when the door opened. The Reaper snapped his mouth shut and turned, dragging the doctor with him. There stood a small group of Talon agents, who had been talking so casually that he knew they hadn’t been taking the search seriously. None of them were taking this doctor seriously; that was why she had escaped. That was why she hadn’t been broken. She was formidable in her own way, a quiet power that rarely made itself known, and they all had underestimated her. No more. He threw her body at the closest man, who barely managed to catch her before she hit the ground. Gabriel ignored her pale back and the tracks along it. Ignored the panting, desperate breaths and the way she hung limply in the guards’ arms. “Take her back to her cell.” The Reaper’s voice was a sharp command, filled with authority and censure. “See that she can’t get out.” The Reaper glanced across the group. “Make sure this doesn’t happen again.” He would have words with her interrogators, with the guards that were supposed to keep this from happening, with anyone who could be at fault.

They had left her to hang in silence for what seemed like an eternity after her failed escape attempt. Her mouth was dry – Angela hadn’t had a chance to eat or drink the offerings from her most recent release – and her mind was clouded. All she could see, over and over, were those last moments in the armory. The apology that had been waiting for far too long, that was branded so deep into her arms that she was certain it would scar. The forgiveness she offered, unbidden and undemanded – a last goodbye to the man she loved, despite his betraying her twice. The way he had tossed her aside as if she were nothing – how he had ordered her back to this with such indifference. Gabriel was gone, lost to her. What was left haunted her in the most horrific of ways. When the door opened to her cell, she wasn’t ready. She would never be ready. It would become worse, so much worse. The only way to stop it would be to break – and Angela would never betray her friends in such a way. She would die before she broke. There were no words spoken, no demands made. Just footsteps echoing around her as they took in her battered body and decided how to start. Then there were rough hands and a sharp blade at her left hip. Carelessly the blade drug down her leg, shearing through the cloth and, occasionally, her skin. The right leg followed, and then she hung there naked and helpless, blood dripping from her legs where they had broken skin. Her face burned with embarrassment, at this humiliating intimacy they forced upon her. Still, they made no demands; this was a punishment for her escape, not an information gathering session. Not yet, at any rate – Angela doubted they would leave without at least making a token attempt to get information. A rough hand pressed against her left heel and the front of her thigh, forcing her left leg straight. Before she could consider what they were doing, a foot slammed into her knee. The pain was so sudden and horrific that she didn’t have enough time to scream before she blacked out. It was a short-lived relief. They tossed cold water on her, pulling her back to consciousness in a series of sputters and gasps. Automatically, Angela shifted to rest her weight on both legs; her left leg gave out underneath her, and she made a low, pained noise as she nearly passed out again. As quickly as she could, she pulled all her weight into her arms and right leg, leaving her left to dangle uselessly. She shivered from the cold, her mind sluggishly trying to keep up with what was happening. Suddenly, her head was yanked back by the hair. “It seems we’ve been too gentle with you, princess.” The man rasped. He nudged her left leg with one of his feet, sending another wave of nauseating pain through her. A whine forced its way out of her throat and through her clenched teeth. “Didn’t know you liked it rough, but don’t you worry.” Wide-eyed, Angela tried to catch her breath and ride through the agony. He chuckled, a menacing sound, as he pressed his body against her back, free arm wrapping around her bare torso, just under her breasts. “We’ll take good care of you, you’ll see.” Her shivers were no longer fueled by the cold but instead terror of what was to come. She closed her eyes, wishing she were anywhere – truly anywhere – but here. Away from the pain that was a constant companion, away from the grief, away from everything that this room and her chains represented. All she knew was pain and stubborn silence, no matter what horrors they inflicted upon her. The man pulled away, releasing her hair and chest all at once. Angela sagged against her chains, desperately trying to keep weight off her injured leg. Her breathing was shallow, and her every thought was focused on silence while the cloud of pain threatened to overwhelm everything. It was then that the questions came. Demands that Angela couldn’t answer, because to reply would betray everything she stood for, everything she was. If she answered, everything she had suffered would be for nothing – so she stayed silent. The whip that crashed down upon her wasn’t the same as the one they used previously; this one had multiple, sharp ends that bit into her flesh and tore open the barely healed skin. Again and again, it crashed down. Their tools – the whips, their hands, the knives – were used everywhere. They gouged painful lines into her arms and legs while the whip made tracks along her stomach and back. Angela bit back the pained sounds that wanted to tear from her throat. She forced back the tears of pain and anguish, physical and mental, as they continued to abuse her body. Her shoulders and arms ached from supporting most of her weight, but she couldn’t help it as she staggered from every blow. Every motion was agony – from her raw wrists to her chest as she panted, and then further still to her left knee that was pulsing in time with her heartbeat. And the questions kept coming. It went on for hours – or at least, it felt like hours. At some point, her silence broke, whimpers tearing from her throat despite her best efforts. Tears streamed from her eyes, and still, they struck. If she passed out from the pain, they would throw more icy water over her until she returned to life with moans of protest. It was an eternity before they filed out. Angela hung limply from the chains, unable to make the effort to stand on her good leg – even if it would give some meager relief. Blood was oozing down her everything, dripping and pooling beneath her. Angela’s cheek was bruised, her lips bloody from where her teeth had caught the delicate skin inside her mouth. One eye was swollen and probably black – not that she could tell without a mirror. Her hair hung loosely in damp clumps around her bowed face, hiding the tears that she couldn’t hold back. Her body shivered with cold and shuddered in pain as she tried to find the resolve to stay strong.

---

Eventually, they had let her down, as they always did. Angela had dropped painfully onto her left leg with an agonized cry, the pain making her vision go grey and fuzzy. She gasped, one hand trying to reach for the knee as if grabbing for it would make anything better, before one of her guards – there were two this time – made a move for her. As quickly as she was able, she fell upon the rations before her with shaking hands. Though she had missed her last meal, the portion had not changed – not that she had honestly expected it to. Gone too quick, they soon left, leaving her alone with her misery. Angela didn’t drag herself to the corner – it would be too painful with her broken leg. She wasn’t even sure she had the energy to make it that far. Instead, she tried to make herself as comfortable as possible in the pool of congealing blood and icy water. As soon as the physical torture had ended, they had begun playing a grinding, static-filled noise that set her teeth on edge. Between the noise and the lights, it was nearly impossible to get any kind of rest – but her body was desperate. Unfortunately, her captors had other plans. Periodically, someone would come in and toss icy water over her form until she was shaking and wide awake. Each time, she expected to be strung up, but they just stomped back out and left her in a puddle. At least the water washed away most of the blood. She wasn’t sure how long she had been lying on the ground when she heard it. “Angela.” The familiar voice that she couldn’t quite place came from somewhere behind her, deeper inside the cell instead of near the door. It baffled her. She was almost certain no one was in the cell with her, that the men had left her alone again. Still, the curiosity had her bracing her torso up on her elbows to look over one shoulder. Nothing. But she had sworn she had heard someone whisper her name. Angela stared for a long moment before allowing herself to drop back down to the floor again, unwilling to expend the energy. More whispers came and went, voices scattered and selected at random from her memory. Sometimes it was Cassidy’s drawl, and other times it was a disapproving doctor from Cairo. Once, she heard what she thought was her grandmother, but it had been so long since she had heard her voice to know for sure. What they said varied. Sometimes it was just her name – Angela, Ange, Dr. Ziegler, Mercy. Other times it was full sentences and phrases. Some were lauding her strength, for lasting so long. Others criticized her for allowing herself to be put into this situation. A minority told her that she was going to break, and it would all be for nothing. They came to Angela at any and all times. They would tear her down with her tormentors and try to lift her spirits when she was sobbing brokenly from her chains. After the first few times, Angela had given up on searching for the speaker. Her heart couldn’t take any further defeat, couldn’t handle the crushing despair that she was alone, and that wouldn’t change. Sometimes she would twitch, glancing towards the murmur despite her resolve. A distant part of her knew that the voices meant nothing good for her. The majority was just grateful for the company – especially when the words were kind. It had been so long since she had experienced anything that wasn’t pain or agony. Angela found herself looking forward to the voices, to hearing them even if she couldn’t see them. Angela didn’t know how many times her captors had dropped her from the chains before she spotted a figure in one corner of the room. Cole, the rugged cowboy with his stupid hat and horrible belt bucket, leaning casually against one wall. A cigar was in one hand, and she could smell the pungent smoke of his terrible habit. And he was just standing there. Doing nothing but staring. She had blinked, trying to force back the tears of betrayal – and he was gone. No cowboy. No smoke. Her captor had snapped at her, bringing her back to reality and prompting her to choke down the meager offerings. When he was gone – when they were all gone, when she was alone – she stared at that corner. Angela knew she should be resting, but he had been here. She had seen him, had smelled the smoke. If she waited, if she watched, he had to come back. And he would, along with others, to offer her encouragement and kindness that she would never receive from her captors. Cole would appear in that corner, leaned up and chewing on his smelly cigar – but it was okay; she wouldn’t scold him for it because he was here and she wasn’t alone anymore. “Just hang in there, darlin’.” He urged her in that familiar southern drawl. “We’re lookin’ all over for ya.” Of course they were; how could she ever think they would abandon her? “Please, Cole,” Angela begged, desperate eyes staring up at him, “please hurry.” Sometimes it was Jack, blonde hair mussed over his big blue coat, sitting across from her. “You can do this, Angela,” he’d say, leaning forward intently. “You can’t fail them now.” Her head would bow, drowning under the weight of the responsibility that he had left her when he had died. “I can’t,” she’d whisper back. “It’s too much.” She had barely kept it together when she was just responsible for putting their bodies back together and reading the KIA reports. Angela was never meant to be their physical shield, too. “You can.” He’d insist. “If anyone can, it’s you.” She didn’t know how anyone could have such faith in her. Angela knew she was stubborn, knew she was being stubborn, but even she had a limit. Once, Ana had laid out on her back next to her, head tilted towards Angela with her small, gentle smile. Her eyes crinkled, dark hair fanned out around her as she ignored the puddle of water and blood around her. “You’ll be alright, ḥabībti.” Angela had closed her eyes, tears dripping down her cheeks. She could swear that she felt Ana’s hand stroke her hair soothingly but, when she opened her eyes, the woman was just looking at her warmly. Ana had stayed with her until they had dragged her back into the chains, murmuring kind words until there was nothing but pain. Sometimes they would remain when her captors came back to her, whispering encouragement. Despite the blinding white lights, Angela could still see them, and she was grateful for the kind faces in the sea of agony. Other times they would disappear, but she knew one of them would come back. The worst was Gabriel, her Gabriel. He had only appeared before her once. She had been curled up on the floor, shaking from the water they had just thrown on her to force her back to consciousness. It felt like it had been an eternity since she had slept – Angela was so tired. Her eyes, heavy and aching, opened – and there he was, half crouched before her. He wasn’t dressed as the Reaper. No, he looked the way he always did in her memories: scarred cheeks with a hint of stubble, a black beanie pulled over his close-shaven hair and tucked under the gray hood of his jacket. His warm brown eyes looked down at her with such love and anguish that it hurt. “You’re strong, cariño.” One of his hands reached down to touch her cheek gently, careful not to disturb the bruises and cuts there; his touch could have been red hot, and she still would have craved it, so desperate was she for affection and kindness. Her eyes stung with tears and exhaustion, but she refused to close her eyes – if she did that, he would be gone, she knew it. “You’re the strongest person I know.” This was her Gabriel, the man she had loved and mourned, who she had buried. His voice was smooth and rich instead of a harsh growl. “I-” Angela had nearly forgotten how to speak, how to do anything but whimper or scream. “I miss you.” The words were broken, so soft that she wasn’t sure she actually spoke them aloud. But he had smiled, a mirthless, sad expression that told her he had heard her regardless. “I know. Mi corazón, I’m so sorry.” Her eyes had closed then, unable to support themselves any longer. Angela jolted them open again, hoping against hope that he had stayed – but of course, he was gone. How could she expect anything less? He was the one that had put her here. She had curled in on herself, sobs shaking her broken body as grief and pain coursed through her again. It was only after, in a brief moment of lucidity, that Angela wondered if they hadn’t broken her already.

“What are you doing?” The voice, usually gentle but currently horrified, made his hands pause in their bloody work. Gabriel doesn’t turn to look at her, doesn’t look up from the man he is slowly taking apart – piece by piece because that’s what he does. He rips and tears, cuts and slashes, until the blood runs in rivers and the answers he seeks are whimpered out through bloody teeth. This is the thing that Overwatch had turned him into when they had sent him away to the shadows. It’s what they shaped him into when he became the Commander of Blackwatch. He had learned those horrible acts that must be committed to get what was necessary, whatever it takes, to protect innocents from terrorists. Robbery. Blackmail. Extortion. Assassination. Torture. He had hated it, once. Hated the monster he had needed to become to survive his new calling. But he was the Commander, and he could not be seen to be weak, to be incapable. He was a fast learner, and soon he was capable of all sorts of horrors that would make any agent of Overwatch blanch – that he had never thought himself capable of. He had learned to be hard and unfeeling, had learned to wall off his heart because there was no place for mercy here. Finally, Gabriel turned to look at the angel that stood in the doorway, one hand clutching the knob in a white-knuckled grasp. The other hovered uselessly over her mouth, as if to hide the stricken look. Her eyes – those eyes – were filled with horror as she took in the bloody tableau. Angela Ziegler, Mercy, had no place here in this room of pain. Gabriel turned and ushered her out of the room; this was not a conversation for a torture chamber. He wiped his bloody hands on his black pants – it was what they were there for, after all – and closed the door. “What are you doing here?” He demanded, ignoring her question. It was obvious what he had been doing to the shackled man. What wasn’t obvious was why she was here in the dark heart of Blackwatch. She was Overwatch, through and through, the light to his darkness. The only time she ever visited this base was to rush into the infirmary – which was nowhere near the interrogation rooms – and try to bring one of his agents back from the edge of death. She didn’t belong with him here in the shadows. “Looking for you, of course.” Angela reached up with one shaking hand to wipe at a streak of blood on his cheek. He knew it wasn’t the blood that bothered her – she was a doctor, for God’s sake – but how it had gotten there. “What-” the question died on her lips, changing to a different one. “Why are you doing this?” He laughed mirthlessly. “I told you, cariño.” Gabriel stepped away from her, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I told you that Blackwatch was ugly and dark. That it would change me. What did you expect?” Her faith in him was a gift, but not even she could protect him from the horrors found here. “This is what we do.” What he does. “I do not understand.” He rolled his eyes; of course she understood. She was the smartest person he knew – and he knew a lot of people. She was just refusing to accept the reality of his station, of their situation. It was surprising, really; it wasn’t often that she allowed her opinion of what should be to affect the reality of what actually was. But Angela had put him on some sort of pedestal – just as he had for her, he realized suddenly – and had ignored the horrors that surrounded him. She believed there was good in him, that he still deserved to stand up next to her in the light. She only allowed herself to see him as Gabriel, not as Blackwatch Commander Reyes. What she wanted, Gabriel couldn’t give. “I can’t change this, Angela.” He glared down at the ground because he didn’t want to glare at her, to see that look of horror on her face as she finally saw him. “I’m the Commander of Blackwatch. It’s my duty.” Gabriel knew that she understood duty – she was the one that had preached about it when he had been assigned this horrible position. “You are meant to protect people, liebling.” Her hands wrapped around his forearm, a gentle grip that he could easily break. “Come back with me; we will speak to Jack and fix this.” Gabriel scoffed; she had far too much faith in Jack, the brother neither of them had as children. Jack couldn’t fix this. The only way he could get out was to resign or to die. He wasn’t one for quitting. “This is who I am now, Angela.” He turned, pulling his arm out of her grip to face her fully. “You can’t change that, just like I can’t change you. I’m Commander Reyes, and you’re Mercy.” Angela crossed her arms, teeth worrying her lip. “This is who we are.” The silence between them was deafening as she stepped into him, her arms wrapping around his waist as she buried her face in his chest, heedless of the blood that still clung to him. He hesitated for a brief moment before wrapping his arms around her, pressing his face to her hair so he could let her scent wash away the gore and terror of the interrogation room. It was the sterile smell of a hospital mixed with sunshine and oranges that was wholly Angela. “Why does it have to be this way?” The words were small, sad. For all the ferocity in her heart, she was still far too gentle for this life they led. “I don’t know, mi corazón.” He sighed, one hand lifting to stroke her hair gently. “Our choices led us here, and our pride forces us to continue.” That was the best answer he could think of. “It’s who we are.” He would not be Gabriel Reyes if he had not also joined the soldier program, had not become a Commander. She would not be Angela Ziegler if she had not become a doctor ten years earlier than any of her peers, had not become Mercy. Silence again as she soaked in his answer, before she heaved a world-weary sigh. “I wish it wasn’t like this.” She pulled away, turned to walk up the hall that would lead her to the exit. Angela glanced back, just once. “I still love you, Gabriel.” Before he could answer in kind, before he could question her word choice, she was gone. Gone to her world of light and mercy, leaving him once more to the dark and agony. He opened the door to return to his work – and froze. Instead of the man he had left behind, Angela hung from the chains. Her skin was loose, and her eyes were hollow. What little flesh that wasn’t torn to shreds was an ugly purple. One leg was broken, and her wrists were raw. She looked at him with such sorrow, such agony. “Why does it have to be this way?” The words were disjointed, forced through a broken mouth and a throat raw from screaming. Suddenly, his body wasn’t his own. He was stalking forward towards the woman who still wasn’t quite broken after all the abuse she had suffered. There were gloves on his hands, tipped with claws, that he dug into her sides savagely until she cried out and bled. The sound was music to his ears – it nauseated him – it wasn’t enough, would never be enough. The Reaper turned to the tray of tools at his side. He used knives to part her once cream-colored skin. Pliers ripped nails and teeth from their homes. He flayed the skin from her back and burned the skin from the bottoms of her feet. Despite the continued torment, she refused to say anything else. All he earned was broken whimpers, shrill screams, and tears. When he finally turned to leave the room, unsatisfied despite all his efforts, she allowed herself to break her vow of silence once more. “I forgive you.” It was so quiet that he could barely hear it. His steps faltered briefly, but he continued out of the room. Before the door shut, faintly: “I still love you, Gabriel.”

---

The Reaper sat up in bed, sheets tangled around him, panting. One hand ran over his short hair, trying to chase away the remnants of what could only be a dream – nightmare? both? – fueled from the parts of him that were still Gabriel. With a frustrated growl, the Reaper rose from his bed. He wouldn’t get any sleep, not after that, so he may as well find something useful to do with his time.

“No? Nothin’ at all?” Cole let out a frustrated sigh. “Alrigh’, thanks anyway.” He disconnected and tossed the communicator into his hat on the table next to him. Another fruitless call that had ended in disappointment. He took another drag of his cigarette. He needed to remember to get another pack; he’d been blowing through them more quickly than usual since Angela’s disappearance. She would be so upset to know that she – or her absence, at least – was the reason he was smoking more heavily lately. Cole frowned; now why’d he have to go and think something so depressing like that? There was no way he could finish the cigarette after that thought, so he stubbed it out. He had spent the last two weeks calling anyone and everyone he knew to try and get any kind of lead on Angela’s whereabouts. Some of his contacts were dead, others in prison; the rest he’d had to do some searching – and was, in some cases, still searching – but he was barely making headway. Whoever had Angela either had it wrapped down tight or was so powerful that people were just afraid to talk, or perhaps both. However you went about it, it ended with the same result: nothing. Lena – Tracer to the rest of the world – had gone public on Angela’s behalf. From what he had been told, news agencies across the globe reported the story, and the UN had taken a special interest in the case. Of course they would: Angela had once been a symbol of peace, healing, and hope. While she wasn’t always happily greeted these days, she was still a notable figure. Her absence had people speculating all sorts of things. He had heard on the radio that there was a rumor of Angela having gotten pregnant and was trying to hide it. Cole had scoffed at the idea; Angela was incapable of hiding – or stopping – when there was work to be done. She would never let something so small as a scandal keep her from doing her duty. Other rumors stated that she was being held for ransom. Cole wished it were that simple. He’d turn himself in for the bounty on his head, if only to pay for her safe return. The darkest of all had her dead already, and they were only chasing a ghost. Cole had been in a foul mood after hearing that particular rumor. While he had been chasing up old contacts, the UN had created a public, international hotline for people to call in with information on Angela’s whereabouts. Most of the calls were useless, along the lines of ‘I saw a blonde woman once about a week ago.’ The rest, the more promising leads, were investigated with ruthless single-mindedness. They gave some to various agencies across the globe – Cole didn’t like the thought of Angela being in anyone’s care but theirs, Overwatch’s, but he was realistic enough to understand that they couldn’t be everywhere. He couldn’t help but think that if Overwatch hadn’t fallen, they could be. That this would never have happened in the first place because she would have been safe. They were certainly trying their best to do just that, however. The rallying cry had been answered by many prior agents, scattered around the globe. Reinhardt and his pupil – squire, he called her – Brigitte were in northern Europe; they sent any tips that led to that part of the world their way. Genji was in Nepal, and Fareeha was in Egypt. Lena held western Europe and Torbjörn was in the east. Cole was holding the Americas as best he could, with a few other agents who had answered when they had been called. Winston, working on rebuilding Overwatch so that they could have a proper team and headquarters to base themselves out of, had kept to the shadows. He was capable of multitasking, however, so he was helping to coordinate their efforts. Athena was doing her best to investigate through electronic means – but that was a big world and, while Athena was quite remarkable, it was a near-impossible task. Still, between the tips, Athena, and Cole’s contacts, they should have found some kind of lead. Something that at least pointed in her general direction, to give them some hope instead of crushing disappointment. Every tip they had received turned out to be false. Some were just ‘harmless’ pranks by stupid punks that didn’t realize how serious the situation was. Others had been people trying to con their way into receiving the reward Lena was offering towards Angela’s recovery. Cole was convinced that a few were from terrorist cells or similar groups trying to make trouble. Every day that passed, hope diminished. By this point, Angela had been in their hands – whoever they were – for almost three weeks. If they wanted money, they would have put a ransom demand out by now: either immediately, to one of the prior Overwatch agents, or shortly after the UN had started their hotline. If they wanted her dead, her body should have been discovered by now. That they had neither only reaffirmed Cole’s belief that she was being held captive somewhere. At the very best, she was being held by some gang leader or drug lord and was being forced to care for their injured. Such captivity would come with relative safety and comfort – once she was convinced to cooperate, that is. He was more realistic; if she were going to be taken for such a thing, she would have been taken long ago. No, he was sure that her kidnapping and Winston’s recall were linked. That put his focus primarily on Talon and Null Sector as the most likely culprits. Of all the terrorist groups, those two stood to gain the most should Overwatch stay dead. Others on his radar were Los Muertos and the Shimada Clan. He had already personally investigated the Deadlock Gang and was almost positive that they weren’t responsible. Still, that left four potential suspects. That was three too many. Cole wasn’t above trying to break into any of their bases to try and find a lead. He had been talked out of that – mostly because it was suicidal at best – but he still toyed with the thought in his darker moments. All they had was the hope that they could find Angela before it was too late – and that hope was steadily dying.

Let the streets run red with my revenge You can’t fake apologies for everything you do - Ghost Town [Egypt Central]

Act One | Act Two | Act Three | Act Four | Act Five | Act Six

Breaking [My Heart]: Act IV Shattering

"There's nothing simple when it comes to you and I, Always something in this everchanging life" - Everchanging [Rise Against] Winston has issued the recall towards rebuilding Overwatch. Angela - formerly known as "Mercy" - is captured by Talon, who are searching for any information that can stop the rise before it begins.

AO3 | FF.net | Works | Pandora Playlist

Trigger Warnings & General Statements This is the third part of a dark torture story. As such, there's going to be bad things happening - for the sake of not spoiling, I will not tag what, exactly will be appearing at any time. While I don't think any of the scenes are terribly graphic in nature, I do want to stress that the scenes are present and aren't for everyone. I did try to make the reactions and trauma realistic, following both real-world medicine / research and in-game universe canon (such as Angela's nanotechnology). There will be multiple POVs per chapter - two sets for both Angela and Reaper as well as a fifth from an additional character. Please, read at your own risk - and enjoy!

You feel them drinking in your pain to kill the memories So close your eyes and let it hurt The voice inside begins to stir Are you reminded of all you used to be - Lie to Me (Denial) [Red]

Angela wasn’t due to be worked on for another hour, but Gabriel still found himself on the opposite side of the glass, watching her. He had looked in on her progress intermittently - sometimes in person, other times by patching into the security cameras in her cell. It wasn’t the same as experiencing it live, but he had made his choice. Having given up the honor of taking her apart himself, he had other work to do that kept him busy. Paperwork - because of course he couldn’t escape paperwork, not even here - and planning for his latest op. He’d be leaving later today, so this would be his last chance to see her until he returned in about a week. Angela was curled up on the ground, directly under the manacles that she was so often attached to. She had stopped spending the energy to crawl to a corner, clearly too exhausted from everything she was experiencing to try and make an attempt. Instead, she was curled up as small as she could stand with her back to the glass. Her hands were pressed to her ears, trying to escape the grinding noise that they were pumping into the room, while her eyes were shut tight against the still-bright light of the room. Gabriel could almost see her misery rising off her body, nearly taste the agony that came off her in waves. Her body had been pushed to its limits since her escape attempt two weeks ago, and she still had managed to refuse to answer them. Even from where he stood, he could see her ribs and each individual knob of her spine. It was a little difficult, considering the split skin and black bruises that nearly hid her pasty white skin entirely and made her skin swell, but not impossible. He knew, from experience, that her eyes would be sunken and her skin would hang loosely where muscle had once been but hadn’t yet tightened. Along with the sound, they had lowered the temperature in the room. He could see her shiver intermittently as her body tried in vain to keep her warm. Even when they weren’t planning on a session, they would douse her with water semi-regularly to keep her both awake and miserable. Between the light, sound, freezing temperatures, and nightmares that woke her screaming, he doubted she got much sleep. Somehow, though, he was almost certain she had managed to fall asleep despite all that. Gabriel remembered having to practically carry the woman out of her labs, making her rest after an eighteen-hour day; now they were forcing her to stay awake for thirty or more hours at a time, perhaps broken up by a quick nap here or there before they dragged her back to consciousness. It wasn’t surprising that her body was shutting down as often as it was able, despite the hurdles thrown in its way. Still, knowing her the way he did - the way he had, rather - he hadn’t expected her to last this long, not since they had increased the intensity of her torture. After all that time, they had only managed to pry a few scattered, breathy pleas from her mouth: ‘stop’ and ‘please’ being her most common choices. Otherwise, the only sounds she made were those of pain: broken whimpers and shrill screams that were followed by silent sobs once they had finished a session. Angela had stopped being silent the first time they had broken her knee. The nanites in her body had healed it quickly enough that they had broken it once more six days ago; it surprised him that it healed at all, considering the rest of the trauma across her body. That was when she had started giving them her words, one strained plea at a time. It had also been when she had stopped holding back the tears of pain during her sessions. But, the further they progressed with Angela, the more often she got that far away, distant look that was so common among their prisoners as they got closer and closer to their breaking point. Sometimes they could pull Angela back down to Earth, to the agony that was her reality, with ice water - either splashed upon her naked, broken body or dumped down her mouth and nose, so she thought she was drowning - or with white-hot irons pressed to the sensitive skin of her feet or inner thighs. Other times they would be forced to stop in the middle of the session, toeing that fine line between forcing her to bend to their will and breaking her altogether. Angela would hang there, face slack as she escaped from the cell that contained her mortal form. Sometimes she wouldn’t come back for hours. But, eventually, her face would fill with pain and knowing, and that would be the signal to continue where they had left off. Gabriel had no idea how long he stood there, watching her spine rise and fall shakily with her shallow breaths, before Sombra cleared her throat to get his attention. The Reaper turned his head just enough to acknowledge her, but his eyes were only for the angel that was almost mortal. Nearly there, so close that the Reaper hated - hated - leaving and possibly missing it. “What?” The Reaper demanded finally, when it was obvious she wasn’t going to say anything. She could be so infuriating at times. He hadn’t called her, hadn’t asked for her presence; she had imposed on him, had initiated their interaction. He didn’t even know how long she had been standing in the room with him. Were it anyone but Sombra, that would concern him - but the hacker was exceptionally sneaky, especially with her cloaking technology. Even he had a hard time noticing her when she wanted to go unseen - and that was when he was actively searching. “Just looking in on the doctora.” The woman kept her distance, leaning against the wall by the door as her ultraviolet eyes - she wasn’t even trying to pretend that her eye color was natural today - took in the broken blonde in the other room. Gabriel made a disbelieving noise as he returned his attention to the woman he had come to see. Perhaps, when they were done, he would go in to speak to her, see if she would still offer forgiveness after all that she had experienced. “What?” Sombra asked, almost defensively. “You’re not the only one who’s watching her progress, Gabe.” His previous name, a taunt designed specifically to get a rise out of him. She was the only one who got away with it - mostly because, no matter what he had done to try and dissuade her, she just kept doing it. The Reaper could only hope that ignoring it would make her stop. At least she usually only said it in private. “I’m surprised you don’t just use your toys.” He grumbled in return. The Reaper knew why he didn’t use the cameras - they were far too impersonal for his tastes. It wasn’t enough, not really, standing in this room and watching instead of doing. His fingers itched to bury themselves inside her flesh, to bleed her himself. Unfortunately, now more than ever, Gabriel knew that he couldn’t do it and survive the experience. Silence fell between them as they watched Angela’s labored breathing. It stayed as her interrogators stomped into the room; not even that noise roused her from whatever slumber, or perhaps catatonia, she was in. They yanked her up off the ground impersonally, hooked her raw - and possibly scarred, he couldn’t tell under the bruising - wrists into the manacles. Once she was in place, they threw a bucket of water over her. It sent her gasping, sputtering, her body’s shivers doubling as it tried to fend off the chill. Her eyes were unseeing for so long that he thought they would have to get another bucket, or perhaps one of the irons - and then suddenly the blue became focused. The angel was with them again. “No.” The word was a broken, breathy sound, a prayer and a plea wrapped together as she tried desperately to stop what she knew was coming. They met her beg with a demand for answers, the questions unchanged from that first day she had hung from those chains. Still, she refused to answer. They shifted her broken leg, making her lose consciousness and forcing them to bring her screaming back to life with hot irons. They grabbed her breasts, between her legs, pressing against her in a violent threat that sent Angela gasping and heaving in pure terror and disgust at the implication. Her head was yanked back, cloth forced over her face, before ice water was dumped over and into her. They used the knives to split her flesh and carve uncaring lines into her skin before using pliers to rip out a nail or two. “It’s hard to remember that she’s a person,” Sombra murmured finally, after a particularly shrill scream, “when she’s on the other side of a screen.” Gabriel had forgotten she was standing there; Sombra had been so still and quiet. When he glanced towards the hacker, he could see that her usually warm skin was ashen. “If she doesn’t bend soon,” the Reaper rumbled in return, “she will break.” The man turned to look at Angela once more. Something akin to pity rose in him before he shook it off. “And if she breaks, well,” he didn’t know whether to sigh in disgust or relief, “she won’t be a person anymore.” Sombra sucked in a breath, probably sharper than she had intended considering the way she quickly turned away completely to hide her expression. Without a word, she stalked out of the room. The Reaper didn’t watch her go.

Her body was numb. Angela wasn’t sure what the exact cause was. It could be the cold, from the chilled room and the freezing water; it might be the blood loss, from the wounds that were still weeping as her nanites struggled to heal her. Maybe her mind was putting up a wall, trying to protect her from what it could. Perhaps it was the shock, finally, blessedly settling in. That meant her end was, hopefully, nearing. It couldn’t come soon enough. Angela opened her eyes, fully expecting to be blinded by the ever-present lights. Though they kept her from being able to see her assailants, they hadn’t stopped her from seeing her friends. Despite the pain the lights brought, she couldn’t help herself; it was the only solace she had. To her surprise, Angela found herself sprawled out on the cold concrete. She was so distant, so numb, that she hadn’t even realized she wasn’t hanging from the chains. Instead, she was lying in a puddle of water, tinted red with her blood. Angela knew the water was at least cold - probably freezing - but she couldn’t feel it. She should be in agony, but, laying there in the puddle - motionless except for her faint breaths - she felt nothing. It should concern her, but it was such bliss that the implications didn’t matter anymore. Angela didn’t know how she got there. No, that wasn’t right. Angela knew exactly how she got there; the process was the same every single time. She didn’t remember getting there. The last thing she remembered was a barked question about Cassidy - where was he, where would he go - and her bitter, pitiful no. She didn’t remember the pain that had come next, that she knew had come next because her refusal always came with pain. Angela didn’t remember any other questions or being dropped from these chains to land heavily and painfully on the cool concrete. This wasn’t the first time she had lost time, but it was the first time she had started in one place and ended in another. Usually, she would be in the middle of a cry of pain or listening to a question she wouldn’t answer - then suddenly the men were gone, and she was all alone. It wouldn’t be long before they realized she was awake and came stomping back in, ready to resume her agony. It was hard to bring herself to care about the memory loss when she compared it to the memories she was already trying to hide from. Why would she want to remember anything else when she had already endured so much? Her eyes swept the room, as was her habit now, searching for a friendly face. Instead, she found the Reaper. His arms crossed as he gazed down at where she lay on the cool ground, heedless of the water and blood he stood in. Her eyes widened and she tried to scramble back, causing a scream of pain to erupt from her throat. In her terror, Angela had forgotten - she had been so numb - that her body was broken. The movement destroyed the thin barrier her mind had erected between her consciousness and the agony, and now everything was screaming just like she was. Angela didn’t know how long it took to come back down, to push the agony down to something tolerable. Once she was coherent, she took precious, agonizing moments to shift and rearrange herself into a position that provided minimal pain. It was impossible to find a position that didn’t hurt. Then, her eyes scanned the room - what parts she could see, anyway - for Jack or Ana or anyone to help her. Her eyes found the Reaper again, still glowering a few feet away, the entire reason she had moved in the first place. How had she allowed herself to be distracted from the man, the monster, that had put her in here? “Gab-” Angela couldn’t help herself from starting the name, but she managed to bite it off. She cowered back, whimpering as the movement sent a fresh wave of pain through her. Her shoulders hunched and her head ducked down low, waiting for him to strike her for the misstep. The last two times had ended poorly for her; how could she expect this one to end any better, especially considering how much worse it had become since the last time she had seen him? Silence. He terrified Angela; her body was so tense that it was shaking. This was the Reaper, not Gabriel - he had told her that, sometime in her painful, foggy past. He had punished her the last time she had made the mistake; how could it be any different now, when her torture was much worse than before? When he had been the one that had put her in this position in the first place? She tried to listen for any movement, any sign at all that he was approaching. Angela knew it was a futile effort - the grinding noise they were playing made it impossible to hear how her captors moved around her, finding the best place to strike. “You’ve seen better days.” Angela would have scoffed, had she the energy or the breath. Of course she had seen better days; not even when she had been rescued from a collapsed building had Angela been this hurt - but she’d had armor, then. Now, she was nothing but naked flesh and bones, a ghost of the woman she had once been. “What, nothing to say today?” He taunted, sounding no closer than he had before. Hesitantly, Angela raised her head a little, just enough that she could see the gleaming white of his mask. He was no longer standing - at some point he had crouched, bracing his forearms against his knees; it was a familiar position, one Gabriel had adopted countless times. Gabriel - the Reaper, she corrected herself fiercely - had been the only one she had spoken to until now. He was the only one who had received more than one-word denials and pleas. He hadn’t asked for information in the two previous encounters - he hadn’t asked for anything at all. Because of that, she had blindly offered herself to him, allowing him inside her walls like she always did and giving him the forgiveness he hadn’t even demanded. Like her, he was too proud to ask for such things. “Wh-” She cleared her throat and tried again. “What is there to say?” It came out rough and weak, not nearly as defiant as she wished it to be. The only defiance she had left was her prayer for silence, repeated in her mind with a fierce devotion that could put any priest to shame as they beat and bled her. It had been a challenge, but Angela found she would do much worse for her friends. Her friends, who sometimes visited her but would never save her. They would keep her company as she died in this room, one inch at a time. Their whispered kindnesses and gentle touches were still Heaven compared to the Hell she lived in, and she reveled in their presence. Her eyes swept the room again, but she was still alone. “Ah, not so forgiving anymore, are we?” Angela’s eyes snapped back to his mask, reminded once more of his presence. Then, his words registered, and she shuddered at the reminder of their last encounter when he had viciously returned her forgiveness before casually returning her to this cage that was her death sentence. Angela knew she shouldn’t play into his game. She should keep her mouth shut, refuse to make a sound that wasn’t forced out of her with their tools. The Reaper was just chipping at her walls, trying to make her break and betray everyone she loved, just as he had so long ago. He knew the secret paths that let him get behind her walls because he had been the one to create them. He was the only one who had gotten close, had seen all of her - the good and the bad. Gabriel was her deadly weakness, here in this place of blood. Angela hated that Gabriel was still her weakness, the chink in her armor, even after all this time - after everything he had done. She hated that she still loved him, that her love made it possible to look past his transgressions - all of them. “I have always forgiven Gabriel.” Angela corrected, voice raspy and breathless. She wanted to hate Gabriel, should hate him. He had done so much to ruin her life. Gabriel had destroyed her home and the life he’d gifted her. He had killed her friends and family along with hundreds of people who had been hers – theirs - to protect. He had ripped away everything that had been hers and shattered it into tiny pieces. And yet, she still couldn’t bring herself to hate him. She had spent far too many years loving and forgiving him to stop now. It was one of her many faults, but never had it been one of her regrets - not even after discovering what she had turned him into. She had forgiven him for the destruction of Zürich - her home and her life - long before she had discovered he was alive. Angela knew it was irrational, that if it had been anyone else, she would have held onto the grudge until her last breath, but it was Gabriel. She had been willing to follow him to the gates of Hell itself - what was forgiveness compared to that? She had done so much worse for him, after all. “I will always forgive Gabriel.” Long ago, before Overwatch had fallen, she had chosen Gabriel - and everything that it meant. He was Blackwatch, the shadowy partner to Overwatch that committed horrible acts that Angela could never condone. But to choose Gabriel was to accept that he was the one who ordered those atrocities - sometimes took part and stained his hands red. Somehow, she had accepted him - and forgiven him. Love had made it so easy. That love had stuck with her all these years, long after she had moved past the destruction and betrayal. It was with her even now, broken and bloody on the ground. Angela had believed she had moved on from him, from all of them, but she had always been good at lying to herself. She had just avoided the feeling, burying it deep under her work until she was numb and could forget. Forget the grief. Forget the love. Forget everything. The only time Angela had allowed herself to feel, to remember, was when she stood before his grave with a bundle of flowers that always seemed so inadequate. Then she would be back to work. Her emotions were bottled back again, hidden alongside the parts that were Angela so that she was only Dr. Ziegler. She worked sixteen-hour days minimum, even on holidays, doing her best to work until she crawled into bed with exhaustion. Angela did anything she could to keep from remembering how her world had collapsed around the one man who, even now, held her heart within an iron cage. The man that she had forgiven for everything. Angela had even forgiven him for her original capture and those first days in this chamber, when she had thought it was Gabriel that had put her there. She had hurt him, as he had hurt her. But, unlike her, he had been unable to move past that anger, and it had festered for all these years into hatred. She could forgive him for giving in to that darker, human emotion - despite the pain she had experienced. “But you,” her voice caught in her throat, thick with emotion, “you aren’t him anymore, are you?” Angela’s head bowed again, stringy hair falling around her face as she tried to collect herself. Her Gabriel was dead, and in his place was the monster that had sent her into this room. The Reaper had been the one to throw her back into this horrible room, had ordered her torture to become so much worse. Gabriel could have never ordered such agony for her. He could not have come to her afterward and gloated as he was doing now. He was the Reaper, not Gabriel. While she could always forgive Gabriel, she would never forgive the Reaper. The Reaper had been the one that had thrown her into this horrific room. The Reaper had been the one to take over Gabriel’s body and memories, had become the psychopath that crouched before her. He could never earn her forgiveness. Once more in control of her emotions, Angela lifted her head again. Her eyes caught the bone-white of his mask before scanning the room. She could never go more than a few minutes without glancing around the room, searching to see if one of her friends had appeared. A flash of gold over the Reaper’s black shoulder signaled that Jack had returned to her. His blue coat was a stark contrast to the black and grey that made up this room. He gave the Reaper a withering look before he turned to Angela, face rearranging to something more sympathetic. She couldn’t look away, not even for the lover-turned-monster that was barely five feet away. She greedily drank in Jacks’ presence, his kindness, like a flower soaks up sunshine. “Don’t give in, Angela.” She couldn’t tell if he was ordering her or begging her. Was he speaking as her Commander or her brother? “You know it isn’t him.” Angela knew it, she did. She had learned that lesson the hard way, through blood and pain, but she had learned. “Gabriel is dead. Don’t let this monster trick you.” Angela wouldn’t fall for the same trick twice. She had let her guard down, had thought that there was some hope after he called her mi corazón, but that hope was a terrible lie. Angela would never allow herself to trust the monster before her. But it was hard. It was hard knowing that, under the mask, it was Gabriel’s body. Somewhere, underneath the murderous Reaper, were Gabriel’s memories. He was so very close and yet terribly far away. A sharp shake sent a wave of agony through her. The worst was her broken knee, scraping against the ground where she had settled it. She choked on a pained whine, eyes closing as she tried to ride the waves that were now so horribly familiar. Eventually, her watery eyes opened and glanced quickly to where Jack had been - but he was gone. Her attention slid back to the Reaper when his claws tightened on her arms, terrified that he might shake her again. The Reaper was kneeling in the water before her, heedless of the liquid that was soaking into his clothes. The skull mask was so close to her that she could feel his breath on her face, hot against her freezing skin. His clawed hands were wrapped around her arms in the exact place he had buried her forgiveness in that armory. She wasn’t sure when, exactly, he had gotten so close - how had she missed his movement? “Are you still with me?” The growled phrase was a knife in her heart. When her nightmares became too much, when she was lost in her memories, Gabriel would pull her back down to Earth with those words. She hated that they were being used to bring her back to this place. Still. “I - I am.” The broken words were familiar, well-rehearsed - and wrong for this place. “For now.” The assurance, which used to be a gentle reminder of her mortality, was now bitter and desperate. Hopeful, even, for the sweet embrace of death and the relief it would bring to her. His claws bit into her skin, angry at the reminder of his past life - the script that he had started, this man who swore he wasn’t Gabriel. She had merely followed his lead and finished the scene. Angela had known she shouldn’t, that she should deviate and say anything else - or better yet, say nothing at all - but she couldn’t help herself. He wasn’t Gabriel, and yet he was. She knew she should fight, should struggle, try to escape the grip he had on his arms - but even at her best she could never have escaped his hold. Even if she had, where would she go? Her knee was broken, incapable of holding her weight for any amount of time. It was impossible to crawl away to safety. Instead, she let the Reaper hold her trembling body upright, hands limp at her sides. “How did it come to this, liebling?” She whispered, voice breaking, before allowing her head to fall forward and press against the hovering mask. Angela knew the question, the action, would only bring pain - but she found it hard to care. Her entire life was pain; what was a little more? The Reaper stiffened, probably in surprise at her audacity, and his claws dug in as his fists clenched. A heartbeat passed, and then another. Now it was her turn to be surprised - she hadn’t expected him to allow her to remain pressed against him so intimately. It was only a few moments - far too long yet never enough - before he shoved her away, releasing her arms so she collapsed on her back. As she tried to recover from the shock, the Reaper rose and stalked out of the room. Angela refused to allow herself to foster hope. It would only lead to more heartbreak in the end.

Gabriel had gone into that too bright room with its grating noise and lowered the doctor from her chains - far more gently than she usually was, though she wasn’t conscious to appreciate it. Then he had waited, leaning against one wall, for the woman to come back from wherever she had escaped to. He knew it was foolish to wait, since she could be gone for hours at a time, but he had hoped that she would return before he had to leave. His patience had been rewarded less than an hour later, when the doctor began to stir. Gabriel had moved forward eagerly until he was only a few feet from Angela. Her face had clouded with confusion - but, curiously, no pain - until her eyes had found him. Then there was nothing but fear that turned into pure agony as she tried to get away from him. Gabriel had thought she would escape then, that she’d disappear before he’d even said anything. Her screams had petered off relatively quickly, but coherency didn’t return for several long minutes. It was even longer before she was looking around again; the surprise that had turned to frustration made Gabriel realize she had forgotten his presence in the face of her blinding pain. The Reaper wasn’t sure if that was concerning or not. She should be more aware, more afraid, even in the throes of agony. She hadn’t even registered him as a threat until her eyes had landed on him. Was it that her subconscious didn’t think he was a threat to her, and therefore could be ignored? Was she too close to breaking, to becoming nothing but a hollow shell that had once housed the power that was Dr. Angela Ziegler? “Gab-” Angela had cut herself off so quickly he was surprised she didn’t bite the tip of her tongue off. She had cringed back then, making herself smaller – he hadn’t thought such a feat was possible – with a small, pained sound. There should have been anger at his old name on her lips, a reminder of everything she had stolen from him. There should have been pleasure – exultation, even – at the sight of her trembling before him, terrified of what he would do next. Instead, the Reaper felt empty, devoid of anything that would have satisfied him in this moment. That made him furious. How dare this victory be nothing. This was the whole point. This was the moment he had been waiting for years. They had come full circle, the two of them. Once, it had been his turn to beg for death. Now it was hers. He should feel something that would make all these years of suffering worth it. It was supposed to make him feel better. There was supposed to be a release, the bottled-up hatred being satisfied with her ruined body. The Reaper wanted to push forward and string the doctor back up. He wanted to dig in his claws and make her choke on the pain until he felt something. Surely that was what was missing: he hadn’t personally broken her, and so the satisfaction - the victory - was out of his reach Gabriel had other ideas. There was no pleasure in seeing Angela like this. He had thought it would help, as the Reaper had - but all he felt was pity for the shaking and whimpering woman. Or was it guilt? He was the one who had put her in this room, had condemned her to this terrible fate. He couldn’t bring himself to move closer to the blonde for fear that she would panic and hurt herself again. Instead, he crouched down so that, if she looked up, it would be easier for her to see him. After a few moments, it was apparent that Angela wasn’t going to be the one to speak first. It was his turn to be on the receiving end of the silent treatment that she had offered everyone else. He didn’t blame her; they were enemies here in this room, regardless of what pity Gabriel might feel “You’ve seen better days.” He could see the woman she had once been, even now. Her skin was unblemished - ethereal, perfect - and clean of any blood and gore. Golden hair shone in the light of her wings, which spread wide behind her as she looked up at him with her usual kindness from beneath her halo. Then he blinked, and the broken woman reappeared. That perfect skin was now slashed and bruised, pulled tight over her bones into sharp edges. She trembled in a puddle of freezing water and her own fluids. Her hair was no longer lustrous but stringy with oil. The glowing wings were broken, her halo gone. It was wrong. Angela was supposed to be tall and proud, not this debased creature. “What, nothing to say today?” Gabriel wasn’t above goading her to get her to speak. He wanted to refuse to leave until she talked to him, but he knew that would be impossible. He had to leave soon, while she had the patience of a God and the stubbornness of a thousand bulls. It had worked, though. Angela had looked up at him cautiously, obviously worried about further pain. Her sunken eyes had regarded him with a mixture of fear, anger, and sorrow - but the fear was by far the strongest of the three. Still, she had swallowed and responded with her damaged voice. “Wh-What is there to say?” Of course. Why would she speak to him, the lover-turned-enemy that had condemned her to this existence of terror and pain? Why had he even come in here in the first place? Right. The Reaper had wanted to gloat, to throw her forgiveness back into her face. He had wanted to revel in the agony before they left the Oasis base. Now, standing in the room, they had discovered that it was impossible. There was nothing but hollow pity and seeds of doubt. But the Reaper had to try and get what he had come for, anyway. “Ah, not so forgiving anymore, are we?” Her eyes had been wandering, obviously searching for something instead of focusing on the threat in the room, but they snapped back as soon as he spoke. A shudder rolled through her before she stiffened and steeled herself. “I have always forgiven Gabriel.” While her voice was weak, her eyes were steely with resolution. It was a truth that Gabriel had always accepted but never understood. How could she forgive him for anything that he had done as the Blackwatch Commander? She knew the horrors he had perpetuated - especially now after experiencing it firsthand - and she was still offering absolution for his part. It absolutely rocked Gabriel. “I will always forgive Gabriel.” The blonde had continued, as firmly as her broken throat would allow. The Reaper couldn’t believe her. He had utterly destroyed whatever faith she had held for Gabriel; the Reaper had seen the defeat when the guards had dragged her away. It was impossible for her to still have hope after everything she had been through. “But you,” the words stumbled, breaking as her blue eyes became sad again, “you aren’t him anymore, are you?” There it was. Gabriel, the man she remembered, was forgiven - but the Reaper, the monster he had become, was not. It should give him relief, that forgiveness. After everything Angela had gone through - and would continue to go through - she could still find compassion and gentleness in her heart. She could find the kinder emotions that should have been destroyed after so long in this cage. Guilt washed over him. She was teetering at the edge; all it would take was one calculated shove to send her spiraling. Her head bowed again, trying to hide the emotion they both knew she felt. Angela’s spine and shoulders were pronounced as she panted, trying to pull herself together. Would it be a kindness to find the words that would break her, to shatter her in such a way that Angela would never return? Was it selfish to try and keep her here in the battered body that would only face more abuse? Should he just kill her now and guarantee her torment would end? Before he could decide, Angela composed herself. Gabriel watched as her head lifted, and her eyes raised to take him in. Then, her eyes slid away and became unfocused and glassy as her mind escaped once more. He didn’t have any of the tools that were normally used to bring her down - and Gabriel doubted he could use them even if they were here. The Reaper was disgusted at Gabriel’s weakness. “Angela!” Gabriel called, nearly a shout. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t have any effect on the woman. He rose and crossed the distance quickly, trying to figure out how to pull her back down. He’d always been able to bring her out of her memories when they became too much, but he wasn’t sure he could bring her back when reality was too much. “Angela, cariño, come back.” He crooned as he kneeled before her, not even wincing as the icy water soaked his pants. Angela’s breathing had evened, and her body had relaxed enough that she was almost falling over. Gabriel grabbed her arms, steadying and straightening her, but her eyes remained unfocused. He took a steadying breath and then shook her in a violent, whole-body movement. Gabriel knew it would be excruciating for her, should it bring her back - but it was the only recourse he had besides laying her down and walking away. He wasn’t ready to walk away from her. Angela whined, a pitiful keening noise, as she came back to life in his arms. Her eyes fluttered shut as she trembled from the pain. A minute later, Angela realized she was making the pained noise and completely suppressed it, prideful even in her pain. It wasn’t long after that her eyes opened, not even noticing the tears that escaped, and darted towards the corner that had enraptured her. He would not let her go so easily. Gabriel tightened his hands, ready to pull her down again, but her eyes flew back to his mask before he could do anything. “Are you still with me?” The words escaped him before he could stop them. This was an all too familiar scenario from a time long destroyed by his hands. He had no right to use that phrase - it was too intimate for the enemies that they were supposed to be, for the monster he was supposed to be. And yet, he couldn’t help but search her face as he always had, looking for the tells that would reveal her deepest truths. “I - I am.” Angela stumbled over the words, the response just as ingrained in her as his question was in him. “For now.” There was a plea in the final phrase, one that had never existed before this room. Until this room, ‘for now’ was the assurance that she was with him in the moment - but never promising the future. Angela was always careful with her promises, with her words. Actions may speak louder than words - but she intended for her words to match her actions as often as possible; always, if she had her way, but even she wasn’t perfect. Angela never wanted anyone to doubt her for any reason - and so she measured her words carefully to ensure she didn’t offer something she couldn’t give. Not even for him would she break that habit. Even back then, she had been too realistic - too cynical - to believe that they would have a happy ending. Now, her ‘for now’ was a hope for an end. She had lost hope for any other form of escape; they all knew no one would find her before it was too late. It was unsurprising, considering the pain she was suffering - and they both knew this could only end one way. She just wanted the ending to come now. Gabriel’s hands clenched, forgetting that his fingers were tipped with claws, at the thought of her death. He didn’t want her dead - had never wanted her dead, not even in his worst fantasies. That had always been the Reapers desire, not Gabriel’s. It had never mattered before as it did now, when he had no control over the outcome. “How did it come to this, liebling?” The words were so quiet that, had he not been so close to her, he would never have been able to hear them. Then she went limp in his grasp, allowing herself to press against him with such familiarity that the Reaper stiffened in rage, claws now digging deep enough to draw blood. Gabriel and the Reaper fought over the decision of what to do with Angela, who hadn’t moved despite the danger he knew she was aware of. After a few moments, the Reaper won and shoved the woman back in disgust. He was on his feet and rushing for the door before there could be any further debate over his - their - actions.

---

The target was high profile, which was why Talon had decided that he, Widowmaker, and Sombra would form the strike team. Their only support was the pilot flying them from Oasis, Iraq to St. Petersburg, Russia. Widowmaker was methodically taking her sniper rifle apart to polish it before she would put it all back together again, as was her routine. She had barely glanced up when he had stormed onto the plane; he wasn’t sure if it was because she didn’t care or if she didn’t want to get involved. It was always hard to tell with her. Sombra had completely ignored him. The Reaper didn’t know if it was because of the callous words said in the observation room or if it was because she was distracted with whatever - or whoever - it was she was currently researching - hacking - on her holoscreens. She had started with three, but now there were seven; her eyes darted among them as she typed and slashed her fingers across them. He had leaned back and tried to sleep, as he usually did, but all he could think about was her. Damn that woman. The Reaper hated the effect that Angela had on them. Oh, he loved the rage he had felt at the sight of her, the pleasure her pain had brought him - but that, apparently, had diminishing returns. The Reaper still hated her, loathed her for what she had done to him. But no longer did he enjoy her torment as he had in those first days. He knew that she hadn’t experienced nearly enough to atone for what she had done, but what was the point if there was no pleasure in it? Her blood, her screams, her pleas - over time, it had become nothing to him. No, it had become worse than nothing. The bleeding heart that was Gabriel was spreading, infecting him. What was once a passive observer was now an active participant once more, as it had been in the beginning. The Reaper had won then, when Gabriel had grown tired and could no longer tolerate the blood necessary to soothe his agony. Now, because of her, the balance was shifting once more. They had agreed when she had first been captured: Angela deserved pain after the years of agony she had forced upon him. More quickly than the Reaper, however, Gabriel had lost his taste for the torture of the blonde angel - had lost his hatred altogether, considering the pity and guilt he felt over her pain. It was unsurprising, really; the Reaper really should have known better. He had let his greed blind him. It hadn’t been an accident that the Reaper had avoided cities - entire countries, if possible - that Angela lived in. Media was harder to avoid, but it was made easier by the fact that she had done her best to stay out of the news whenever possible. Blood and death strengthened the Reaper. He had been born in the destruction of the Zürich base, forced into life by that caged angel they had left behind in Oasis base. He had taken in the pain and the rage, the blood and the death, and had come roaring into being. As their existence began to revolve around those things that Gabriel had once stood against, the Reaper became stronger. But Angela changed that - had always changed that. For years, all he had been was merciless rage and endless hunger, his bloodlust leaving innumerable bodies in his wake. The Reaper had fostered a deep rage for the woman that had created him. Not even the parts that were Gabriel, the parts that loved the blonde doctor, had been able to temper that fury. He had fantasized about all the ways to take apart Angela, to make her regret ever bringing him back. To make her beg for death, just as Gabriel had in the moments before the Reaper had been born. It would have been - had been - so easy to capture her; her friends - ‘protectors’ - were nowhere to be seen, and her personal defenses were laughable at best. He would have reveled in her agony and painted the walls red with her blood. He could have shown the world what happens when you create a monster. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. He had gone to find her nearly a year after the destruction. The Reaper wanted to tear out her throat, to destroy the light that had dragged him back from death. Until they had laid eyes on the blonde, Gabriel had been an apathetic partner. Upon seeing her, however, Gabriel had dug his heels in. While the Reaper knew Gabriel had felt hatred towards the doctor in the abstract, he knew that he also harbored love. She had ignored his pleas for death and left him to live in agony, and still, he wanted her - but the Reaper knew it was more than that. Even if he didn’t love her, that woman was the embodiment of Gabriel’s past life: of Overwatch and the defense of the innocent. As Mercy, with those glowing wings, she had become a symbol for the organization. The sight of her was a reminder of everything he had been, everything he should be. It was enough to drown his hatred in the guilt and blood of the innocents they had killed to stay alive. She was their corazón, their heart. For as long as she lived, so would the parts that were Gabriel. The Reaper knew that he could rid himself of Gabriel by slaying the woman. It would be a stronger blow if it were at their hands, but the Reaper was confident that just her death would be enough. Despite the strength she displayed in her cage, he knew that she was fragile - now more than ever. She would be a quick, easy kill for a murderer like him. But, all those years ago, the Reaper had let her - and Gabriel - live. He had avoided her, erased her from their life as much as possible. It was a decision that he should have questioned, yet never did. Was Gabriel, deep in their shared mind and soul, protecting her from him? Was the Reaper protecting her from himself? Was he afraid to be alone in his head, to have nothing to temper his bloodlust and rage? Did he want to keep those gentler parts that were wholly Gabriel? And if he did, what did that mean for them now that Angela was captured?

They had done just about everything imaginable to her body. At least, she thought they had. They could probably dream up a thousand more horrors to inflict upon her. Angela was never an expert in torture, even if she was an expert on the human body. She knew in excruciating detail how to put someone back together - and exactly how they were taking her apart. Still, they hadn’t gotten her to tell them anything. A few times, she had snarled, snapping and telling them exactly where they could put their questions in a variety of languages. More recently, though, they had gotten the proud, cold Dr. Angela Ziegler to beg brokenly for them to stop - and then to please, please end it. Honestly, she didn’t know why they continued to come to her for information on Overwatch. The medical research made sense - she was one of the leading scientists, after all - but surely they could find another source on Overwatch. God. Had she really wished this upon someone else? No one should experience what she had in this room. Every moment they spent with her meant that was one moment less that was being spent searching for an alternative information source. Even if the pain was horrible - and it was - and even if it was tearing her apart in every way imaginable, she should never wish this on someone else. And yet she had. Oh, how she wanted out of this room. Angela knew there was only one way for her to leave - in a body bag - but it was how she reached it that mattered. Would that last victory be hers or theirs? Would she take their information to the grave, or would they manage to pry it out of her? She was determined to win this final war. This was all she was good for anymore, after all - all she had ever been good for. It had been her duty to serve in the field, taking bullets in her Valkyrie suit so that the agents under her care would be safe and putting them back together when she failed. It had been her responsibility to guide Overwatch in its final hours, to protect what had remained from public - and political - scrutiny. It was her honor to bleed for them now. Angela was the last shield Overwatch - the true Overwatch, her Overwatch - had left. And she wanted someone else to take the burden? How could she try to pass this off to someone else? What if it wasn’t one of her agents - who were important to her, who she had mourned when the KIA reports crossed her desk - but one of her family? What if they put those irons to Lena? What if they strung up Cassidy, whipped him raw like she was? Gabriel - Reaper - knew exactly how to break her; what if he was out there, right now, hunting one of them? What would she do if they brought someone else into this bloody room? Could she sit by and watch them abuse someone else? What kind of person would that make her if she could? Could she refuse to answer, knowing they would take her denials out on someone else? If to give in was to save someone else - not her, never her, she was going to die here - in exchange for betraying everyone else under her protection? What kind of person would that make her if she couldn’t? Angela could only pray that she died before she ever had to make that impossible decision.

Jack had been in Mexico, looking into the criminal group Los Muertos, when news of Angela’s capture had been broadcast across the world over three weeks ago. He hadn’t even considered ignoring the call to arms; Angela had done too much for him - for the world - to leave missing. From what he had gathered, there were no actual suspects. Jack believed, considering the recall from Winston - that he had not planned to answer - that it was one of the terrorist organizations that Overwatch had stood against years ago. Angela would make for a great hostage to use against the rising organization, after all. Since he was already in the backyard of one of the terrorist groups, he had decided to continue his efforts against the Mexican gang. He had been picking off gang members for the past few weeks, working his way through the ranks to gather information. After his ‘research,’ Jack was nearly positive that this gang wasn’t holding Angela - and he was going to confirm it tonight. He headed towards a major operative base for Los Muertos, the address kindly provided by one of their members the night before. However, he wasn’t the only one that had this idea. Jack arrived to find Cole Cassidy in the middle of a firefight. Ten gangsters pinned down the cowboy and, while Cassidy was impressive in a fight, even he was struggling against those odds. Jack gritted his teeth; he hadn’t wanted to make contact with Overwatch like this - but he couldn’t just leave Cassidy to his fate. The old soldier dropped his visor into place and pulled out his helix rifle. He had the element of surprise, shooting from a side alley with a dumpster for cover. Jack had clipped two of them before they returned fire. The cowboy had turned slightly, eyes wide under his hat, but had accepted his help. There wasn’t time for questions when the bullets were flying, after all. Between his rifle and Cassidy’s Peacekeeper, the gangsters were soon retreating with their wounded. Of the ten that had been in their group, they had killed three. Cassidy looked around - and the blood and the bodies - and kicked at a nearby bottle. “Damn it!” Jack wondered if the cowboy had stumbled upon this location by accident and had been looking to get information from the gangsters. Cassidy turned, Peacekeeper still in hand, to regard Jack. “‘preciate th’ help,” he drawled. There was a hard wariness in his eyes, a look Jack was well familiar with. Cassidy had regarded everyone with that look when he had first come into Overwatch. Jack had thought Overwatch had cured him of it, but it seemed he was mistaken. “It’s no problem.” Jack rested the rifle over one shoulder casually, watching him just as warily through his visor. He had no intention of attacking the cowboy - they were on the same side, after all - but until he put away Peacekeeper, Jack was unwilling to part with his gun. Then again, Jack didn’t know anyone that could draw their weapon faster than Cassidy. Perhaps he should keep his rifle in hand the entire time. “Now, why’s a guy like you creepin’ round these parts?” Jack wasn’t surprised that Cassidy recognized him - or, at least, recognized the person wanted by the media. Soldier: 76 had a bounty that was slowly creeping to be as high as Cassidy’s. The soldier considered the man before him. He could make some excuse and come back on a different night, avoid the discovery altogether. But after the fight here in the alleyway - plus his systematic attacks against the gang - Los Muertos would be on high alert. Maybe teaming up, at least for the night, wasn’t the worst idea. “Probably the same reason you are.” Jack rumbled, letting his rifle drop from his shoulder to hang limply at his side. Cassidy scoffed. “Ya don’ know th’ first thing ‘bout me.” The soldier’s mouth twisted into a wry grin under the mask. If only he knew. “I know enough,” Jack responded grimly. “You’re looking for Dr. Ziegler.” Cassidy’s hand tightened on Peacekeeper, his free hand hovering near his waist where Jack knew he kept his flashbangs. “An’ jus’ what would you know ‘bout her?” If the cowboy had looked dangerous before, now he was downright murderous. It was an effort to keep from lifting his rifle defensively; with how on edge Cassidy was, Jack was sure he’d shoot first and worry about the question later. “She helped me, a long time ago.” It was more than that, of course - but he couldn’t tell Cassidy any of it without revealing who he really was. “I owe her. Trying to find her is the least I could do.” “Right.” Cassidy made a disbelieving noise. “Outta th’ goodness of your heart, o’course.” Jack had forgotten how cynical Cassidy was - how cynical they all were. It was impossible to be an optimist, a dreamer that expected the best of the world, when all you ever saw was the worst. “I said I owe her,” Jack growled back. “She’s important to a lot of people.” Cassidy made that noise again, and Jack rolled his eyes. He understood the reluctance, but there was no time for this. Jack cut his free hand through the air. “Look: there’s an operations base near here; it’s where I was going when I found you.” Jack extended the information as a peace offering, a white flag he hoped Cassidy would take. “It’s the only place left that Los Muertos could hide her.” “And I’m jus’ s’pposed t’trust you.” It wasn’t a question. “You don’t have to do anything.” Jack corrected, turning away from the cowboy and his still threatening Peacekeeper. He was confident that Cassidy wouldn’t shoot him in the back, not with that bait dangling before him. “Come or don’t, but I’m going.” Jack had made it about halfway down the alley before he heard a sigh and the clink of spurs as Cassidy followed him.

---

As Jack had expected, Angela wasn’t being held by Los Muertos - but it always paid to be certain. Now, Cassidy was tailing him doggedly through the alleyways, trying to figure out who he was - besides the notorious Soldier: 76 - and why he’d want to help Angela. “Don’t you have anything better to do?” The old soldier had growled, finally stopping behind a defunct restaurant. Now that he had accomplished his task here in Dorado, Jack was planning to leave the city. He was planning to head towards the Middle East; there was a bounty hunter he wanted to investigate and, if the information Jack had was correct, there should be a Talon base somewhere in the area that he could tear apart in the search for Angela. Despite his respect for Cassidy’s abilities, Jack had no interest in teaming up with him in the long term. He was an old soldier, bouncing from one war to the next. Cassidy was still young - even if he had been forced to grow up far too fast. There was no place for the cowboy at his side, not anymore. “Naw, not at th’ moment.” The cowboy drawled lazily, not at all phased by Jack’s tone. When he’d glanced back, he found Cassidy regarding him with hard brown eyes and one hand on his holstered Peacekeeper. Just because they’d forged a temporary truce hadn’t made them allies, after all - at least, not to Cassidy. “Why does it matter?” Jack finally growled. “You should take any help you can get.” After all, Angela had been missing for nearly a month. They shouldn’t be looking a gift horse in the mouth. “An’ what happens when ya find her?” Cassidy demanded. “Gonna ransom her yourself? Try t’ get rid o’ your bounty?” Jack couldn’t care less about the - well deserved - bounty on his head. The only difficulty it gave him was travel - but, considering the world believed him to be dead, travel had already been difficult. “I’m not doing this for money.” The soldier returned; his old self would have been offended at the idea. This new self was more pragmatic - it would be a good idea that any other criminal would jump upon. “Yeah. You’re doin’ it ‘cause you’re such an upstandin’ citizen an’ all.” Cassidy deadpanned back. He shifted his weight, his cybernetic left-hand hooking into one of his belt loops - his right was still on his gun. “Gimmie one good reason I shouldn’ put a bullet in ya.” Jack rolled his eyes behind his visor. "Because we’re on the same side.” Cole did not look convinced in the slightest; Jack wasn’t sure why he’d thought those words would work. “I told you: I owe her. She saved my life.” Cole still wasn’t budging, so Jack elaborated on that thought. “She took a bullet that was meant for me - and then patched me up as if it were nothing.” The edges of Cole’s lips twitched, as if he wanted to smile at the reminder of how Angela had been - was. “That sounds like the Ange I know.” Cole conceded. “Never could take care o’ herself when there was someone else needin’ her help.” He sighed, hand sliding off Peacekeeper. “Fine. Fine. How’re we gonna know if ya find her?” “Trust me: you’ll know.” Jack turned and walked away. This time, Cole let him.

In this life there's no surrender There's nothing left for us to do Find the strength to see this through - Soldiers [Otherwise]

Act One | Act Two | Act Three | Act Four | Act Five | Act Six

Breaking [My Heart]: Act V Preserving

"There's nothing simple when it comes to you and I, Always something in this everchanging life" - Everchanging [Rise Against] Winston has issued the recall towards rebuilding Overwatch. Angela - formerly known as "Mercy" - is captured by Talon, who are searching for any information that can stop the rise before it begins.

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Trigger Warnings & General Statements This is a dark torture story. As such, there's going to be bad things happening - for the sake of not spoiling, I will not tag what, exactly will be appearing at any time. While I don't think any of the scenes are terribly graphic in nature, I do want to stress that the scenes are present and aren't for everyone. I did try to make the reactions and trauma realistic, following both real-world medicine / research and in-game universe canon (such as Angela's nanotechnology). There will be multiple POVs per chapter - two sets for both Angela and Reaper as well as a fifth from an additional character. Please, read at your own risk - and enjoy!

I have nothing left to give, I have found the perfect end. - Dear Agony [Breaking Benjamin]

A pair of boots stomped towards her. After a moment, she was dumped unceremoniously on the ground; she whimpered as her knee struck the concrete and she sprawled out. Angela looked up quickly, though, for the food and water they always placed out for her. She didn’t want them to force it upon her because she was too slow. Instead of sustenance, she was yanked up onto her knees by the man. She struggled weakly, trying to take the pressure off her broken knee, but it was a wasted effort. The constant grinding noise turned off – perhaps for their sanity because it certainly wasn’t for hers. Panting, she wondered what new hell they had in store for her. The man restraining her yanked her head back from its bowed position as two other men came into the room. There were always three when they interrogated her. The distinctive sound of a pistol slide racking filled the silent room. Finally. They were finally going to put her out of her misery. Relief filled her, chasing away the pain from her knee and the lasting agony that her body was always in. She had won. They had decided to cut their losses and get rid of her. The gunman moved forward and slammed the barrel of the pistol against her head hard. If it weren’t for the restrainer gripping her hair tightly, her head would have been shoved aside. With the brace, she imagined there would be a nasty bruise. But what did bruises matter when she would be dead soon? “This is your last chance.” The third man spoke – of the trio, he was the only one who ever spoke to her. “Answer the questions, or you will die.” He thought it was a threat, but, in reality, it was the sweetest promise she had ever heard. An escape from this? He couldn’t have better guaranteed her continued silence. “Who will answer the recall?” It always started there – with the questions he understood. While he had gotten better at asking the more technical questions, she knew he still had absolutely no idea what he was saying. “Lena Oxton?” Silence. “Victor Daigneau?” Angela focused her gaze on the pistol, on the promise. “Torbjörn Lindholm?” The names brought a flicker of something – guilt? Shame? Grief? – she wasn’t sure. If she died here, what would happen to the ones she left behind? What would happen when they found her broken body wherever Talon dumped her – if Talon dumped her? But they hadn’t found her, hadn’t saved her from this room. All she wanted was out. The pistol was removed, and she nearly cried for the loss of that gift. Then it was slamming back into her, startling a cry out of her. Blood filled her mouth as her teeth tore into her lip. “Where will they go, now that they have cleared out Watchpoint: Gibraltar?” She kept silent. Angela hadn’t even known they had left that Watchpoint until he told her just now. How would she know where they went? She had loved it when she visited that Watchpoint. Oh, her purpose was nearly always for something horrible – usually an emergency surgery or a response to a strike injury – but those brief periods before she left? It was beautiful there; it was unfortunate that Overwatch – this new, rough version of it – had given it up. Angela wished she had gone out to visit Winston more, regretted that she hadn’t seen it in years. She’d always thought there was more time. More time to create and heal, to fix the broken of the world. More time to see her friends; there was always next year, after all – until next year didn’t come. Angela really should have known better. “Perhaps, Dr. Ziegler, you do not believe we will kill you.” Oh, no – quite the opposite. She was praying for it. Even with the misgivings that were rising, tickling at the back of her mind, she wanted it. Death was the only escape left for her. The gun was pulled away again as the gunman pointed it towards the far wall. The gunshot was far too loud for the space, leaving her ears ringing and her eyes watering. She had dealt with death all her life. First, her parents had died in the Omnic Crisis. Next, she had chosen her path as a doctor – before, during, and after Overwatch. Then again, when she had served in the field as a combat medic. Finally, when she had been locked into this room. She had faced her mortality often with Overwatch, and less so since the fall. Angela had been forced to realize it again upon her capture: now, death was a certainty instead of a distant possibility. She wasn’t afraid to die; she had come to terms with that days – weeks? Time was a blur here – ago. Death was easy – but living? Living was hard, especially here. Faintly, she heard the slide being racked again before the warm barrel was pressed against her temple again. Angela heard the speaker demand something, but she couldn’t understand the words over the ringing of the gunshot and the rushing of her blood. The barrel dug into her temple harder; the question repeated as she tried to focus. “Last chance, doctor.” The speaker growled. “Explain how your nanites give you the ability to replicate the DNA and RNA in others.” It had been her crowning achievement: unlike Jack and Gabriel, whose bodies had been modified to regenerate from most wounds slowly, her nanites also allowed her to heal the bodies of others if she chose. Apparently, it was also part of how Gabriel was still alive. Angela gritted her teeth. She would stay silent; it was all she had left. Her chin lifted defiantly. She didn’t know if it was resolution or defeat that fueled her as she stared defiantly up at the speaker. All she knew was that this was the last stand for Mercy, her final act. The speaker nodded at the gunman. The barrel pressed into her temple painfully, and then the trigger was pulled. Click. Angela sucked in a shaky breath as her heart skipped a beat before pounding painfully, head dropping limply as her restrainer released her head. She should be dead. They were going to kill her – there was a bullet in there; they proved it – she had made her peace – they put a gun to her head – she was supposed to be dead. Hard, cruel hands grabbed her face, fingers pressing too hard on her cheeks and forcing her head back until it was painful. “Did you honestly think we would let you go so easily?” The taunting whisper wrapped around her heart and squeezed until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She was supposed to be free. Free of the pain and anguish that had been her life since she had been taken from Cairo. It was supposed to be an escape, a relief – and now it was more agonizing than her shattered knee. They were supposed to kill her. She had been ready, more than ready – she had given up entirely, was prepared to abandon her cause and all those she protected. And they let her live. How was she supposed to continue living after that? How could she live with herself? Angela was breathing too fast, her eyes unseeing as she stared up at nothing. She barely felt it when both men released her, allowing her to slump sideways to the floor into the ever-present puddle. For once, they didn’t douse her with water before they left – not that she was in any state to have noticed one way or the other.

---

She had no idea how long she had laid there. They hadn’t brought her food, nor had they thrown water on her. Angela had just sprawled there, body aching from the awkward, twisted position she had fallen in – but she couldn’t seem to muster the energy to move. To do anything more than breathe. Angela wished her one of her friends would come to her, would tell her she would be alright – that she was strong – but none had appeared. Why would they? They had abandoned her as she had abandoned them; she couldn’t blame them for that. Without a thought for the consequences, she had prayed for death. All she wanted was for the pain – all-encompassing and ever-present – to stop. Angela wasn’t strong like this, didn’t want to be strong like this. She wasn’t Jack or Cole or Reinhardt. She wasn’t Ana. She was just Angela. Wait. When had she stopped being Dr. Ziegler – being Mercy? When had she become ‘just’ Angela? Did it matter when Dr. Ziegler was dead, and all that was left behind was the soft, emotional parts that were Angela? ‘Easy’ wasn’t in Dr. Ziegler’s vocabulary. She had never backed down from a fight, never given an inch when she knew she was in the right – no matter how hard, Dr. Ziegler did what she believed was best. Just because it was easy didn’t make it right; that had been one of her favorite quotes. But easy, oh – ‘easy’ was in Angela’s vocabulary. Easy was what Angela was good at. She was all too willing to let her emotions overwhelm her, to let her feelings blind her. She felt too much, remembered too much, and shook from the weight of it all. If it hadn’t been for the cold, hard parts that were Dr. Ziegler, Angela never could have survived Ana’s death, Jack’s death, Gabr- She couldn’t finish that line of thought, not here and now. It was Angela who was left quivering in this room; Dr. Ziegler was killed when they pulled that trigger. With her had gone her support – because they didn’t support Angela. She was useless, nothing – it should have been Angela that had died instead of Dr. Ziegler. Angela wept, curled there on the ground. Grieved for everything she had lost – her dignity, her strength, her self, but not her life. Sobbed for those she had betrayed and abandoned, for whom she bled in this bright, loud room. Without the strength of Dr. Ziegler and the resolve of Mercy, without the support of her friends, Angela didn’t know how she would survive the next time those men came to her. She didn’t know if she could take their abuse and remain silent, to keep the oath that had been sworn by someone stronger, better.

The mission had been an utter failure. Gabriel didn’t care about how the mission went, though it frustrated him that it had been a waste of his time. Time away from the base, from watching Angela and trying to figure out what – if anything – he would do. Once they landed, he had stalked through the base until he was looking in on Angela, drawn like a moth to a flame. She looked hollow – like a shell of herself. Angela wasn’t being worked on right now, wasn’t even hanging from the chains. She was limp, staring blankly up at the ceiling. She didn’t seem to care that the way she was lying left most of her body on display to the window he was looking through. Before he had left, she had been willing to spend the energy to turn her back; now, she was no longer willing – or able – to make such an effort. What had been done to her that had destroyed that? Gabriel was familiar with torture; he knew there was plenty that would make her look and act like this. He had known it was only a matter of time before they broke her, shattered like a glass thrown to the floor. But after her stubborn refusal to bend, her defiance despite the excruciating pain she was experiencing, he had thought she wouldn’t break. Had thought she could pull off one last miracle. Foolish. The Reaper was a walking testament to the curse that was Angela’s ‘miracles.’ Disgusted, Gabriel spun away and went to his office. He would see what they had done, how she had been broken. He would read the reports and see what her progress was – and what was still yet to come.

---

“Yeah, boss?” He hated the thought of asking anyone for help, but there was no way around it. Sombra was the electronic security in this base; if he wanted to get out, he needed her on his side. He was taking a risk by coming to her, but she had seemed sympathetic towards the doctor the last time they had been in the observation room. “We need to talk.” The woman was practically hanging on her doorknob, hazel eyes peering up at him as she kept her body – and the door – between him and her sanctum. Frustration crossed her face as she stepped out fully, arms crossing. “Is it about the mission? ’Cause, seriously, I’ve only apologized like – a thousand times. I scr-” Gabriel held up a clawed hand, trying to stop her before she started into an unstoppable tirade. “Here.” He offered her a page. Scrawled on it was a request for a secure space to speak – he knew she had to have a place where no one could watch what she got into. He was pretty sure it was behind that door, but he’d been wrong before. Sombra read the paper, taking far too long for the handful of words that had been written there, before looking up at him with one eyebrow raised. He crossed his arms in return, glaring down at her from behind his mask. “Fine.” Sombra sighed, making a big show of rolling her eyes and tossing her arms dramatically. “No es como si tuviera algo mejor que hacer, 1” she muttered irritably as she turned back into her room. Gabriel followed, closing the door behind them. He had never seen this room, but he honestly couldn’t say he was surprised by most of what was in here. Tucked in a corner was an untidy bed with what looked like a handheld computer – or maybe a video game device – left carelessly on top of a pillow and a stuffed animal peeking out from under the blanket. One door, farther in, was left slightly ajar to show a closet filled with clothes of all colors: for a woman built around stealth, she certainly had a vibrant selection. Most of the room, however, was taken up by screens of all sizes. There were news stations from across the world, what looked like the stock market, the security feeds for the base, and screens of various lines of text that Gabriel couldn’t discern in the few seconds he could see them. Sombra hit a few buttons, darkening all of the screens, before turning to lean against her impressively large desk. “So.” Sombra gestured vaguely with one hand. “You wanted to talk.” She fixed him with a look. “Talk.” Gabriel stepped farther into the room, worried about someone overhearing from the hall. “It’s secure?” He growled. He hadn’t seen her do anything, but maybe she always hid what she was doing in this room. There weren’t cameras, of course, but he was almost positive that every room was littered with microphones to catch precisely the kind of thing he was trying to talk about. “Of course it’s secure.” She rolled her eyes before turning to drop into a rolling chair. One leg hooked over the other as she leaned back with her arms crossed once more. “Who do you take me for?” Gabriel sighed. “Fine.” Here it was, his last chance to back out. The opportunity to stop before this foolhardy plan got him – or her – killed. Did he really want to do this? Risk his life for the woman that he had condemned? Who feared him? Who might not even be alive – not in the way it mattered – anymore? Gabriel wanted it; guilt and shame for the promises he had broken and the pain Angela had experienced drove him to save whatever was left of her. He couldn’t make it right – nothing could ever make what he had done right – but he could try to make it better. The Reaper thought it was foolish; they were burning bridges over the woman that had cursed them? She didn’t deserve rescue after everything she had done to them. But, he had come to realize, there was no pleasure in her torture – there was nothing but apathy and a growing stress from the parts that were Gabriel. Gabriel was as important, as intrinsic, to their consciousness as the Reaper was. His cool head tempered the hazy bloodlust; Gabriel was the tactician, and the Reaper was the soldier. They were a team – for better or for worse. To keep Gabriel, Angela had to be saved – so that was what they would do. “I want to get Angela out.” There was no going back now; the words couldn’t be unsaid. Sombra made an incredulous noise. “What happened to ‘she deserves it’?” Sombra lowered her voice on the quote in a mockery of his own. “What happened to the cold-hearted bastard that put her in there, twice?” He crossed the space to thrust another set of papers at her. “This.” Sombra took the papers. She read through them far more quickly than she had his one-line note – she never missed a chance to let a person squirm. Sombra flipped through them, paling slightly once she got to the last page. When she looked back up at him, however, she was completely cool again. “When is this supposed to happen?” She gestured down at the final page. The first pages had been what Angela had been through in the past week, culminating with the threat of her execution yesterday. They’d been in once since then, but she had been so unresponsive that they had spent barely any time with her. However, that final page detailed the tentative timeline of interrogation and the tools and methods to be used in each session. The next few days were littered with what had become her usual – drowning and whipping and burning – assuming that they would find her responsive. There was a note, ended with a question mark, about using a gun again; that, it seemed, was still undecided. If it were anyone else, Gabriel would have told them to use it. He knew that they, too, would come to that conclusion in time – when it came to their trade, they were experts after all. Towards the middle of the following week, they planned to escalate again if she still refused to break. They hadn’t decided which method they would go to next: rape or dismemberment. Either was horrific – would be just as devastating as the mock execution she had experienced. He didn’t think Angela would survive either of them. Gabriel wasn’t sure she had survived the last one. “Wednesday. Thursday, at the latest – as long as they keep to that schedule.” Sometimes plans were moved up – or pushed back. These reports weren’t set in stone by any means; they were more like a guide and a way to cover their asses should an interrogation end badly. Sombra read over the page again, as if a closer look would change the text. Then, she looked up at him once more. “You sure you want to do this?” Gabriel had seen the look on her face before she had hidden it away; Sombra wanted Angela out, too. This woman, who had seen the worst that humanity had to offer to use as blackmail, didn’t want Angela to die, either. “I’m sure.” If he – they – didn’t act now, there would be nothing left of Angela to save. “Alright then.” Sombra nodded after a moment, offering the papers back to him. “Take this,” she held out a comm unit, “and get out. I need to get some things together.” Gabriel hesitated for only a moment before accepting the papers and comm; there was no going back now. He had preparations of his own that needed to be made. At least, with Sombra on his side, he didn’t have to worry as much about being watched.

---

With the little comm unit she had given him – plus some help from her while she was invisible – she had walked Gabriel through the setup of what would ‘disable’ the cameras and hide their escape for as long as possible. Honestly, it would be Sombra that would take care of the security, but – since she wasn’t quite ready to leave Talon – they had to make it look like it was all him. Most of it was familiar – he’d run plenty of covert ops both with Blackwatch and Talon – but having Sombra tell him where everything was made things run more smoothly. He’d gone into the city of Oasis itself to steal supplies. They were mostly medical in nature, since stealing from the infirmary would be nearly impossible, but he had also gathered some food and clothing. They’d need more, but they would at least have something for the immediate days after the escape. Sombra told him she was trying to find them a secure place for Angela to recover until Overwatch could be reached, but she wasn’t sure she could arrange it before he escaped with the doctor. Gabriel had to plan to steal a form of transportation – he couldn’t exactly sneak onto a bus or get a taxi with a bloody woman, after all – and figure out where to lay low. Talon would come after him, after her. Angela was marked for death, had been marked since he had placed her in that cell. Once he took her, he would become a target, too. Gabriel wasn’t sure he could be killed, but he knew Talon would try. With Moira to help them, perhaps they would even be successful. “Here you go, boss.” Sombra had appeared in the door of his office, a stack of papers in her hands. “I know, I know; I should have had this done days ago.” She offered them over. He reached out and found something hard underneath the paper; carefully, he accepted it all, mindful of the security he was trying to avoid. “See ya later.” Sombra had wiggled her fingers at him and strutted out the door, giving no sign that she was up to anything. He palmed the item and tucked it into a pocket without looking at it; if Sombra thought it should be hidden, he’d keep it that way. The second page of her report had been a scrawled explanation. The comm unit would only work while he was in the base – once they were out, she wouldn’t be able to use that to reach him without the frequency being compromised. Instead, Sombra had procured a burner phone. He needed to always keep it on; once she had a safe house, she could call him with further instructions. She also wrote that he owed her, big, for the risks she was taking for him. He had known there would be a price for her help – blackmail and extortion was what she was known for, after all. Gabriel didn’t care. He’d pay whatever price it was that Sombra demanded of him if it would get Angela out of this base. But he knew that his debt wasn’t her real goal: no, that was just a bonus. She wanted Angela out, too. He had seen her face when she’d watched the interrogation and after she had read the reports; she was doing this for Angela. It made no sense. Sombra had never met Angela, had never even seen her until the doctor was bound in chains. Sombra always twisted a situation to benefit herself – it was how she had bounced from Los Muertos to Talon, after all – with minimal, if any, regards to others. Despite those facts, Sombra was willing to risk her position here with Talon to help the doctor escape. Gabriel had a hard time believing that Sombra was doing this purely out of the goodness of her heart. Perhaps she wanted the doctor in her debt – having a world-renowned doctor in her corner was nothing to sneeze at. And, even now, with the shadow of Overwatch dogging her heels and making her life difficult, Angela was still one of the best doctors in the world. When she couldn’t continue her research, when working in a hospital was not enough, she had returned to her calling as a combat medic and emergency responder. Angela had waded into war-torn countries and disaster zones without regard for her own safety, healing anything she could. It hadn’t mattered what side the injured was on; she simply put them back together because that was what she did best. It had been that altruism, mixed with her prodigal skills and sterling reputation, that had kept her safe until now. Yes, a debt from Dr. Angela Ziegler, the woman who could actually defy death, would be no small thing. Even knowing that Sombra was on their side – for whatever reasons – he hesitated to let her dictate where they went. Gabriel wasn’t sure that he had much choice in the matter, though. His nearest safe house was in Turkey, almost a thousand miles away. The Oasis base had been his safe house for this country – one of many things that would change in the coming days. And it wasn’t like he could just book a hotel room or take Angela into a hospital. They had to find a place to lie low, where Talon couldn’t find them, while Gabriel found a way to contact Overwatch. He had a few ideas of where they may have gone, but that would take far more travel than Angela could take. She was too injured – too traumatized, broken – to be dragged across the globe on an international goose chase by the monstrous Reaper. Instead, he’d have to contact them and arrange a meeting to return her to them for safekeeping. Until that time, he’d be forced to keep them on the move – somehow – while he tried to keep her alive. Gabriel wasn’t sure if he’d ever been given a more impossible task.

---

Now that he had decided, he was impatient for action. He’d gone to the nearby airport and had stolen a car from the long-term parking lot. With Sombra’s help, he hadn’t even needed to break anything; he simply used the little gadget she had provided, and the locks just popped open. Then he had gathered and packed supplies, tucking them in the stolen vehicle. He’d filled and repacked a small bag of absolute essentials – this would be the pack he carried with him through the entire escape. If, for whatever reason, he couldn’t reach the stolen car, they would still have some supplies. They had decided that Sunday – today – would be the day he would break her out. A strike team was leaving this afternoon, and Angela would be worked on in the early evening. While Gabriel hated the thought of her experiencing more torture, he had to wait until shortly after they finished with her. By waiting until after they were done, he reduced the chances of her absence being immediately noticed – and with the strike team reducing the number of staff wandering around, it further reduced those chances. Gabriel only hoped it wouldn’t be too late. The comm unit was in place, hidden by the hood and mask he always wore. He had nowhere on his person to conceal the small pack of supplies, so he was putting off heading towards the armory – and his weapons, which would be necessary – until the last possible moment. Then, it was time. Equipped with his shotguns, ammo tucked in the various pockets and pouches built for that express purpose, Gabriel strode through the halls of the Oasis base for what would probably be the last time. With Sombra whispering in his ear, it hadn’t been hard to avoid detection – especially when he used the same stairwell that Angela had used in her failed escape attempt. This was when the challenge would truly begin. He had a device in his pocket, one fashioned by Sombra, that was supposed to ‘affect’ the cameras and keep him from being seen by whoever else was monitoring the security feeds. Sombra had assured him that she would take care of that – but he only had her word that they would be taken care of. It could be an elaborate setup. Alone, the Reaper would be hard to capture – but carrying Angela? Gabriel wouldn’t be able to use his shadow form to escape bullets and travel through small spaces. This would be the best chance at neutralizing him unless he chose to drop and abandon her. He had already done that once. Gabriel wasn’t planning to do it again. Squaring his shoulders, he let himself into her cell. For better or for worse, he had made his choice.

Footsteps. One pair. The last time there had been one pair of footsteps, they had killed her – yet left her breathing, hollow. She couldn’t, she couldn’t, do that again. She was barely hanging on as it was; that would break her, she knew it. Hadn’t they hurt her enough for one day? She was still dripping with blood and water from their treatment. They had broken her knee again, and the agony was still making her nauseous. She hadn’t been given enough time to recover – which, Angela dimly realized, was precisely the point. She couldn’t break. That was a promise made by the woman they had killed. It was an impossibly heavy burden, dropped upon her because there was no one left, and Angela was left staggering and stumbling under its weight. They deserved better than her, but she was all that remained. It had taken every ragged piece of her to keep from cracking. Oh, she wanted to break – to spill every secret and truth that they wanted. It would be so easy. Angela wanted easy, craved easy. And yet, every time the words were on the tip of her tongue, she somehow managed to swallow them down. Now they were back. Maybe this time, they would kill her, just as they had killed Dr. Ziegler. Her body might remain, but everything they ever wanted would be out of their reach for good. She would be out of their reach for good. The chains rattled. Just before the release that always dropped her painfully to the ground, an arm wrapped around her torso. It pulled her close and supported her weight, disregarding the blood that streaked her skin. The intimacy – and pain – made her shudder. This had never happened before – it wasn’t efficient, nor did it further their goal of making her miserable. “I’ve got you, cariño.” Her breath caught, chest seizing painfully as her entire body tensed. They had sent the Reaper to hurt her, to try to rip the answers from her throat. There was no way – none – that she could hold her ground, not when it was against him. Even knowing that he wasn’t Gabriel, it would still utterly destroy her. He was going to break her. She was going to fail. The Reaper released the chains and her body slumped, utterly reliant on his strength to hold her upright. With it went her tension: now Angela was shaking again, terrified of what he was going to do with her. She couldn’t catch her breath – why was it suddenly so hard to breathe? – as he held her confidently with one arm. “It’s alright, Angela,” he shushed her, trying and failing to sound reassuring, before carefully lowering her to the ground away from the puddle of blood and water at their feet. Crouching, he supported her weight against his chest – the familiarity of it made her eyes well up with tears. She looked around the room, searching for something – anything. A friendly face that would help her get through whatever this was. One of her interrogators, the ones who had taken such pleasure in her pain. Any kind of explanation for what was happening. All she found were the mocking blank walls of her cage, blurred by the water in her eyes. He shook out some dark cloth – his jacket, the one that she had always seen the Reaper wearing – before gently pulling it onto her naked flesh. It was still warm and had a smoky musk that almost hid the familiar scent of leather and sandalwood. The Reaper was careful of his claws as he tugged the jacket over her shaking, uncooperative arms. “I’m getting you out of here.” The Reaper murmured. Angela choked; there was no way she could believe that. She refused to believe it. After everything that had happened to her – after he had put her here – Angela couldn’t dare to. How could she believe that he was Gabriel, that he wasn’t the Reaper? How could she believe that he’d had a change of heart? This was cruel, even for him. “This will hurt, cariño,” he rumbled, one clawed hand hovering over her destroyed knee in explanation. Of course it would hurt. His very presence hurt. Knowing that Gabriel was so close, yet so terribly far away, was almost physically painful. Then he was hoisting her up, one arm hooked under her knees and the other at her shoulders just under her arms. It hurt – oh, it hurt – and she couldn’t help the agonized whimper that escaped. “I know, I know.” The Reaper made the low, shushing noise again as he rose, shifting her so that her head rested against his body armor instead of hanging loosely off to the side. “I’m sorry, Angela. Hold on for me.” Confidently, he carried her straight out of the room and into the hallway she had seen only once. There was no one out here, just like the time she had escaped. Maybe that wasn’t unusual? Perhaps it was just her down here, so they weren’t worried about an escape – after all, how could she go anywhere with her knee broken as it was? Who would ever expect one of their own – the Reaper, of all people – to rescue her? No. Impossible. There was no way this was real; this was a dream – a dream – and any moment, her captors would throw that horribly cold water over her and yank it away. They never let her sleep for long, denying her even that small escape. But if she was asleep, why did it hurt? Her shattered knee was screaming, her bloody and torn back was aching, and her heart was breaking – if this were a dream, surely she wouldn’t feel this way. How could a dream be so painful? “Status?” The Reaper murmured, pulling her out of her distracted thoughts. Angela glanced up towards his mask in confusion – what in the world was he asking for? Before she could decide if she would break her silence and ask, he turned to the left. “The stairs, then.” His steps were measured as he kept his arms steady, trying to minimize the jostling of her body. It didn’t stop the tears from springing and rolling down her cheeks to dampen his armor and the jacket he’d so gently wrapped her in. She stared at the ceiling, letting it blur as he carried her along. Angela didn’t believe this was a rescue. Couldn’t – because if she did, and it was a lie, she would shatter into a million pieces. Hope no longer existed in her world: all that was left was pure cynicism and despair. He was taking her somewhere else; that much was true. She was sure the next place he put her would be much worse – somehow – than the room he had just pulled her from. The thought made her trembling begin again – or maybe she hadn’t stopped. Angela wasn’t sure. So much was happening that it was hard to keep track. Perhaps it was just worse now, because even her teeth were chattering now from the terror. “Angela.” They had stopped. When had he stopped moving? His mask was canted down towards her. “Angela, I know it’s a lot – but I need you to be quiet now. Just for a few minutes.” Quiet? She wasn’t – suddenly she was aware of the soft keening noise coming from her throat, the sound a mixture of her terror and pain. Angela had no idea how long she had been making the noise, but now that she was aware, she did her best to silence it. Angela didn’t know why she had obeyed the order. He was her enemy, no matter what he might say. This wasn’t an escape – it was a trick – and she was just playing into his game. And yet, she had choked the sound off as quickly as he had pointed it out; was it from pride? Or did some small part of her believe this lie? “Yes, just like that, cariño.” The endearment ripped at her heart. He must have seen the pain that flashed across her face – he knew her far too well – because his grip tightened slightly as he looked away. “We’ll be out soon.” They were still motionless, waiting in the stairwell. Why weren’t they moving? Did it matter? The longer they were here in this stairwell, the less time she would spend in whatever new hell they had created. Angela greatly preferred being in his arms – being held with a terrible gentleness, as if he were afraid his touch would break her further – than being strung up in chains. At some point, she had relaxed, her traitorous body leaning into his familiar warmth. It was hard to remember he was her enemy when she was pressed against him like this. And he was her enemy, she reminded herself sternly. He was just taking her somewhere else to be hurt. Dressing it up as an escape would make it hurt that much more when this trip ended in chains once more. Despite knowing all of this, Angela knew that the betrayal – was it a betrayal if he was her enemy? – would rip her to pieces again. She didn’t know if her heart, her soul, could survive a third time. Suddenly, they were moving again. The Reaper pushed the door open, and then they were hurrying down the hallway – in the opposite direction that she had chosen during her escape attempt. Angela wasn’t sure where they had to go, but they hadn’t gotten far before the Reaper tensed. Then, ahead, a door opened for a pair of two men. Angela tensed, too – this must be where he was taking her. That hadn’t taken long at all. She didn’t recognize the men, but that didn’t matter. Anyone in this place was her enemy and would hurt her. The Reaper hesitated for a brief moment – Angela couldn’t understand why. After all, this was what his plan was the whole time. Make her think she was safe only to rip it away once more. It would hurt, but why did that matter? That was the point. Pain was the only constant in her life anymore. Squaring his shoulders, fingers tight on her flesh, the Reaper kept walking as he shushed her under his breath. The men were chatting amicably until they realized there was someone else in the hall; when they saw the Reaper’s mask, they paled. If even his own men were terrified of him, how could she be safe in his arms? Then, they noticed her, bundled up in his grasp. They glanced at each other before one seemed to gather some sort of courage. “What’s going on?” So this was the game. They were going to play along, make her think this was real. Angela wouldn’t let herself fall for it. She would remain silent – she had to give him the same treatment she had given her previous interrogators. She couldn’t give him a single word. If she did, he would break her, and Angela would fail her friends. “The council is not pleased with the lack of results.” The Reaper growled. Angela tried to shrink, make herself smaller and hide in the fabric, as if it would help protect her from what would come next. Just because she expected pain didn’t mean she wanted it. All it did was make her body ache more, and she choked on a groan. His fingers squeezed briefly – in what, comfort? – as he continued speaking to the guards. “We are moving her to a different base, to more... capable hands.” “I – I didn’t hear about a transfer.” The guard blustered. Her eyes, strained as they were from the blinding lights, couldn’t tell that they were acting. Their reactions were good – but she knew better. Her eyes skimmed away again, searching as they always did for a friend, but they were still avoiding her. “I didn’t realize the council answered to you.” Angela snapped back to the conversation as the guard flushed. “Now, get out of my way.” After another moment of hesitation, the guards stepped aside and watched them pass. Angela stared past the bone-white mask to the ceiling above once more, trying to forget who was carrying her – and where she was surely going to end up. “Can you stop it?” The Reaper demanded suddenly, startling Angela, and she tensed again as her eyes went wide. Stop what? What was she doing? “Not you, Angela,” he murmured before his attention was drawn elsewhere. “Fuck!” The angry curse had her curling into herself again, and he shook his head. “Fine.” Angela had lost track of where they were, of how many turns and doors they had gone through. It all blurred, white walls and white ceilings, until suddenly there was wind on her face and stars in the sky. It was so dark. She couldn’t see anything. How could the Reaper keep walking so confidently? Angela shrank into him, eyes wide as she tried to make out their surroundings. It was impossible. It sounded like they were outside, but she couldn’t see – could they simulate the outdoors in a room? Probably. It was dark, dark, dark – how would she see her friends, see anything in this darkness? “Shh, cariño, not yet.” The Reaper said absently, drawing her attention back down to herself. The darkness had evoked terrified whimpers, and she tried to choke them off now. It was hard when she was so afraid, when it was so dark – but she tried. Angela turned and pressed her face against his body armor in an attempt to stifle the sounds. Angela had mostly gotten control of herself when an alarm began blaring. “Mierda.” The Reaper muttered, breaking into a run. He had just ducked around a corner when a gunshot pierced the night, startling a strangled scream from her throat. That had sounded close. The Reaper shushed her as he kept moving. “Sombra?” His voice was tight with stress. Angela had no idea what a ‘Sombra’ was, so all she could do was press her face against his chest, eyes squeezed tight. Angela shouldn’t feel such desperate hope – she wanted this to be real – but it was there, flickering in her heart again. Suddenly he lunged into a doorway as a second gunshot echoed around them. Angela was wide-eyed and shaking, fingers curled in the cloth so tightly that they were going numb. Those shots sounded real, even if she knew they were fake – just like the bullet meant for her had been fake. The Reaper held her tighter; while the claws didn’t pierce her skin, she was confident there would be bruises left behind – though she doubted they would be discernable through all the rest. Then he was moving them again, muttering about a spider as they went. The escape became disjointed for a short time – she couldn’t see anything except in short bursts when light appeared. All she could do was listen to his panting breaths and pounding heart as he carried her through the night. They darted along, rarely pausing or slowing as he took her away. Eventually, they reached an area with more light, though he kept them in the shadows still. The sounds of people surrounded them, and she tensed. Who were they? Were these the people that had been chasing them, shooting at them? Was it time for the lie to end? The Reaper didn’t stop, didn’t bother to attempt to silence her terrified noises any longer; either it didn’t matter, or he was giving up on the effort. Lights pierced and passed by her eyes occasionally, until she finally gave up on looking around and just pressed her face against the Reaper and squeezed her eyes shut. She hated how familiar this felt. It wasn’t much longer after that that the Reaper was laying her down on something soft. Her eyes opened again, confused. There was a little light so that she could make out her space. This was a vehicle – he was putting her in a car. Why were they in a car? He arranged her limbs so that she was tucked in fully before slinging something into the foot space next to her. Then he leaned in and grabbed a strap. “I’m not going to hurt you, Angela.” He soothed when she tried to scramble back, whimpering and shaking in terror and pain. Here it was; this was where it would start. “It’s to keep you safe while I drive.” No, that was not what those were for. Restraints held you in place, kept you weak and trapped while others hurt you. He didn’t give her much choice, though – of course he wouldn’t – as he clipped her into place. “It’ll be alright, cariño, you’ll see.” Then he was pulling away, slamming something – a door, the car door – that made everything jostle and shake briefly. After a few moments, where he muttered to himself where she couldn’t hear, he climbed into the seat before her. Wordlessly, he shifted the rearview mirror to see her before turning the vehicle on and driving off into the night. If this was a dream, Angela hoped she never woke up.

Gabriel glanced up at the mirror again at Angela, checking to make sure she was alright – or, rather, as alright as she could be. He needed to find a place to pull over and dress her wounds, but putting distance between them and Talon was a higher priority. Sombra had run interference as much as possible, but unless she had wanted to give herself away – which she did not – she’d had to cooperate with them as they had searched. If it hadn’t been for Sombra, though, he’d have been shot by Widowmaker before they had escaped the base. He had destroyed the earpiece before climbing into the vehicle. The only electronic he’d brought along was the phone Sombra had given him. Gabriel had asked Sombra to check him for any tracking devices, anything at all that might lead them to wherever it was they escaped to; surprisingly, there were none – or she was lying. Either way, they were as safe as possible at the moment. They had been on the road for maybe fifteen minutes. Angela had managed to fall into some semblance of sleep a few minutes back. A sharp blade of guilt twisted in Gabriel’s heart as he realized that the warmth of the car, the relative softness of the seat beneath her, and his jacket wrapped carefully around her, she was the most comfortable she’d been in the past month. Gabriel kept glancing in the side mirrors, worried that they might be being followed and keeping an eye out for any low-flying aircraft. The car hit something – a pothole, probably – that rattled the vehicle with a loud thunk. It was then that Angela came shrieking back to life, startling him badly enough that he almost wrecked the vehicle. He forced his eyes to remain on the road as he pulled over. Then, after they were safely stopped, he allowed himself to turn and look at the broken angel in the backseat. “Angela,” he crooned, making no move to reach out and touch her – even though he wanted to. No, Angela wouldn’t welcome the Reaper’s touch. “Angela, you’re alright. Come back, cariño.” He knew the bump couldn’t have been pleasant on her wounds, and the sound would have been jarring, but he hadn’t expected her to lose it like this. Then again, she had been tortured for over a month; he shouldn’t expect anything. She had probably been in the middle of a nightmare – if he coupled that with new, terrifying sensations and the Reaper hovering over her, he couldn’t really be surprised. Her screams had died out relatively quickly, for which he was grateful; it was far too loud for the confined space. Her eyes, however, were still glazed and unseeing. It took several precious minutes before she pulled herself back from wherever she had gone. He knew he shouldn’t have waited – Talon was searching – but he wanted to make sure she was alright before they continued along the road. “Are you still with me?” He asked once her eyes came into focus. Angela glanced around the car with confusion, as if she had forgotten where she was. Her gaze cut across him as she investigated the space before jolting back to his mask, eyes wary and body tense. “Are you still with me?” Gabriel repeated patiently. She worried at her lip, clearly considering something, before finally taking a steadying breath. “I am.” Her voice was rough and quiet, even for how close they were. “For now.” The response gave him a small amount of hope. Maybe he hadn’t broken her completely beyond repair. His eyes swept over her one more time before nodding and turning back to the steering wheel. “Good.” Gabriel pulled back onto the road. “I’ll find somewhere for us to hide soon; just hang in there a little longer for me, alright?” He wasn’t exactly sure where this hiding spot would be, but he knew that he had to find something soon. Angela needed to be taken care of before he could try to get them to any of his hiding spots. He had a safe house in Medina, but that would be nearly a full day of travel – not possible for them right now. So, he had followed a more reasonable path and drove them south towards Hillah, hoping to throw off their searchers. North held the relative anonymity of Baghdad and the remnants of Overwatch; hopefully, that was the direction Talon had headed in their search. Eventually, he would have to take them north towards Europe, but it was safer to travel south for now. Between his need to keep from drawing any attention to them and Angela’s fitful sleeping, it took nearly an hour to reach the city. It had left her bleeding longer than he had liked, but there wasn’t anything he could do for it. At least his jacket – and the car seat – would help staunch some of the bleeding. After a little searching, Gabriel found a rundown office building, clearly closed based on the plywood over the windows and chains on the door. He circled the building and parked behind it in an alley in an effort to keep them hidden. As soon as the car stopped moving, Angela’s eyes flew open again. At least this time, she wasn’t yelling. “Angela?” Gabriel asked cautiously, trying to gauge her stability. He needed her relatively cooperative to take care of her; this area wasn’t so deserted that her screams would go unnoticed, but it was the best he could find on short notice. She blinked before turning to look at him, some life in her eyes. “Are you with me?” Angela looked around the vehicle, searching as she often did, before returning to him. Hesitantly, she licked her lips and ducked her head. “I am.” He wondered if it was a mechanical response, one so ingrained that she couldn’t help the answer, or a chosen one. “For now.” She shivered despite the heaters he had turned on, tucking herself further into his jacket. Gabriel frowned behind the mask; she shouldn’t be cold. “I’ll be right back.” He promised her before slipping out of the car. Gabriel wasn’t terribly worried about her managing an escape, not now; she was too tired and they had just shattered her knee again hours previously; he hated that his waiting had let her be hurt so badly again. In a week – if they were still together in a week – he would have his hands full in keeping her from running. Instead, he turned his attention to the building. Gabriel made quick work of the door, breaking the chain and busting the lock to let himself in. It wasn’t the best space – dust and dead bugs littered the floor – but they only needed it for a few hours. At least the single bathroom had running water, which was more than the car had. Satisfied, Gabriel returned to the vehicle, briefly pausing at the driver’s door to turn it off and glance at the woman in the backseat. Angela hadn’t moved from her prone position on the seat; he wondered if she had tried to move at all or if she had just remained lifeless the entire time. With a sigh, he opened the back door. The broken woman jumped, blank eyes focusing on him. As he leaned in to release the seat belts that held her in place, she made a small noise of fear and cringed again. “It’s alright, Angela.” Gabriel wondered how many times he would say that phrase – and if she would ever believe it. “I’ve found us a place to hide for a few hours.” Ignoring the way she recoiled from him, he carefully removed the straps and grabbed the pack he’d slung into the foot space. It had everything he needed for her immediate treatment. “I’m going to pick you up – it will hurt your knee.” Gabriel didn’t know how much she was comprehending at this moment, but hopefully, by explaining himself, she wouldn’t begin screaming again. The Reaper thought it was foolish; just get the task done already because they were wasting time. Then, he leaned in and carefully levered her out of the space. Fortunately, she didn’t scream, but she did whimper lowly as he led them away from the car. Once inside, he hauled her into the bathroom and set her upright on the small counter inside. He left his hands hovering around her, worried she would slump and fall off it entirely. After everything she had been through and the wounds still on her body, he wouldn’t blame her for being weak. He was surprised she was staying upright at all. There had been stains on the seat where she had lain, proving that she had at least bled enough to seep through the thick cloth of his jacket. While it wasn’t completely worrying – she had her nanites and had experienced worse, after all – he still wanted to treat them. It would, at the very least, make them both more comfortable. “Will you let me look at your back?” Angela tensed at the request, pulling the jacket tighter around her. “Look,” he opened the pack to show her the gauze and ointment within, “it’s not a trick.” He held it within her reach, so she could poke through it and see it was just standard medical supplies – items she was familiar with – but she simply looked down at the bag with hollow eyes. “Mi corazón, please.” It was a low blow. He knew it even as the endearment passed his lips. The Reaper was taut with impatience, itching to tear it from her so they could keep moving, but Gabriel refused; as much as possible, he wanted her willing. They had taken too much from her already. Angela shivered and looked away, staring at the far wall instead of towards him or the supplies. After a long silence, one that Gabriel worried he would have to break again, she finally sighed and let the jacket go in submission. Angela had a resigned, faraway look as she stared at anything but him. It wasn’t the best response, but at least it was something, right? Gabriel carefully tugged his gloves off – the claws would do him no good here – to reveal his scarred, ashen hands. Angela didn’t look down as he carefully peeled the jacket from her body, doing his best to keep from hurting her as it stuck to the open wounds. He let the cloth pool at her hips as he assessed her back. There was so much damage that he wasn’t sure where to start – he wasn’t the doctor in this room. Then again, at this moment, neither was she. Still, he had made his choice; he would be whatever Angela needed him to be. Gabriel grabbed some gauze and wet it so he could clean the wounds as best he could. She shuddered and shivered at the cool cloth, wincing and flinching away when Gabriel touched a particularly sensitive spot, but she remained silent. A quick look showed that her face was deathly pale, defeated eyes staring straight ahead as she bit her lip so hard, he worried she would bite through; based on the blood and scabs at her mouth, she’d already done so at least once in the recent past. He wanted to say something to fill the silence, but what was there to say? That he was sorry? That he shouldn’t have broken the only promise that had ever truly mattered? That he should never have taken her, should never have put her in that room? There were no comforting things he could say to her, nothing he could say to her after everything she had gone through because of him. It was clear, by the way she shrank away and couldn’t bear to even look at him, that she wanted nothing to do with him – and he couldn’t blame her. But he was all she had. It took time and a lot of water to clean the gore from her body. The front had been the hardest. He had moved to stand before her, gauze damp with water and blood in his hand, and she had flinched away so hard he’d had to catch her before she completely fell off the counter. While one hand braced her, the other had carefully swabbed at her stomach and breasts. Every flinch and shudder was a dagger in his heart, but he welcomed the pain – he deserved this and more. Finally, he practically bathed her in the ointment that – according to the packaging – was supposed to help fight infection and reduce pain and inflammation. He doubted that it would do much good for her, considering all the open flesh, but it couldn’t hurt, could it? The Reaper thought it was a wasted effort; her nanites were going to heal her anyway, so what was the point? Angela had stopped flinching by then; the far away, glazed look was back. Gabriel hated that look, hated that she felt the need for escape, but it was a welcome respite as he wiped the ointment across her wounds and wrapped the bandages around her. By the time he was done, her entire torso from breasts to hips was wrapped in layers of gauze. He’d run out of bandages then – he’d underestimated the amount he’d need – and was forced to leave her bloody and burned legs unwrapped. At least he had been able to clean them, and they were beginning to scab over; hopefully, after a few days of rest, most of them would be healed enough that movement wouldn’t break them open again. If she were lucky, these, at least, wouldn’t join the scars that were already scattered across her body. “Angela?” Gabriel asked quietly as he packed away what little was left. He had wanted to feed her as well, but he’d worried she would choke herself out of terror while he was working. Now, with her gone for however long she chose, it would have to wait. She’d spent plenty of time hungry, but he had hoped to end that now. Instead, he tugged out a new set of fabric – a green, button-up dress that he had snagged from some store. It wasn’t much, but it would cover her and probably give her some sense of security. It was uncomfortable, dressing her when she was staring vacantly at nothing, but he slid her limp arms into the sleeves and made quick work of the buttons. Work complete, he slung the pack over his shoulder and lifted Angela up once more. He watched her face, wondering if the pain from this movement would bring her back, but she was still gone. Shaking his head, he carried her back out into the night. This time, he set her in the passenger seat – reclined slightly so she could lay more comfortably – and buckled her in. Out of the pack came a protein bar and a water bottle, which he set in the center console for whenever she returned. They had a long drive ahead of them; hopefully, they could make it before Talon found them.

---

Angela returned hours later, long after the sun had peaked over the horizon. She had shifted, the movement pulling his attention from the road momentarily, before looking around the car with that same curious look she’d had before. He kept quiet, letting her get her bearings in peace. Finally, once Angela went still again, hands twisted in the soft, green cloth, he reached for the protein bar between them. She flinched, proving that – even though her eyes were downcast and her face was angled away – she was intensely focused on him. It was an effort to keep driving safely while ripping the package open – he should have opened it before driving – but he managed. “Here,” he offered, extending the opened package towards her. “I know you’re hungry.” It wasn’t much, but it wasn’t like they had a lot of options. “You’ll want to eat it slowly; there’s water, too.” Angela stared at the food for a long, considering moment before reaching out with a trembling hand. Once she had it, she fell onto it ravenously – unsurprising, despite his warning. He should have known better: they had trained her to eat quickly or suffer consequences. “Slowly, Angela.” He snapped in hopes that she would slow down; no such luck there. The bar was gone in less than a minute, leaving her picking at the crumbs on the dress and inside the packaging. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be sick. Gabriel left the water bottle, also unopened, where it sat. He doubted she had the strength to open it as she was now, and he wanted to let her stomach settle before adding anything else to it. Angela didn’t seem to notice the water right now, though he’d mentioned it, which made the denial that much easier. Once she was finished getting every bit of sustenance from the package, she crumpled it in her hand. She turned her attention to the window, watching the trees pass by; Gabriel got the impression that she was more trying to not look at him than to look at the scenery. Her entire body was tense, hands balled into fists in her lap and jaw clenched. That was fine, he told himself. They didn’t have to talk, didn’t have to say anything except for what was necessary to keep her safe and – relatively – healthy.

“Yeah, Sombra?” He demanded, angry. Baptiste hadn’t expected to hear from her, not after his request for a favor had gone south. Despite trying to warn Dr. Ziegler, she had still been captured. He was positive it was Talon that had taken her; he had just found proof that she was a target only a week before she had been kidnapped. He had called Sombra when the news had broke, but she had ignored him. That had solidified his beliefs; why would his friend – and they were friends – ignore him unless she had information she didn’t want to share? She was prideful, after all. To have been beaten to the punch must have stung. With his knowledge, he had gone to the Rialto base to stake it out and search for clues. Baptiste would have shared the information, but he wasn’t sure who to trust. There were so many organizations trying to find the doctor – but he knew that Talon had eyes and ears everywhere. He didn’t want the doctor to be put into more danger than necessary – nor did he want a target on his back while he searched. “Hey, mijo,” Sombra’s typically boisterous voice was subdued, as if she were trying not to be overheard. “So, about that favor...” Baptiste rolled his eyes, ducking back and away from where his stakeout position. He wouldn’t be able to focus on the task while talking to her. “I thought you were going to warn her.” Baptiste accused. “I know Talon has her.” He just hadn’t figured out where they had her. There were so many bases scattered across the globe; Rialto just happened to be the one closest to him. He’d hoped to pull the information from one of the higher-ranking agents, but he’d had no luck there – and now Talon was aware of his presence. “I tried, mijo, honestly.” She defended, indignant. “It’s not my fault the doctora didn’t take my warning seriously.” Baptiste knew that Sombra was a liar – one of the best, really – but he didn’t think she was lying to him now. He sighed, deflating. “Do you know where she is, then?” Baptiste barely knew the doctor – they had only worked together the one time in Venezuela – but he knew she was a good person that deserved saving. She was the type of person the world needed: a brilliant doctor with a literal healing touch. If he could, he would help her. “Even better,” Sombra confided, voice now sly, “I know where she’s going.” Baptiste knew, then, that she had helped the doctor escape; despite failing the first time, Sombra had tried to fulfill her promise differently. It seemed she had been successful. “Currently, she’s heading out to Medina, Iraq.” “Currently?” Baptiste echoed. “Yeah – the Reaper has a hiding spot out there; I doubt he knows I know about it.” Of course, she knew about it; Sombra found out everything about everyone. It was what made her so scary – and why he had asked her to warn Dr. Ziegler. If anyone could have found and reached her, it would have been Sombra. But – “The Reaper?” Absolutely no way. That man was death. He didn’t take prisoners, didn’t take anything except blood. He was one of the most – if not the most – dangerous men in Talon – and Sombra wanted him to believe that he had broken Dr. Ziegler out? “I know, right?” She chuckled. “But yeah, he’s got her. Talon’s not happy; they’re looking all over for them. I doubt he’ll stay in Medina long – he’ll probably try to reach out to Overwatch here soon – but... the doctora was in pretty bad shape.” Unsurprising, but chilling nonetheless. He’d never seen the results of torture personally, but he’d done some digging about it during his medical career in preparation for the potential inevitability. “I’ll help her. Medina, you said?” Baptiste was already trying to figure out how he was going to get to Iraq with any kind of swiftness. “I said Medina, currently.” Sombra corrected. “I’m calling in some favors; they’ll be in Numbani before the end of the day.” She sounded very confident – she must have excellent intelligence on whoever she was calling. Not only to complete a transport within the next – he glanced at his watch – sixteen hours, but to also keep quiet about who they were transporting. “Get to the airport; I’ve got transportation for you, too.” Baptiste scoffed. “You could have just led with that, you know.” He told her, moving to pack up his survey site. He’d go back to his tiny hotel room and pack. When he arrived in Numbani, he’d get supplies to treat the doctor. “Where’s the fun in that?” Sombra asked, and he chuckled. “I won’t make them wait too long.” The doctor needed him, after all. If he didn’t need to erase his presence in Rialto, to keep Talon from finding out it was him, he’d just leave his luggage behind. “Take care, mijo.” “Yeah, you too.”

---

Sombra took hiding in plain sight to a whole different level. It was eight stories off the ground and required a passcode to enter, which had surprised him considering most bolt holes were hidden. Baptiste shook his head and began setting up the apartment for the injured doctor. Foolishly, he hadn’t asked Sombra about Dr. Ziegler’s wounds, so he’d had to guess at what he would need. Mostly, Baptiste had gotten a lot of gauze with a sprinkling of other items. He’d have to get more supplies after he assessed his patient. Maybe, if he were lucky, the Reaper would be cooperative and get the supplies for him while he worked. It would be the most efficient use of their time – but cooperative wasn’t a word generally associated with the Reaper. Then again, this entire situation wasn’t something that would be associated with the Reaper – unless, of course, the Reaper was the one doing the hunting. Baptiste was pulled out of his musing by the Reaper storming into the small apartment with Dr. Ziegler cradled carefully in his arms. The sight was absolutely disconcerting and left him staring. “Well?” The Reaper demanded impatiently. Baptiste shook off the feeling; he could be weirded out by the Reaper’s apparent change – discovery? – of heart later. Right now, there was the injured doctor to tend to. He cleared his throat. “You can put her on the bed,” he explained, gesturing towards the appropriate door. The Reaper turned and stalked through it, leaving Baptiste to trail behind him. Baptiste watched as the Reaper gently laid out the doctor, taking special care with her left knee; Baptiste eyed it critically. It was black and terribly swollen – considering where she had been, it was probably broken. As the Reaper stepped away to loom against the far wall with his arms crossed, Baptiste took his place at Dr. Ziegler’s side. “Dr. Ziegler?” Baptiste asked, trying to catch her gaze. It was impossible – she was staring blankly up at the ceiling; Baptiste couldn’t even tell if she’d heard him. He glanced back towards the Reaper. “Is this normal?” Did she have a head wound, or was this psychological? There were bruises and cuts on her face, so it could be either. “Yes.” The Reaper bit out. That wasn’t a good sign, but he wasn’t sure there was anything he could do about that. He checked her head over but couldn’t find any external sign of major trauma. She had a bruised cheek, and her lip was scarred and bloody where she had bitten through it, but there was nothing that would explain the doctor’s current mental absence. He’d tried to shoo the Reaper out then, for Dr. Ziegler’s propriety, but the man had just growled at him. Baptiste, realizing it was a fight he wouldn’t win, turned back to his task. It wasn’t long before he had set her green dress aside and cut the gauze away. Baptiste inhaled sharply, horrified at the sight. “Do you know what they did?” He asked, barely keeping his voice steady as he carefully began cleaning out the wounds. Baptiste hadn’t realized how emaciated she was when she’d been bundled up in the Reaper’s arms, but laid out like this, it was obvious. He could make out her ribs under the cuts and bruises, her cheeks hollow, and eyes sunken. They’d starved her, probably dehydrated her too – he would have to figure out a way to combat those safely. Across her thin form were relatively fresh black-purple bruises mixed with healing yellow-green scattered across her body. There were gashes torn haphazardly across her flesh with no apparent pattern or reason. He hoped the majority – all, really, but he wasn’t that lucky – of her wounds were external, because he had no way to assess internal trauma here. “The better question is: what didn’t they do.” The man replied after a long moment. Baptiste’s hands paused then, just for a moment, as he looked down at the poor, broken woman on the bed. “I got her out before they could rape her,” the Reaper continued, voice deadly and cold, “but she suffered plenty of other abuse.” What a horrible silver lining, Baptiste thought. It didn’t take long to clean the wounds – surprisingly, the Reaper had done a decent job there. Baptiste followed the lines of red to her legs, finding burns among the gashes. He frowned; that would make wrapping the cuts harder since the burns needed to breathe. Some looked old and scarred, but a few were fresh and bubbling with blisters. Still, he worked his way down – and looked at the bottoms of her feet when prompted by the Reaper. He hadn’t realized that would be a target, too. The burns there were all old, but he noted them – he would need to get burn cream for all these wounds. Then Baptiste shifted her so he could see her back. Or rather, couldn’t. “What...” It seemed that her body was healing faster, here – but the wounds were still terrible. Strips of dead flesh hung raggedly along the streaks of red scabs; some were bleeding from his jostling. “I told you: she suffered.” The Reaper growled. Baptiste nodded jerkily; he had been warned, but nothing could have prepared him for this. Baptiste supported the woman carefully, considering how to best treat her back. He worried about damaging her knee further Baptiste wasn’t a doctor that knew how to put such delicate parts back together. Hell, he wasn’t a doctor at all – he was a combat medic. Still, he had a job to do. After a moment, Baptiste rolled her onto her stomach so that he could see her back entirely. The Reaper had cleaned these wounds, too. All he needed to do was remove the dead skin. Then, he was propping her up so he could slather ointment across her chest and back before wrapping her back up with gauze. The entire time, Baptiste could feel the heavy gaze of the Reaper, watching to make sure he didn’t hurt the doctor any further. It was one of the most stressful treatments he had ever administered – and he had worked in war zones. “There,” he said, sitting back with a stretch. He had treated Dr. Ziegler to the best of his ability with what supplies he had, and she was now bandaged and dressed once more. Having seen her, he had a better idea of what other things they would need. She had remained still and vacant the entire time; it was only her shallow breaths and faint pulse that had convinced Baptiste she was still alive at times. He wasn’t a psychologist of any kind, but he knew that this couldn’t be good. “How is she?” The Reaper demanded, moving away from the wall to hover over the bed on the opposite side. If Baptiste didn’t know better – and hell, apparently he didn’t considering the situation – he’d say the man looked worried, which was impossible because he was wearing a mask and body armor. “Physically?” Baptiste gestured broadly towards Dr. Ziegler’s body. “She’s healing – she’s gonna be fine. I don’t know about her knee – she needs a real doctor for that, but I’ll get a brace or something for it – but everything else?” He sighed. “Dr. Ziegler will have scars, but the gashes should be healed by the end of the week.” Baptiste had once been envious of her nanite technology and her accelerated healing, but now – seeing this – he wasn’t jealous at all. Those nanites had kept her alive, but at what cost? “Mentally? I don’t know, man.” Baptiste sighed. “I don’t know if it’s a head wound or if it’s something else; I don’t deal with that kind of stuff.” He was used to gunshot wounds and field amputations – torture was a little out of his depth. Generally, he was only with his patients for a short time, then he never saw them again; long-term care wasn’t exactly his forte. “It’s not a head wound.” The Reaper informed him. Baptiste glanced up at him curiously, but if anyone would know, it would be him. “Then I really can’t help with that.” The Reaper turned his gaze onto him then, and Baptiste could feel the baleful glare coming from behind the mask. “Man, don’t give me that look,” he said, holding his hands up defensively. “If I could help her, I would. I need more supplies to help get her physically healthy, but I can’t do anything about her mind.” The Reaper huffed. “Go get whatever she needs.” The Reaper ordered eventually. Baptiste turned away to hide his eye roll. He wandered off to the bathroom to wash his hands and then headed towards the exit, leaving the supplies strewn about – he’d need them soon enough. “No, no, don’t thank me,” he muttered as he closed the front door behind him, not daring to say anything where the Reaper could hear him. “It’s not like I flew halfway across the world or anything.” He’d have come to help Dr. Ziegler anyway, but the Reaper could be a little more grateful, couldn’t he? Then again, he was the Reaper.

All I have is one last chance, I won't turn my back on you. Take my hand, drag me down; If you fall then I will too. And I can't save what's left of you. - Without You [Breaking Benjamin]

1It’s not like I have anything better to do.

Act One | Act Two | Act Three | Act Four | Act Five | Act Six

Breaking [My Heart]: Act VI Yielding

“There's nothing simple when it comes to you and I, Always something in this everchanging life” - Everchanging [Rise Against] Winston has issued the recall towards rebuilding Overwatch. Angela - formerly known as “Mercy” - is captured by Talon, who are searching for any information that can stop the rise before it begins.

AO3 | FF.net | Works | Pandora Playlist

Trigger Warnings & General Statements This is a dark torture story. As such, there's going to be bad things happening - for the sake of not spoiling, I will not tag what, exactly will be appearing at any time. While I don't think any of the scenes are terribly graphic in nature, I do want to stress that the scenes are present and aren't for everyone. I did try to make the reactions and trauma realistic, following both real-world medicine / research and in-game universe canon (such as Angela's nanotechnology). There will be multiple POVs per chapter - two sets for both Angela and Reaper as well as a fifth from an additional character. Please, read at your own risk - and enjoy!

Here’s my chance for a new beginning I saved the best for a better ending And in the end I’ll make it up to you, you’ll see You’ll get the very best of me - One Day Too Late [Skillet]

He’d watched Baptiste go with some trepidation. What if he called Talon and told them where they were? Sure, they hadn’t been greeted by a strike team when he’d walked through the door, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be one sent now. But the only choices had been to send Baptiste out for the necessary supplies or go himself - and he was hesitant to leave Angela without protection, especially with someone he didn’t trust. He barely trusted Sombra, because he knew that she had her own agenda. Each person she had used to get them here was just another person that could sell them out. There were too many moving pieces that left her vulnerable. There were plenty of people - on both sides of the fence - that would love to get their hands on Angela as she was now. With that in mind, he set about securing the apartment as best as possible. He pulled the curtains closed - and then, for good measure, pinned them into place with some needles pilfered from Baptiste’s bag. It wouldn’t help against infrared sights like Widowmaker had, but it couldn’t hurt. Gabriel wanted to move the bed away from the window, make shooting Angela even more of an impossibility, but it just wasn’t possible. Perhaps he and Baptiste would be able to manage it once she was more aware. He pulled up a chair, placing it between Angela and the window so that - should there be a shot - he or Baptiste would, hopefully, take the bullet for her. Because of the angle it sat at, it was impossible to see into the next room when seated; he didn’t like that, either, but there was only so much he could do. After moving quickly through the rest of the small apartment, tugging the curtains closed as he had in the bedroom and hiding away various sharp objects, he returned into the bedroom and gently closed the door behind him. He stalked around the bed to settle on the chair, pulling out one of his shotguns and laying it on the nightstand - as far from Angela as he could - for easier access. Then he had nothing left to do but wait. He wasn’t sure what, exactly, would come first: Baptiste’s return or Angela’s awakening.

---

Angela had fallen into an uneasy sleep about fifteen minutes ago, going from lazy stillness to nervous twitching. Gabriel had called out to her softly, but she hadn’t reacted to his voice or her name. He watched her as she shifted and breathed shakily, clearly having another of her terrible dreams. Angela was no stranger to bad dreams - he had woken her from, or had been woken by, those dreams once upon a time - so he wasn’t sure if waking her would be the right call. She needed the rest - meager as it was - so Gabriel decided to leave her alone. If she started crying or screaming, he could wake her then. Two knocks at the front door had him pushing to his feet. He was standing in the bedroom doorway, shotgun in hand, as the front door opened. He kept the gun at his side - it was probably Baptiste because what kind of strike team knocked? - as he tugged the bedroom door shut behind him. Indeed, it was Baptiste; the Haitian man raised his hands slightly as if to show he wasn’t a threat. Baptiste opened his mouth, but then seemed to think better of it; instead, he turned to go into the kitchen and put away whatever it was that he had bought. Gabriel planned to watch him - as if he hadn’t left Baptiste unsupervised while he was out getting supplies - but he heard Angela make a small noise of fear. He turned away from the medic to reenter the bedroom. “Angela?” Gabriel kept his voice soft; he wasn’t sure if she was still asleep or reacting to her new surroundings. Her body tensed at his voice; she was awake, then. Gabriel was grateful for the quiet return. Talking her down from the nightmares was more challenging when he probably was her nightmare. “It’s alright, Angela,” he murmured as she opened her eyes and stopped pretending that she was sleeping. Warily, she scanned the room. “You’re safe.” Gabriel could see the doubt in her eyes and couldn’t blame her; what reason had he given her to trust him? None. He’d betrayed her at every turn - how could she believe that he was telling the truth now? Her eyes hardened as she stared at his right hand; he’d forgotten that he was holding a gun. “It’s not - I’m not going to shoot you, Angela.” Gabriel knew Angela and her moods better than anyone, and not even he could determine what flashed across her face. He could, however, tell what it wasn’t: relief. In the short time he had left Talon base for that failed mission in Russia, she had lost her fire. He had watched the recording of her ‘execution’; he’d seen the relief at the threat of the gun and the sheer despair when it was a lie. It was what kept him from setting the gun anywhere within her reach. Gabriel wasn’t sure if she’d use it against him or herself - or both. He’d gamble with his life, but he was done gambling with hers. Instead, he holstered it. He watched her face carefully, but Angela was no longer looking at him. She was looking around, searching the walls for whatever it was that helped her mind escape and generally doing anything to keep her eyes from landing on his form. He could tell, though, by the rigid way she held herself and the tightness in her eyes, that Angela was very aware of him. She would react to any movement, no matter how small. Baptiste knocked on the door frame, drawing Angela’s panicked attention as the medic paused just outside the room. He saw the recognition that changed to pain - betrayal - in her eyes as she took in the Haitian man, and then she was walled away again as she turned away to stare at the ceiling. Gabriel hadn’t realized Angela would know the man Sombra had sent. That new knowledge had him stalking across the room, forcing himself to ignore the way she flinched away and turn his back on her for a brief moment. “She knows you?” He whispered furiously, angling himself again so that he could watch her. Now that she was free, unbound, he worried about what she might do to herself. “We worked together once, about a year ago,” Baptiste replied, leaning against the door with his arms crossed as he kept his eyes fixed on him; Gabriel could understand his wariness. The Reaper was the biggest threat in the room. “Why?” The flippant tone made Gabriel want to throttle him. “Why?” Was he an idiot? “Look at her,” he ordered, one hand flying up to point in Angela’s direction. The woman flinched away - she was watching them, even when she didn’t appear to be. Baptiste frowned as he took in the broken woman again; her whole body radiated tension as she pointedly stared at the ceiling. When she thought they weren’t looking, she was stealing glances from her peripherals. Angela was still tense, trembling intermittently from the intensity, fists balled tightly; Gabriel doubted she even realized she was clenching them. “She doesn’t believe that any of this is real.” Every time she flinched and looked at him with those wounded eyes, he was reminded of it. He was the Reaper - Talon - and was not to be - could not be - trusted. Gabriel doubted she would believe it even if Cole Cassidy were to stroll in here right now and carry her away to whatever safe haven Overwatch had built. “She thinks you’re working with Talon.” It might be a misunderstanding, but right now, any misstep would further injure her. He was seething inside; she was hurt again after he had sworn she wouldn’t be. Baptiste sighed, deflating. He hadn’t been able to see what Angela was like when she was coherent - or, at least, whatever passed for coherency for her these days. “You need to get her help.” His cheerful attitude was gone, his face grave as he turned back to Gabriel. “Not this half-assed shit: real help.” Gabriel ground his teeth; what did this man think he was doing? It wasn’t like he had a lot of time - or many options. “I’m working on it.” The response was tight. If he could, he would just take her in to see a doctor. Gabriel wasn’t sure when it would ever be safe enough for her to be seen in such a manner, now that Talon had gotten its hooks in her. He wasn’t sure if she’d ever feel safe enough to leave whatever Watchpoint he’d end up delivering her to. Baptiste turned away without speaking. Gabriel wasn’t sure what he was going for, but he wasn’t going to leave Angela alone to find out. Instead, Gabriel strode back around the bed to sit in the chair at her side and pretended that she didn’t try to scoot away from him once he settled. Pretended he hadn’t heard the low, pained noise she had made when the movement hurt something - probably her knee. Pretended that she wasn’t tearing his heart out with every look and flinch.

---

Gabriel wished that he could call Sombra; that would make contacting Overwatch so much easier. Instead, he had to try and hunt them down the old fashioned way. That wasn’t - usually - a problem, but he usually didn’t have a half-dead doctor he was trying to hide. Normally he wasn’t on the run from Talon, either. If Overwatch had stayed at Watchpoint: Gibraltar, his life would have been easier - but then Talon’s task would have been, too. Now he was left trying to figure out what Watchpoint Winston might have chosen. He doubted they had moved too far, so he was pretty sure they were still somewhere in the European continent. That was still a good number of Watchpoints to look into - and all of them were on a completely different continent from him. Gabriel had briefly entertained the thought that they might create a new base, one that no one - not the UN, not the various enemies of Overwatch - knew about, but he had tossed the idea aside. The creation of a new base would take up time and resources that they just didn’t have now, especially once he considered how active many former members - like Reinhardt and Tracer - were in the search for Angela. There was the tip line that Tracer had spouted on behalf of the UN, but he was hesitant to use such a public method to reach out. There was no guarantee he would get someone he trusted to appear - and Gabriel wasn’t giving Angela to anyone he didn’t trust. Not even to Winston, though he knew Angela trusted the monkey and that she would be perfectly safe in his care. Gabriel didn’t trust it - never had and, at this point, never would - no matter how much Angela did. It had been hard enough to leave Angela in Baptiste’s care. Sombra had assured him that Baptiste only had Angela’s best interests at heart - had, in fact, tried to warn Angela that Talon was coming for her, though she had left out the part where they knew each other - but that didn’t mean Gabriel trusted him. Still, perhaps Angela would recover better without Gabriel - the Reaper - looming over her bedside. Hopefully, Angela would move past what appeared to be a betrayal by yet another person from her past. Hopefully, their shared history was positive enough to let her trust Baptiste in a way she no longer could trust Gabriel. He hated that he had broken that trust. He couldn’t change the past, though. He couldn’t take back the hateful things he did or said; all he could do now was try to make it better. That was why he was prowling in the dark, forgotten areas of the city. Even the precious “City of Harmony” couldn’t avoid crime; it was part of human nature. Instead, they pretended those places didn’t exist because they didn’t fit in the picture-perfect world they had created. Oh, the Reaper was sure that authorities tried to flush out these hot spots, but they would keep popping up. Eventually, they would give up, instead settling for knowing where the crime would be instead of trying to smother it, just like every other city in the world. Gabriel was hoping to find one of his contacts from his Blackwatch days. This contact was a shared one between many agents; Gabriel was sure that Cassidy had been one of the agents who used this particular man. If Cassidy was searching for Angela - and Gabriel knew he would be, even if he couldn’t be public about it - he’d have tapped any and all sources for help. Even if it were a tool he’d thought he’d thrown away long ago when he had left Blackwatch. Gabriel wouldn’t pass a message - no, that was too dangerous - but he might be able to get a location on the cowboy. All that would be left after that was contact and delivery; then Angela could, hopefully, be left in some semblance of peace.

Her eyes opened to blinding white lights. She became aware of her arms, straining at the shoulders from where she sagged against the chains that held her up; they shook with relief when she managed to brace her right leg on the slippery floor. Angela was dripping wet; they had just thrown the icy water over her, shocking her awake. Angela had known she would be back here. An escape had been too good to be true; Gabriel was dead and the Reaper had tricked her in such a vile way. Fingers dug into her cheeks painfully, forcing her head backward until her neck ached. “Didn’t I tell you, princess?” The Speaker was right in front of her, just out of sight due to the lights as he sneered. “We won’t let you go that easily.” He laughed, finding pleasure in her despair. Before he stopped, the strap with its many sharp edges cleaved into her back, tearing her back away one jagged gash at a time. Angela bit down on her lip, swallowing down a scream, as it all began again. She had to hold out and survive the pain and the overwhelming tide of despair. Questions. Pain. Silence. Drowning. Screaming. It felt like they had her for hours, the questions echoing and repeating around her as they hurt her. She hadn’t been able to keep back her sounds of pain, starting as whimpers and ending with throat-burning screams. It had to end soon, right? They always stopped, always gave her a short respite to recover and gather the ragged bits of herself back together. Shaking. She was shaking, a different voice calling over the Speaker. Angela blinked in confusion; no one but the Speaker talked to her during these sessions. When her eyes opened again, the blinding light and chains were gone. She was no longer hanging from chains but lying on something soft. Angela flinched back from the familiar man hovering over her, concerned as he looked down at her. Angela didn’t know how to handle such gentle emotions any longer - she didn’t believe in them enough to trust them after everything she had been through - so Angela turned her head slightly so she could stare at a wall instead. It wasn’t the same white wall she had become accustomed to. It was a beige color, textured instead of smooth concrete. “Dr. Ziegler?” Baptiste’s voice was hesitant as he removed his hand from her shoulder slowly; Angela hadn’t even realized he was touching her until the hand was removed - and wasn’t that foolish? He’d been shaking her, so of course he was touching her. She kept her eyes away from his form and instead swept them across the room, searching as she always did. Her friends had returned on the day of her ‘escape’ when the Reaper had been cleaning her body with painful gentleness. Angela vaguely remembered Baptiste. They had worked together some time ago, and he had seemed like a good man. But that he was here, in this room with her, meant that he couldn’t be trusted. This was a trap, a trick to get her to let her guard down and betray her friends - her true friends, not this one-time ally from some far off place and time. “Dr. Ziegler?” The man asked again. Angela glanced up towards him, body tensed and ready for the pain that had become expected. Her wary eyes met his concerned ones for a brief moment before glancing away again. Angela refused to speak because she knew that if she did, she might never stop. Instead, she looked around her new prison. It was a bedroom, she realized finally. She couldn’t see much from her prone position, but there were doorways and a small table - nightstand - next to the bed she laid in. The softness was alien and almost unbearable after so many days - weeks? Months? - sleeping on cold concrete or suspended by chains. “You may not remember me, doctor,” Baptiste’s voice was cheery, not at all deterred by her silence. Angela couldn’t tell if it was forced or real. “We worked together in Venezuela a year or so ago. My name is Baptiste.” He paused there, giving her time to respond if she so chose - which she did not. Once it was obvious she was planning to remain silent, Baptiste continued. “You’ve been sleeping a while, Dr. Ziegler. I’m sure you’re hungry.” At the reminder, her stomach suddenly made itself very known. Yes, she was hungry - not that she would admit it aloud. “If you’ll just wait right here, I’ll get that fixed right up. Sound good?” As if she were in any position to leave this bed. After another long moment of silence, Baptiste nodded once and left the room. Angela pressed her arms down against the mattress in an attempt to sit upright. Her body’s weakness and the pliable mattress made the attempt impossible. She wasn’t sure what she had expected; she had barely been capable of pushing herself off the hardened concrete to eat the last time they had fed her. When she finally lay still again, she was panting and shaking from the exertion. She had jostled her knee, which was now throbbing and pulsing in reprimand for her movements. But, Angela had discovered that she wasn’t restrained - except, of course, by her weak body. Her trembling hands explored the bed, marveling at the soft cloth and smooth sheets, before sliding to her body. There was some cloth covering her - a brief glance down showed some sort of green fabric. Angela marveled at that, too. It had been a long time since she had been clothed, since her naked body hadn’t been on display for everyone to see. Her fingers were playing with one of the buttons when Baptiste walked back in with a small tray. He placed the tray on a second table to her right, one that she hadn’t noticed when she was avoiding looking at him. “Now, unless you want to wear your food, you’re going to have to be sitting up.” Angela frowned; she had already tried that, which meant he would have to touch her again. As he reached out, Angela tensed. When his hands grabbed her with a careful, practiced touch, she began shaking, forcing him to pause. “It’s alright, doctor,” he soothed as he began lifting her despite her tension. “Just bear with me a little bit.” Angela stared past Baptiste towards the ceiling - and then the wall, once he had maneuvered her upright. “There we go!” Baptiste released her slowly, as if she would fall over without his support. Angela was leaning heavily against the pillows that he had propped behind her, so she was in no danger of falling. Once he was satisfied, he settled in a chair pulled up close to her bedside and grabbed a bowl from the tray he had brought in. “Now, I know, this isn’t exactly how you want to do this,” Baptiste said, scooping some broth up with a spoon and holding it up towards her face. “In a few days, you’ll be strong enough to do it yourself.” Angela didn’t want to eat, despite her hunger and weakness. Eating would prolong her existence and keep her in their clutches that much longer. But she knew what the consequences of not eating would be. Rough hands forcing her mouth open until her jaws creaked, food stuffed down her throat until she thought she would suffocate as she swallowed and swallowed to try and breathe. No, she didn’t want that. Resigned, she ate the broth he offered. The warmth soothed her throat - which she hadn’t even realized was sore - and pooled in her stomach comfortably. It tasted bitter, though; despite herself, she recoiled and glanced up at him in horror. What was in that liquid? Something to help calm her, to make her more pliable for their questions? He looked surprised, before realization crossed his face. “You probably can taste the supplements I added,” Baptiste explained hurriedly. “It’s nothing bad; just some extra protein and vitamins to help you recover.” He muttered something about the taste under his breath, but it was low enough that she didn’t catch all of it. “Seriously, look,” Baptiste ate a spoonful of the broth himself, as if to prove its safety; Angela knew that one spoonful was nothing compared to an entire bowl, but what could she do? Resigned, she went through the motions of eating as he fed her slowly - far slower than she was used to. Each time, the bitterness struck her and her anxiety spiked – but she couldn’t tell what the drug was doing to her. Perhaps he had been telling the truth, though Angela highly doubted it. Baptiste chattered brightly at her as she ate, but she wasn’t listening. Refused to listen, because Angela recognized it for the trap that it was. They had tried to break her with pain and death, but they had failed. Now, they were trying to break her with kindness and gentle hands. Angela wouldn’t allow that to happen; she had been through far too much to fail now. He was trying to befriend her, to get behind her walls to crack her open and reveal her secrets. Only one person had ever been capable of doing that - and he was dead, even though his body still roamed the Earth. Angela was surprised he wasn’t here, looming in a corner or hovering over her, trying to convince her that he was still Gabriel and not the Reaper. He’d sat with her the last time she’d woken, but, unlike Baptiste, he had barely spoken to her. He’d just sat there, brooding while she pretended he didn’t exist. She had found Ana then, perched on the dresser that was barely in her line of sight. Angela had let Ana soothe her until she could fall into an uneasy sleep - which Baptiste had helpfully woken her from. “Alright, all done.” Baptiste finally declared, setting the spoon and bowl back onto the tray. Angela’s hunger wasn’t satisfied, but that wasn’t unusual. Just like pain, hunger had become a constant companion to her these days. “Now.” Angela glanced towards him briefly - he was leaning forward slightly, looking a little uncomfortable. “Do you mind if I check your wounds and change your bandages?” She stiffened, eyes darting away to sweep the room again. No one was here - at least, not now. Perhaps they would arrive soon. “You’ve got some bad cuts there, doctor.” Baptiste continued carefully, when it was clear she wasn’t going to speak - or give any kind of permission at all. At least he was keeping his hands to himself while he was trying to convince her. “I just want to make sure they don’t get infected.” Infection was the least of her worries; in fact, if she were lucky - which she didn’t seem to be - an infection would kill her. Baptiste sighed. “Alright. It can wait a little while - but we have to check them soon.” Angela was surprised at the capitulation. She had expected him to press the matter - but that wasn’t how this worked, she realized. They wanted her comfortable, and forcing her into doing something wouldn’t meet that goal. That was why they’d brought in a familiar face to care for her, after all. They wanted her to let her guard down so that they could wean the information they wanted from her. He offered her the water, which she drank just as mechanically as she had the broth. Then, he chattered at her again, apparently unable to stand the silence. Angela tuned him out to the best of her ability as she looked around the room again. Still no one - not her friends nor the Reaper. Angela supposed the latter was a small mercy.

---

After each meal, Baptiste asked for her permission to look at her wounds. Finally, after her fourth meal – oatmeal, this time – he had pressed the matter. “I know it’s uncomfortable, Doctor,” Baptiste had said, carefully trying to pull the blanket away from her tight grip, “but your injuries need tending.” As a doctor, she knew that he was right. As a person, she didn’t care. It had taken him the better part of fifteen minutes to persuade her to let him pull away the blanket. He didn’t attempt to reach for her dress, not yet; instead, he turned his attention to her legs. Aside from the squares of gauze taped carefully to her skin, Angela’s legs were bare. Her eyes immediately fell on her knee, still a terrible purple-black and swollen even after – well, she didn’t actually know how long it had been since the Reaper had pulled her down from the chains. Baptiste noticed her attention and pulled out something. “I’ve got a brace for that,” he offered, holding up the object. “I wasn’t sure if I should put it on, considering the other wounds.” The brace would wrap and hold her knee in place, but it would also press against the half-healed burns and gashes still present. If she weren’t the patient, Angela would have put the brace on; the knee would continue to be damaged for as long as it was left free and unsupported. But, she was the patient – and she desperately wanted to die. Angela wouldn’t give him any advice towards her care, not even in this small thing that would only give her more comfort. If she broke her silence, she would be tempted again – and then they would have her. Instead, she ignored his unspoken question and let her gaze wander to the left, away from the man and his expectant gaze. Angela heard him sigh and set the brace down. She ignored the careful fingers that pulled the tape from her skin. Ignored the cool spread of ointment and the gentle, painful press where he held the gauze in place as he secured it. Once her legs were done, she tensed. Though Angela wanted to die – and, therefore, did not want medical attention – she especially didn’t want to be naked again. The dress was the only protection she had, besides her silence. It was flimsy and frail, but it was hers. Still, he persisted until the dress was unbuttoned and her bandages were bared. Angela glanced down at herself briefly – her broken skin was hidden from her by layers of gauze – before her gaze found the wall again. As Baptiste cut the gauze away, her attention was drawn towards the door; it had been left open by the man when he’d brought in her meal. Low voices, barely loud enough for Angela to hear, trickled into the room. “–ch longer—going to take?” Angela went cold. She had known that this was too good to be true. She had been trembling under Baptiste’s touch, but now she was shaking in pure fear. Until the day she died – which, hopefully, would be very soon – Angela would recognize the Speaker’s voice. “You—a month,” the Reaper growled back quietly. “Doctor?” Baptiste’s concerned voice drowned out whatever else the Reaper said to the Speaker. She couldn’t look away from the door, couldn’t stop straining to hear the words that would condemn her. She was panting heavily, eyes wide with terror as she cowered back from the door, even though it brought her closer to Baptiste. “–ot gonna–” The Speaker said, but Baptiste spoke over them again. “What is it?” He rose from his seat, the movement momentarily distracting Angela from the door and the monsters in the other room. Baptiste left everything as it was – gauze and tools laid about, her bandages partially cut away – as he grabbed a gun; she hadn’t noticed it since it had been propped up against the far side of the nightstand. Competent hands lifted the weapon as he stalked around the bed to investigate the other room. Angela wasn’t fooled; he was in on this charade. He was just acting for her benefit, to cover up the fact that this was a trick. She doubted that she was expected to hear the voices; they had been quiet and Baptiste had been distracting her with the stress of a bandage change. Her ears still strained to hear the words, but she couldn’t make any out. She could hear the voices of the Speaker and the Reaper, but their words were no longer intelligible between the roaring in her ears and their volume. Baptiste glanced into the other room cautiously before carefully exiting to ‘look’ more thoroughly. Angela looked away again; she couldn’t hear the words and she didn’t want to watch him come back in with his lies. Angela’s eyes cut across the bed towards the right side of the room – where Baptiste had just been sitting – and paused, fixated on the sheets next to her leg. He had left all of his supplies scattered around, including the bandage scissors he had been using to remove the gauze around her chest. Angela reached out for the tool with shaking fingers that steadied once she had it in hand. Relief chased away her terror, but she knew that she didn’t have a lot of time before Baptiste returned. Angela barely hesitated – she would not go back to the Speaker, to his chains and the pain. She knew that she would have to cut deep; that if she didn’t, either her nanites or Baptiste would put her back together more quickly than she could bleed out. With a steadying breath, she pressed the sharp edge of the scissors against her left forearm near her elbow before dragging down towards her wrist. It stung, but it was nothing compared to the pain she had experienced – and the pain she was trying to avoid. Switching the blade to her left hand was more of a challenge; everything was suddenly more messy, now that her blood was flowing freely. She should have used her left hand first; it was her least dominant that was now slick with blood and shaking again. “There’s nothing ou—Doctor!“ Baptiste stepped through the door as she was dragging a line through her right arm; he was across the room and yanking the scissors from her grip before she could get more than halfway down her right forearm. Swearing up a storm, he used one hand to clamp down on her left arm in an attempt to stop as much of the blood flow as possible, as his other scrambled to grab some of the loose gauze. Angela tried to struggle out from under his grip; the blood that was absolutely everywhere helped in that regard, and she managed to free her arm for a short moment – then he was upon her again. “Stay still,” Baptiste shouted, but she ignored the order and just squirmed more. Angela was surprised he didn’t call for help from the other room – or that someone didn’t rush in to try to help him. Angela knew there were at least two men out there; one was the Reaper, who could come in without ‘surprising’ her, because she’d seen him here before. In response to her squirming and attempts to escape his grasp, Baptiste moved until he was over her on the bed, pinning her down with his body weight as he focused on her arms. The positioning made her nauseous with terror, her body going cold – but perhaps that was from the blood loss. “No,” Angela whimpered plaintively as he began winding the gauze around her left forearm tightly – too tight, the medical professional in her noted but, right now, she doubted he cared. Angela twisted, trying to throw him off balance or drag herself out from underneath him. She was too weak for it to be more than a slight annoyance, and he ignored her struggles as he wrapped the gauze haphazardly around her arm. As she knew all too well, it didn’t have to look pretty to get the job done. Angela panted, terrified; though she knew it was pointless, she continued to try and escape – even as he tied off the bandage on her left arm. Already, she could see the faint pink tint staining the white gauze, but she knew that this was merely a stopgap; he had to slow her bleeding before he could properly stitch her back up. She knew she wasn’t weak enough, hadn’t bled enough, to die – but she was too weak to stop him. Tears welled; Baptiste had won. She wouldn’t get another chance – she had been lucky to get this chance. Angela was going to go back to that room, the room she desperately wanted to avoid. Her right arm went faster than the left, considering the gash was smaller than the other. He tied that off, too, before glancing around the room. Angela knew he was looking for his medical kit, which was just out of reach of the bed – on purpose, so that Angela couldn’t get her hands on anything like the bandage scissors he’d carelessly left on the bed. That forced him to leave the bed, leaving her free to writhe away and try to rip the bandages off. She had nearly thrown herself off the left side of the bed when his hand clamped down on her right arm and dragged her back. The action also pulled her hand away from the bandages, though she had managed to loosen the knot he’d quickly tied. As he turned back to his kit for a moment, her fingers lifted to yank at the knot again and began unwinding the bandages. She had nearly gotten all of them off when he clamped down on her again – this time, not to stop her actions, but to hold her still so he could inject her with something. “I’m sorry, Doctor.” His voice was distant and fuzzy as he yanked her right hand away and began undoing all her work as quickly as possible. “You left me no choice.” Her head was swimming, and she couldn’t focus – what had he given her? Hopefully, he’d given her too much, considering her malnutrition, wounds, and blood loss; if he did, she’d never wake up. Her eyes fluttered closed as he turned away once more, her arms securely wrapped in the protective gauze.

Gabriel froze when he walked into the bedroom, taking in the bloody tableau. The blankets were thrown on the floor carelessly, and sheets were stained with red. Small droplets of blood had splattered on the headboard as well as the carpet close to the bed. Angela’s arms, which had been bare when he left this morning, were now wrapped heavily with gauze. A noise pulled Gabriel’s attention away from Angela to look over at the medic. He was setting down his weapon – an impressive looking assault rifle that had, apparently, been modified for healing, though he hadn’t used any of it in this room – against the nightstand. Then, he leaned back in the chair, looking exhausted; through the whole thing, Baptiste never took his eyes off of the doctor. “What happened?” Gabriel demanded, snarling. He knew he should keep his voice down – or at least moderate it to be less vicious – for Angela’s sake, but it was hard when faced with this. “She got my scissors,” Baptiste admitted, not a single trace of his typical humor. Gabriel turned his gaze back to Angela, horrified; she was breathing steadily and – for all appearances – seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Angela didn’t sleep peacefully – not even when she was so exhausted that she forgot her nightmares in the morning. Gabriel knew that she always twitched and shifted, murmuring softly or crying out; the bedding would often be twisted when they woke, and it wasn’t from any fun nighttime activity. No, her sleeping this way was unnatural, especially after her torture from the last month. “How did you let that happen?” Gabriel growled, forcing himself to remain in the doorway. If he moved closer, he would probably rip out Baptiste’s throat – and he still needed the medic. “I managed to convince – I think, or maybe she gave up? Anyways, – her to let me change her bandages. I did her legs and was just beginning to remove the gauze around her torso when she made this quiet noise.” Baptiste paused there, appearing to be at a loss for words; Gabriel forced himself to look at the medic, because to continue looking at the bandages was infuriating him. “It made my hair stand on end, man; I couldn’t help but look up.” He rubbed at his arms absently. “She’s so amped, you know? Nervous. Always looking around, always noticing things even if she wasn’t looking.” Gabriel did know; she was hypervigilant. It wasn’t unexpected, considering everything she’d been through. “So, when I saw her staring at the door, looking so scared, I thought maybe she’d heard something I didn’t.” Baptiste gestured at his rifle. “I went to investigate, make sure we weren’t under attack. I didn’t find anyone, so I came back to finish up with her.” Baptiste took a heavy breath. “I wasn’t gone for more than two minutes, I swear.” A lot could happen in two minutes, as both men were aware. “I came back and she was cutting at one of her arms; I took the scissors away and tried to stop the bleeding.” Baptiste looked nauseous as he finally lifted his gaze from the doctor to look at the Reaper. “She fought me hard; I’ve never seen anyone so desperate to die.” His voice was bleak, face ashen. “I had to pin her down to get the first set of gauze on.” Gabriel was unsurprised at Angela’s determination, even though it saddened him. He’d seen it in the armory weeks ago, when she’d gone for the gun. That determination – despair – had only increased since then. “She nearly ripped the bandages off again before I sedated her,” Baptiste sighed. “I don’t know if the dosage was too much, considering everything. She’s been down for a few hours.” That explained the peaceful breathing, then. “I told you,” Gabriel rumbled into the silence. “I told you she thought this was a trick. I warned you that she was suicidal.” He had trusted this man with her safety – and that trust had been betrayed. The Reaper wanted to paint the walls red with Baptiste’s blood, but he couldn’t. Gabriel needed Baptiste’s medical experience, even though he’d nearly allowed Angela to die on his watch. Besides, if the Reaper decorated the room with Baptiste’s insides, Angela would be even more terrified than she already was. “Get out,” Gabriel ordered, stepping further into the room so that Baptiste could comply. He needed a few hours without seeing the medic, a few hours to watch Angela breathe and assure himself that – despite yet another injury under his care – she was alive. A few hours to berate himself for being so careless. Baptiste scrambled to his feet, somehow managing to carry a tray laden with a bowl and his gun as he made for the door. Gabriel noticed that Baptiste kept as much distance as possible between the two of them as he moved. “Call me if you need anything,” Baptiste told him quietly as he strode through the door. Gabriel stalked over to close it, barely keeping himself from slamming it. Then he made his way around the bed to take the seat Baptiste had vacated to watch Angela breathe.

---

“Hello?” Gabriel was surprised that Cassidy didn’t sound more defensive – but, then again, he’d probably scattered his contact information as widely as possible to try and find Angela. It was likely the cowboy had received several calls from unknown numbers in the past month. “Is this Cole Cassidy?” Gabriel asked, though he already knew the answer. Over familiarity at this early stage would make the man far more defensive than Angela had time for. Gabriel’s eyes darted to the woman, who was still sleeping peacefully on the bloodstained sheets. He’d sent Baptiste out for new bedding - apparently, this apartment didn’t have any. Gabriel hadn’t wanted to call Cassidy tonight – he had planned to call tomorrow when he was able to slip away from the apartment and have the conversation where Angela couldn’t possibly overhear. However, her suicide attempt required things to move even faster. Even though Gabriel wasn’t in the mood to be speaking to anyone at the moment, it was necessary for Angela’s safety – so he would force himself to remain civil for a phone conversation. “Who’s askin’?” There was the defensive note; perhaps he hadn’t given his name out with his number. That would be a wise decision, considering the incredibly high bounty Cassidy still had on his head. Gabriel couldn’t give him his name – either name – at this point, however. To tell him he was the Reaper would destroy any possibility of a somewhat peaceful delivery of Angela. To tell him he was Gabriel Reyes, his presumed-dead and traitorous ex-Commander, wouldn’t go over any better. “I’m the person who’s rescued Dr. Ziegler,” he growled instead, voice quiet in deference to the sleeping blonde. Once they had hashed everything out – like where Cassidy could come to get her – he could give the cowboy his name. Cassidy inhaled sharply. “You’ve got her?” He repeated, doubtful. “Lemme talk to her.” Gabriel looked at the doctor again. Even if she were conscious, he couldn’t have let her speak to Cassidy. She would scream about it being a trap, to stay away – and, while he didn’t believe for a second that Cassidy would listen to her warning, it would make things far more complicated than necessary. “She’s sleeping right now,” Gabriel said instead. “I can send you a picture if you’d like.” He’d have to find a blanket that didn’t have bloodstains to cover up the mess, but he could make that happen. “Right. B’cause those can’t be faked or anythin’,” Cassidy drawled, ever the cynic. Still, Gabriel could hear the faint note of hope in his voice; Gabriel doubted they’d had any good leads on finding Angela. If they had known Talon had her, there would have been a lot more violence reported in the news. “Look,” Gabriel growled, his temper too frayed to properly deal with Cassidy’s caution. Still, he had to find the words to convince the cowboy that this wasn’t a prank or a trap. “Talon is chasing us. I don’t know how long we have until they find us.” That was the complete truth. He was already considering moving them out of Numbani; he had used his outfit and reputation to bully Cassidy’s number out of the criminals here, which would eventually find its way to Talon’s ears. “You got her away from Talon?” Gabriel rolled his eyes; seriously, he could tone down the incredulity. “Is this 76?” Gabriel wasn’t surprised that Jack was out looking for Angela. She was important to him – to them both – despite everything that had happened in the past. He was surprised that Jack had contacted Overwatch, regardless of what name he had given them. “No, this isn’t 76,” he admitted; lying about it would come out wherever they met, which would only lead to further hostilities. “How’d ya get this number?” Incredulity melted into harsh suspicion, which was more along the lines of what Gabriel had expected. “Why’d ya call me instead of the tip line?” All fair questions. “You spread the word underground that you’ve been looking for information on the doctor,” Gabriel told him; he’d barely had to mention the cowboy’s name to learn that. It was almost a joke among the gangsters – a notorious criminal with an enormous bounty was searching for the doctor? There’d been some talk about trapping the cowboy, luring him in so that they could get the prize; they’d even offered to split the money with him if he helped. Considering Gabriel needed Cassidy to remain a free man, he’d declined. “An’ ya didn’ call the tip line? I ain’t got the money for the reward they’re offerin’.” The reward was pretty substantial – nowhere near the amount of Cassidy’s bounty, but still a significant amount nonetheless. “I don’t want the money,” Gabriel growled, “I just want her safe.” Even if she trusted him – wasn’t broken in a way he couldn’t fix – Angela couldn’t stay with him. Talon was coming, and he was just one man. Gabriel couldn’t protect her in the way she needed if she remained. He’d kill her enemies from the shadows before they reached her, instead. “She trusts you,” he added. Gabriel paused, and then, “I trust you.” “You tru—who is this?” Cassidy thundered. Gabriel didn’t think the cowboy believed he had Angela; without being allowed to speak and Cassidy not accepting a photograph, it would be hard to convince the cynical cowboy. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Gabriel was stalling; the Reaper was disgusted with his cowardice. Just say it and get it over with. “Try me,” the cowboy’s voice was hard. “You know me by two different names,” Gabriel started, because he’d have to give both names before the conversation was over. The first name would be the one that proved his honesty. The second name would, hopefully, keep him from being shot on sight. “I’m Gabriel Reyes.” Cassidy made a disbelieving noise. “Reyes is dead.” The words were a snarl, almost as if he were trying to convince himself. “And if he weren’t, I’d kill him myself.” Well. Cassidy hadn’t hung up yet, at least. “You call her Ange,” he said quietly. “She stayed with you for two nights straight when you lost your arm.” She had cried, too – but he was pretty sure the cowboy didn’t know that fact; the Angela from that time hadn’t been one for showing ‘weak’ emotions in public. Gabriel searched his memory for something that wouldn’t have been – relatively – widely known throughout the two organizations. Gabriel didn’t like to think of his time with the organizations he destroyed - didn’t like to remember the happiness he had tossed aside - so it took him a moment to find something to tell Cassidy. “One mission in Finland, you and I stayed up too late and drank too much tequila, which allowed our mark - Korhonen or Koskinen or some kind of nen, I don’t remember - to get away.” It had been stupid – they had been stupid – but it was something only they knew; Gabriel hadn’t even told Angela the real reason why he’d been delayed in coming home. Cassidy inhaled sharply, but Gabriel ignored it and continued. “Took three days to find him again, but we found him and brought him in.” “Th’hell you doin’ with Ange, Reyes?” Despite the anger, Gabriel was relieved; Cassidy believed him. “You shouldn’ even be alive, not after what you’ve done.” He couldn’t blame Cassidy for his ire – Gabriel deserved it and far more. “I told you: I rescued her.” Gabriel tactfully left out the part where he had been the one to kidnap her in the first place. That could come out later – when he wasn’t around to get shot, even if he deserved it. “She needs help that I can’t give her; they worked her over, and it isn’t pretty.” Angela shifted a little, drawing his attention. The sedative must be wearing off, finally. Hopefully, she would stay asleep until he finished this call – and there wasn’t a screaming nightmare to deal with. “They—she—shit!“ Gabriel didn’t believe that Cassidy thought Angela had been safe this whole time. Cassidy knew, better than most, what she had probably faced during her captivity. Still, the abstract was always more comfortable to handle than the reality; Gabriel had learned that the hard way – and the lesson had cost Angela far too much. “Angela will be better off in your – in Overwatch’s – care. I need to get her to you, now.” Gabriel explained quietly once the silence had dragged just a little too long. “I know you’re pissed at me, but don’t take it out on her.” The silence dragged on again as Cassidy wrestled with himself; Gabriel hoped he wouldn’t take too long, else Angela would awaken and he’d have to deal with her instead of the cowboy. “Damn you, Reyes,” Cassidy snarled after a moment. “Fine. I’ll get a ride; where’s the drop?” Gabriel gave him coordinates of an empty field a few miles outside of Numbani. It was utterly devoid of cover, which would hopefully prove that he – at least – wasn’t trying to trap the cowboy. “Tomorrow, then?” “Tomorrow,” Gabriel confirmed gravely as Angela began to murmur softly. Tomorrow, he would say goodbye again, this time for good. Tomorrow, he would never see her again – not even from a distance, because he doubted she would ever leave whatever base Cassidy took her to. “You said ya had two names, Reyes. What’s th’second one?” Gabriel tensed; he knew it had to come out – if Cassidy came to a field and the Reaper had Angela, they’d shoot first and ask questions later. He didn’t want to risk her taking another bullet for him. “The Reaper.” Gabriel disconnected before he could hear Cassidy’s response.

Angela jolted into sudden wakefulness when a hand closed on her shoulder. Wild-eyed, she turned to find the mask of the Reaper. “Easy, cariño. You’re alright.” Angela shivered and looked away; she knew that he meant the words to be comforting – that was the goal here, after all – but all it did was make her sad. He was pretending to be the man she had loved – still loved, if she was honest with herself. It was cruel, especially when she so badly wanted it to be true. Angela knew it was foolish, that hope which had flickered to life when he had pulled her down from the chains and carried her from that room of pain. But she had heard him with the Speaker. She had heard his betrayal, knew that it had all been a lie. It was that knowledge that gave her the strength to remain silent, to not engage with this shadow of a man. After a long moment, the Reaper sighed and released her shoulder. Despite herself, Angela glanced his way to see that he had leaned back in the chair to give her some space. “I’ve found Cassidy.” Angela froze, choking on a breath as her entire body seized with panic. No, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Talon wasn’t supposed to find any of them; she was supposed to protect them and keep them safe. It was all that was left, all she was good for – and even in that, she had failed. If they brought one of them here – she couldn’t even consider it. It would absolutely destroy her. Angela was barely holding it together now, after they had killed the parts of her that were strong – that were Dr. Ziegler, Mercy. Angela wouldn’t survive if they brought someone else in to torture in her stead. “Breathe, Angela.” Suddenly, the Reaper was in her face, fingers – not claws, she realized – gripping her shoulders as he tried to pull her back down. “No one is going to hurt him, cariño; everything is alright. Breathe.” Angela managed to suck in an unsteady breath, and he nodded encouragingly. “Yes, just like that.” Her body was still so tense that it hurt, but at least she wasn’t going to pass out. After a few breaths, the Reaper released her and leaned back again. “I won’t hurt him. No one will hurt him.” The Reaper repeated. “I’m taking you to him so that he can get you the help you need.” Angela would have scoffed, but she maintained her silence by biting her lip. ‘Help.’ As if he hadn’t been the one to put her in this position, to condemn her to be battered and broken. As if this ‘rescue’ was real. She had heard him. He didn’t want to get her help – he wanted to get her broken. They would capture Cassidy by using her as bait. They would put him before her, and then it would be his pain or her words. Would he understand if she – somehow – kept her silence? Would he forgive her? Would she forgive herself? “I know I’ve given you no reason to trust me, Angela.” The Reaper leaned forward again, and she tried to shift to put some distance between his familiar body and her own. “But please, mi corazón, please try to believe me.” Angela had never heard Gabriel beg before; that the first time would be now, when he was the Reaper and her enemy, was disconcerting. “Just hold on for one more day,” his mask dropped to regard her bandaged arms meaningfully before rising again. “If not for me or yourself, then for the others. You know what your death would do to them.” Angela shuddered, squeezing her eyes shut. “You know they want you to live.” Of course her friends wanted her to live – but they hadn’t found her. She had been abandoned in that prison – this prison – and no one had saved her. Cool fingers touched her hand cautiously, but she remained still and kept her eyes closed. Angela waited for the touch to turn into a painful grip, to dig in and to hurt. But they just curled around her fingers, holding her hand in what Angela thought might be an attempt at comfort. It was so familiar that it hurt. Despite the pain, despite the knowledge that it was wrong, Angela couldn’t force herself to pull away. She was too stubborn, though, to let her fingers tighten around his own. Instead, her hand remained limp in his grasp as she turned her gaze towards the ceiling and away from the Reaper’s mask to try to hide her conflicting emotions. Then, he ruined it. “I’m sorry, Angela.” She stiffened and would have pulled away, but his hands – both of them, now – trapped her own in a firm grip. Were she stronger, she probably could have wrenched away, but she had wasted all her strength earlier with Baptiste. “You were the one I was never supposed to hurt, who I had sworn to protect.” His voice was solemn, as if confessing – but it wasn’t a confession when the monster before her hadn’t been the one to make those oaths. It was a lie, tailored carefully to maximize the pain when they stopped pretending again. He seemed earnest, though; Angela hadn’t realized what a good actor he was. Had Gabriel acted like this when they had been together all those years ago, or was this a new skill that the Reaper had picked up along the way? Angela prayed it was the latter, because the former was far too painful to consider. “I ruined everything. I know you hate me.” Angela glanced over to find his head bowed over their clasped hands. “I know you can never trust me and that nothing I can do or say will be enough to make up for what I’ve done.” He took in a harsh breath, made louder by the mask he wore. “I don’t expect you to ever forgive me, but for everything I’ve done: I’m sorry.” The Reaper released her hand then, pulling away to rest against the back of the chair and give her space once more. A small, hopeful – traitorous – part of her heart wanted to reach out and reclaim his hand with her own, to believe his apology was real and that he was Gabriel. Fortunately, her time in that freezing room of chains and blood had hardened her, even this weak self that was merely Angela. It was what allowed her to look away again and lay her hand back down on the stained sheets. It was what gave her the strength to remain silent and to keep herself from crying – though what, exactly, she would be crying over eluded her.

---

She opened her eyes to find she was in a new place - again. The last thing she remembered was the Reaper lifting her off the bloody sheets so Baptiste could strip the bed. She had let her eyes drift to the open door - something she usually couldn’t see from the bed; Jack had been there, leaning against the doorframe to watch her with heavy eyes. She had fallen asleep as he whispered warnings of betrayal and heartbreak. He had urged her to be strong because this would take everything she had - and then some. Angela glanced around her new surroundings, trying to be surreptitious but sure she was failing. It appeared she was in a car again; if it was the same one that the Reaper had stuffed her in the first time, she wasn’t sure. He sat to her left, behind the wheel as he had the last time. Her dress was no longer green; at some point, probably when they had changed the sheets, they had put a blue dress on her. It took her a moment to realize that the vehicle wasn’t moving. They were idling with a large expanse of grass before them. Angela wasn’t sure if they were on the side of a road or not, since she wasn’t craning her neck to look behind or to the left. “It’s almost over, Angela,” the Reaper murmured once she had stilled in her seat. Angela stiffened at the reminder that she would have a companion in her captivity in less than an hour. Maybe more than one - despite all his knowledge, she didn’t think Cole knew how to pilot any form of aircraft. “After today, you’ll never see me – or Talon – again.” He promised her, once the silence between them became heavy and strained. “You’ll be safe.” She didn’t believe him, of course; Angela knew she was destined to die in a Talon interrogation cell. She kept her eyes fixed on the grass outside, searching for the troops that she knew were waiting out there somewhere. “Look,” the Reaper rumbled sometime later, one clawed hand lifting and drawing her attention away. Unable to help herself, she looked in the direction he indicated. “There they are.” Her eyes found a dark spot on the horizon: an air carrier, heading their way. Angela wished there was something - anything - she could do to stop what was to come. She didn’t have the strength to protect them, and that crushed her just as badly as the blows across Cole’s body would. “Shh, cariño,” the Reaper soothed. Angela immediately bit off the small, pitiful sounds she had been making, but it was impossible to stop her tears. She turned her head away, attempting to hide her face from his sight as she grieved. It wasn’t long before the roar of the carrier filled the air. Angela couldn’t help but watch in horror, tears streaking her cheeks, as it drew closer. The car rocking drew her attention away; she hadn’t heard him open the door, but now the Reaper was stalking around the front of the vehicle to open her door. “It’s time, Angela.” The words were practically a shout so he could be heard over the carrier. She trembled as he leaned in to unbuckle her; then, she was up in his arms and pressed against his chest once more. Her left leg - knee still shattered, as far as she could tell - only complained slightly. Angela looked at it, curious; it appeared there were at least two, maybe three, braces around the knee - it forced her leg to remain straight, even without any support from below. As he turned them, the carrier touched down. He kept them next to the vehicle until the cargo doors opened. The turbines continued to roar - Angela would have been surprised if they had stopped them, considering that this was a trap - as a familiar figure began making his way cautiously towards them. Behind him on the ramp loomed two other people - a familiar large man and a less familiar woman. When the Reaper started walking, Angela began shaking enough that her teeth chattered; this was bad, this was bad, this was bad. Any minute now, Talon forces would appear and throw the cowboy to the ground. His hat would tumble off and be left, forgotten, in the grass as he was dragged into hell with her. The Reaper tightened his grip on her, his mask tilting down to consider her briefly, but if he said anything, it was lost to the roar of the carrier. Instead, she got to watch in horror as Cole Cassidy – he was real this time, right? – drew closer. One hand was resting defensively on Peacekeeper, his sharp eyes darting around as he searched for the trap they both knew existed. She wanted to scream at him to run, but she knew her disused voice would never reach him over the roaring. The space between them narrowed until, suddenly, they were only five feet apart.

Cole drummed his fingers impatiently against his seat. He never thought he’d be sitting in an Overwatch carrier again, but he never thought Angela would be kidnapped – tortured – either. Across from him sat Reinhardt, who was leaning forward against his giant hammer with his head bowed. His enormous armor nearly hid the smaller woman at his side – Brigitte, Torbjörn’s daughter. Lena was piloting the air carrier. She had managed to pick up the three of them and was now flying them to Numbani, but they were cutting it rather close. It was only the four of them; if this turned out to be a trap, the odds were heavily out of their favor. Cynical as he was, Cole expected one. Reyes and Angela had history; that much was true. Reyes had sworn to protect Angela - they all had, in their own ways - but Cole knew that personal honor meant very little to his previous Commander. Besides, it had been five years; that was a long time, and Reyes had been staining his hands with Overwatch blood in that time. No, this was a trap and Angela was the bait. It was too perfect: she was being ‘rescued’ by the Reaper - who just happened to be Gabriel Reyes of all people? The rush for a next-day meeting, for fear of being ‘caught’? No. There was no way in hell that this was anything but a trap. “We’re on the final approach,” Lena called back. “Scanners are only picking up two people – that’s got to be them.” Cole knew there were ways to hide from scanners, so that information wasn’t as comforting as he’d like. “Alrigh’ then. Let’s put ‘er down an’ get Ange back.” Cole was impatient to get this done – one way or another. He turned towards the two across from him. “You two need t’ stay back on th’ cargo ramp. Watch my back and come down swingin’ if things go sideways.” “I do not like this.” Reinhardt boomed as the carrier began to descend. “We should go with you; it is too dangerous.” Cole understood where the warrior was coming from; his job was always to protect those around him, and this was no different. Still, that didn’t change the fact that a show of force would probably end badly. “Trust me on this one,” Jessie replied, shaking his head. “We don’ wanna risk Ange.” He doubted that Reyes had lied about Angela’s health. Cole didn’t want Angela in any more danger than necessary. It was undoubtedly a trap, so having backup was more necessary than a show of force. Besides, if Reyes really was trying to protect Angela, like he had in the past, it would be far too dangerous for them to antagonize him with a heavy presence. “Then I should go!” Reinhardt insisted, one hand raising to slap his chest plate loudly. “My armor will protect me - and the doctor - if it is a trap; you would be killed!” That was a valid point – past the cargo ramp, he doubted that there would be no cover. Still, Cole shook his head again. “He called me. It’s gotta be me.” This was either a convoluted trap to capture him, or it was a genuine request for help. Knowing Reyes as he did, Cole knew that he had to walk off that ramp alone. The carrier landed with a gentle jolt; as soon as it was steady, both men were on their feet with Brigitte not far behind. Reinhardt towered over Cole in a way that would be intimidating if Cole didn’t know the German man. “You’ve gotta wait on the ramp; stay put unless things turn sour.” Reinhardt’s shoulders slumped as he sighed. Cole took that to be agreement, so he gestured towards the cargo hold. “If things do go bad, jus’ make sure y’get Ange. She’s the priority.” He allowed Reinhardt to precede him down the ramp, his giant blue shield erupting to life from his arm. Cole paused behind the warrior to allow his eyes to adjust. Once he could see clearly, he quickly found the Reaper standing in front of a car about two hundred feet away. In his arms was a bundle of blue cloth that had Angela’s head at the top. She looked thin and fragile – words he had never used to describe her except for that period directly after the fall. Cole met Angela’s terrified eyes briefly; based on her stark terror, she believed this was a trick. Cole forced himself to look away, fingers tightening on Peacekeeper as he searched for the trap. Cautiously, Cole pushed past Reinhardt’s barrier, as he and the Reaper approached each other. Even when they were within grabbing distance, Cole kept his hand tight on his weapon. From this point forward, he would be at his most vulnerable; once he took Angela into his arms, he’d find it hard to defend himself - or his precious cargo. While Reinhardt and Brigitte were nearby, it was still a long distance for them to travel. “It’s just me,” the Reaper shouted over the turbines, voice gravely as he closed the final few steps between them. This close, Cole could see her hollow cheeks and how hard she was trembling; it hurt his heart to see how damaged Angela – normally their pillar of strength – was. They had thought she was safe, and they had been wrong. “We both know I ain’t trustin’ you,” the cowboy returned gruffly. If it weren’t for Angela, he’d have shot the Reaper when he’d stepped off the ramp. He released his gun reluctantly so he could reach out for the doctor. Carefully, with a gentleness that proved that this was Reyes, the hooded figure lowered her into Cole’s arms. “Watch her knee,” Reyes rasped, as if Cole couldn’t see the straps and splints wrapped around it. The woman was lighter than she should be and shaking so hard Cole thought she might just come apart. “I gotcha, darlin’,” he assured her, though his eyes stayed firmly on Reyes. “There’s a list in one of her pockets,” Reyes shouted with a vague hand gesture towards Angela. “Everything that’s happened to her is written there.” Cole nodded once in acknowledgment. Though he wanted to look down at the small woman in his arms, reassure her that everything would be alright, he kept his eyes on the Reaper. “If I see you again, I’ll put a bullet in you.” It was another promise, one that he would be more than happy to keep. If he were able, he’d shoot him now and be done with it - but he had his hands full. “I deserve it,” Reyes agreed with a shrug, “but not for the reasons you think.” Cole felt Angela stiffen; clearly, there was something there. Hopefully, it was on the list Reyes mentioned. He’d hate to have to ask Angela about it after everything she’d been through. Reyes stepped backward, clearly done with their interaction. Cole took a step back too – and paused when one final question popped into his head. “Why’d you save her?” He shouted. Reyes stopped, head tilting as he considered Cole and his question. “Why did she save me?” Reyes called back. With that, Reyes turned his back entirely and walked away, confident that Cole would prioritize Angela over shooting him. It was hard to reconcile the image of the Reaper with the man Cole had once known. But it was obvious some part of Reyes was still alive; after all, the Reaper would never have allowed Cole – or any of the other remnants of Overwatch behind him – to leave unscathed. Still, Cole refused to turn his back to the clearing, even though it made his return trip much harder. However, before he had made it halfway back, Reinhardt had stomped forward to cover his retreat with his shield. Around that time, Reyes reached his vehicle; instead of climbing inside, he had turned to watch as Cole carried Angela away. The entire time Angela was a silent, shaking mass in his arms. “Thought I told you t’ wait on th’ ramp,” he grumbled as he turned his back on the clearing, trusting Reinhardt to protect them. Cole could feel Reyes’ eyes on his back as they moved further and further away. He didn’t look back at the monster from his past; the angel in his arms held all of his attention. “You are both too important to lose,” Reinhardt retorted. Cole shook his head before closing the remaining distance to the carrier. “Everythin’ alright, then?” Lena called from the pilot’s chair. Already she was flipping the switches that would get them into the air, even with the carrier door still closing. “We’ve got her,” Cole answered; he couldn’t say it was alright because the trembling woman in his arms clearly wasn’t. But, they had her back – and that was something, wasn’t it? They could call in people, and then she would be better. They could fix this. They would fix this. She deserved no less.

---

“This is normal?” Lena’s voice rose, practically to a shout. “Keep your voice down,” Cole growled with a meaningful glance towards Angela; Lena looked away guiltily, gnawing on one lip nervously. He knew he shouldn’t snap because it really didn’t matter how loudly they spoke. Angela had become unresponsive shortly after they had flown away from the clearing in Numbani. Even now, hours later in Watchpoint: Warsaw, she was still staring vacantly. “Yes, this,” he gestured towards Angela, “is normal.” Cole hadn’t needed Reyes’ list to tell him that this could happen. While he hadn’t dirtied his hands with torture – ‘interrogation’ – he’d seen the aftermath. “‘s a defense mechanism; she can’ be hurt if she ain’ here.” Considering what Angela had been through, he wasn’t surprised that she was protecting herself in the only way she had left. “But, she’s with us,” Lena protested, voice markedly quieter than previously. “We’re not gonna hurt her.” Cole shook his head, smiling mirthlessly. He wished he could have the same optimistic outlook, but life had been far kinder to Lena than it had been to him - or Angela. “You and I,” his hand shifted, pointing at first her then himself, “we know that. But Ange?” He looked over at the broken doctor sadly. “She doesn’ know it. Doesn’ believe it.” Cole sighed, one hand raking through his hair in absent frustration before fixing his hat. “It’ll be a long while before she recovers.” If she recovered, but Cole wasn’t willing to voice that aloud. Cole had read the list that Reyes had scrawled out, which detailed all the atrocities that Angela had been subjected to. Some were rather obvious - her malnutrition showed in her hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, the shattered knee in the various braces. Others were easy to see, if one knew where to look - the suicide attempt in the bandages on her arms, the scar at her lip proving her stubborn defiance. The worst, however, were the invisible wounds. Reyes had written a small paragraph instead of a bulleted list at the very bottom of the note. “I was the one who kidnapped her from Cairo and put her in chains. I’m the one that captured her after she managed to escape, and put scars into her arms and her heart when I put her back. I was the one that gave the order to escalate her torture, that made her into this. Angela knows who I am and how I have betrayed her. I don’t know if there is anything left of her to save after what’s been done to her - what I’ve done to her - but I know that you’ll protect her like I should have. -R” It had taken everything in him to keep from crumpling the letter or tearing it into pieces; despite his absolute rage at what was revealed, Cole knew that the doctor - who still hadn’t arrived - would need the information within it. He hadn’t told anyone else of its existence; they didn’t need to know the particulars of what she had gone through - hell, he didn’t need to know it either. But he had read it anyway. “Hey, Cassidy?” Lena’s voice was soft, almost tremulous. He glanced towards the younger woman, who was wringing her hands and fidgeting; even now, she was unable to keep still. “She’s gonna be alright, isn’t she? We weren’t, you know, too late?” Cassidy didn’t know how to answer that question. He could be honest or he could be optimistic, but he couldn’t be both. Cole was saved from answering by Angela as she shifted and gasped softly. Before Lena could do anything, Cole’s hand flew out and clamped down hard on her wrist. That she jerked against his grasp told him he had been right to grab her; Lena turned to look at him, mouth opening either in protest or in question, and he shook his head sharply. Once he was sure Lena wasn’t going to leap out of her seat, Cole released her and fully turned his attention to the blonde. He wasn’t sure if Angela had been looking around or not - his gaze had been on Lena during those first moments instead of Angela - but now she was staring at the two of them. Usually, he couldn’t read her emotions or thoughts on her face, but Angela’s terror was obvious even to him. “You’re safe, Ange,” Cole assured her after the silence between them had grown too long. He could practically feel Lena’s explosive energy next to him, but somehow the British woman managed to keep her seat. Angela’s wary eyes darted from him to Lena and back again. “Is - Is this -” Angela’s voice was hesitant and rough from abuse. “Are you - real?” Her voice broke then; the pure desolation made his heart ache for her. “We’re real, darlin’,” Cole assured her. In the silence, he nudged Lena’s leg with one booted foot. “Wha- oh, yeah! It’s all real, love.” Lena’s voice was chipper and bright, with barely a note of hesitation to betray her worry. “You’re with Overwatch.” Angela flinched then; Cole gritted his teeth as he forced himself not to imagine what had conditioned such a reaction in her - and found it impossible, considering the note he’d read. Lena glanced towards Cole, clearly unsure of how to act in the face of Angela’s fear. “Ange.” Cole leaned forward a little, bridging that small gap between them. He was gratified to see she didn’t react negatively to the movement; instead, she looked up towards his intense face with the barest hint of hope. “If you don’ wanna be with Overwatch,” he forced himself to ignore her wince, “you jus’ say the word an’ it’s done.” Lena made a small sound of protest, but he spoke before she could say anything. “I’ll take you anywhere you wanna go, darlin’. Whatever you want.” Cole knew that Overwatch was, probably, the safest place for Angela to be while she recovered - if she could recover. He knew that any decision she made now would be impaired by her trauma. Still, he would fight everyone - Winston, Lena, the UN - to take her wherever it was she’d feel safe. Angela’s eyes darted around; Cole wasn’t sure if she was looking for something in particular or if this was curiosity. He watched as her hands fisted and twisted her blankets, waiting for her to say something - anything. “I -” She pressed back into the pillow, glancing to the side and worrying at her scarred lip. “I don’t want to go back.” Her voice, barely audible, was small and sad. Cole wasn’t sure if she was referring to Overwatch or Talon, but, in the long run, it didn’t really matter to him; whatever happened next, Cole would make sure that Angela was safe and happy. “You won’t.” Lena piped up before Cole could assure the doctor. Obviously, she had interpreted Angela’s statement to be about Talon, but Cole wasn’t completely convinced. “We won’t let them take you, Dr. Ziegler, I promise. We’ll keep you safe.” Angela’s face crumpled then; she turned her head away quickly, but not before Cole saw the tears there. Were they from relief, at being safe from her tormentors? Or was it from grief, at the reminder that they should have kept her safe - and hadn’t? Slowly, cautiously, Cole reached out to touch one of her clenched hands. Angela jumped, recoiling from his hand as if it burned. Her head turned, wild eyes wide and bright, as she stared down at his fingers as if she’d never seen them before - like she hadn’t put him back together countless times. He pulled back slightly, giving her space while remaining close enough for her to reach out if she wanted. “We - I - failed you, Angela,” Cole said, voice low. “It won’t happen again. I swear it.” He could see the hope and despair - the disbelief and desperation - that was roiling within her as she continued to stare at his hand. After what felt like an eternity, Angela’s hand rose. Trembling, she reached out towards him - before flinching back and away again. Cole didn’t move, didn’t react in any way; Lena gasped, a small sound that seemed to roar in the small space. Angela reached out again, but this time she didn’t recoil. He remained unmoving as she touched his fingers tentatively, afraid that anything would scare her off again. When her hand curled around his in a weak grasp, head bowed as she trembled and shook, he allowed himself to gently tighten his fingers around hers. Maybe there was hope for her, after all.

You led me here, Then I watched you disappear. You left this emptiness inside And I can't turn back time - Never Be the Same [Red]

Act One | Act Two | Act Three | Act Four | Act Five | Act Six

This is, unfortunately, the end of Breaking [My Heart]. I do intend to continue this story in a second installment, but I haven't quite got it put together yet. I know what I want it to look like (mostly), but apparently writing requires you to actually write, annoyingly enough. Writing has become a challenge (again, ugh) due to real life getting in the way (again). I've been stressing about the business I own (US Tax preparation) while working as a manger at my mothers' trampoline park. Long hours have left me with little time to do pretty much anything that isn't eating or sleeping, and when I do try to write I just can't seem to get the words out. I hate that I have my unfinished work (Forged) that I just can't seem to close plus the recovery arc for Breaking [My Heart]. They're mostly outlined but, like I said earlier, writing requires writing and I can't seem to get the scenes out of my head and onto paper. I do have a few pieces that are written for my one-shot sets, The Healer, which I'll post sporadically (and, which will, hopefully bridge the gap until I can properly write again). I appreciate all of you that read my work and leave comments; truly, every time I see the notification I get super excited and I love that you feel strongly enough about my writing to tell me about it. I hope that I continue to produce work that you can enjoy! Feel free to reach out to me here. Until next time, stay happy and healthy!

Happy Spook Month!

And there we go! I managed to finish the days i missed yesterday, so i'll be doing the other 13(hopefully) today! So look out for that-

"You drive me crazy."

Obsessed! Nikto x Reader

Word count: 2472

Nikto's POV! Sporadic uses of "Y/N" — otherwise, reader is referred as "You".

To say that Nikto is obsessed with you would be an understatement 😵‍💫...

Nikto's psychological state gradually deteriorates as you read!

Google Translate Russian lmao 💀,, please forgive any errors! 😟

Edit: Realising that this fic is darker than my usual works. Warning my readers for darker content!

Edit 2: Added the appropriate "dark content" tags. <3

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I'm crazy: I don't think I needed to say, yes?

I know it. We know it. Everyone else knows it.

I've lost my mind long ago. We're losing it as we speak. I've lost myself long ago and I have not known what to do with ourselves.

Of course, not all was lost. I was cleared for service. I can approach situations without hesitation or uncertainty — but most importantly, kill methodically.

All I need are targets. Just give me targets. Nothing else matters. Nobody.

But I found you. I found you. And you found us. Although there was nothing to find, you found us.

How? It's a mystery. An enigma. An unsolvable puzzle.

My name is Igor. Igor Vasilyevich Yurievich.

Игорь. Igor. I—gor. Two syllables. Four letters, in English. A not so common name in Russia, according to the statistics: in 1991 — the year of my birth — approximately 37 baby boys born were named as such. In 2021, only 17 baby boys born were named Igor. I would assume the number declines each year — maybe less than a dozen Igors were christened this year. Or a single digit. Nine. Eight. Seven. Or even less than five.

October 13, 1991 was my exact date of birth. I was born in Novgorod, when Russia was still the Soviet Union. I had parents. A sister…

…Yet that means nothing to me.

Igor Vasilyevich Yurievich? That is foreign. That is not anyone that I know of. I am Nikto. I am no one. Nobody to know, yet somebody that I know of. Not this… Igor. I am nobody. Никто.

When the voices are quiet, that's when I can silently mourn the man that I once was.

Though, can you mourn someone whom you don't know? Can you mourn the faceless person in the casket, whose face is unrecognisable? Can you mourn at a funeral that no one attended, and hadn't taken process?

I'm crazy: I don't think I needed to repeat it, yes?

I knew it. We knew it. Everyone else knew it.

But you didn't. You. You.

You… remind me of someone.

They're dead now.

They were just a target. Too bad I can't remember who they were.

But you're not. You're more than a target.

You treated me with kindness when everyone avoided me like the bubonic plague. A Black Death following the death of the former Igor Vasilyevich Yurievich and the black, black blackness lingering — a reminder. But not anything that allows us to remember, or reminds us of who we once were.

I don't remember anything. I don't remember anyone. Photographs of my family before the torture are irrelevant. Documents stamping my existence could just as easily make us inexistent. Nobody exists any more aside from Nikto.

A cacophony of voices has infiltrated my brain. Our brain. We will never be me anymore. We are who we are now.

I am a broken man. I hear the voices of many men, who won't let me sleep, won't leave me be, won't give me peace. I was one of those men. Maybe all of the men are me?

But if all of them are me, and I am all of them, then who are we? What are we?

Then again… who I am is nothing. What I are is everything. What we are — crazy.

The pieces of the puzzle aren't fully there. Surely you must have been aware, my treasure?

You were doing your due diligence to arrange the puzzle pieces, so meticulously and with dedication, devoting hours of your time and wishing for the finished product to be cohesive, but you won't find that within us. How unfortunate.

Some of the pieces are missing. Some of them don't even fit. What you're left with is an incomplete picture — one which will never be completed.

No matter. You can be the missing puzzle piece, yes?

My fellow operatives named me Никто — “Nikto”, meaning “Nobody” or “No-one” in Russian — for… what did they say? My “uncanny ability to replicate other people and hide [my] true identity”? Ironic — seeing as replicating an identity is not the same as claiming your own, and being an individual. Having an actual identity, as opposed to being forced to think that being nobody can suffice.

Funny. I was apparently religious before all of this.

Have you heard of Orthodox Christianity? It's a branch of Christianity most often practised in Eastern Europe, in case you weren't aware. Orthodox Christians believe that Jesus redeemed humanity by sacrificing himself through crucifixion — unlike Catholics, who believe that Jesus sacrificing himself through crucifixion was all in an effort to redeem humanity.

Perhaps I was an altar boy in my childhood. Or wore a cross around my neck. Maybe I was devoted, and prayed in the morning, before a meal for grace, in the night, before a mission for mercy, during a mission out of desperation, and after a mission as gratitude.

Such bullshit.

Obviously, God doesn't exist — not in the ethereal, omniscient sense.

Oh no.

The God is You. You are my God.

Just like with Orthodox Christianity, and the salvation of humanity after the sacrifice of Jesus, your presence, your mere existence, was salvation. You brought redemption unto us.

Of course, following my torture, God became an abstract concept. How could the Holy Father abandon me? How could my prayers after the tortue be so wilfully ignored? Why would he actively play a passive role in my damnation, as I'm burned, as I'm beaten, as I'm bruised, abused, cut, and mutilated?

No one was born a sinner. Not even me, this nobody. So what kind of retribution was this — a disfigured face, ruined body, and voices which infiltrated my psyche, words equivalent to the evil of the Antichrist?

But You? You made it worthwhile. Your kindness. Compassion. Charity. It was all worthwhile. Even to gaze at You from afar.

Well.

For the most part.

We have repented for our sins: stealing Your dirty laundry, Your hairbrush, Your t-shirts, and other trinkets which we deem Holy Relics; using Your lip balm without permission, You none the wiser; committing sinful acts in the comfort of your own bedroom, only for You to return, oblivious. We apologise for that nagging paranoia, demanding You to turn around, to catch a glimpse of the eyes staring at You, but You not noticing us when we were camouflaged in the shadows. For stalking You and learning Your schedule. For hacking into all of Your devices and acquiring every little piece of information available from Your digital footprints.

But, You forgive us, yes?

Don't look so horrified, dushka. We left no trace, yes? No evidence. You said You have forgiven all of our transgressions. Think of this as a confession, nothing more. Besides, we never tampered with You belongings. They're all still with us. Just like you will.

You are our oxygen. Without You, we can't breathe. Our lungs suffocate without Your natural scent to fill them, to keep us alive. Our eyes go blind with time without the sight of Your face, Your body. We can't hear anything other than Your voice — our ears tune out any frequencies and wavelengths that don't leave those pretty little lips, yet wage civil war amongst ourselves, spitting curses that cut like knives and pierce like bullets. And Your lips. And Your eyes. And Your eyebrows, hair, hands, neck, God — everything.

You won't abandon us, yes? You wouldn't abandon us, would you, мое сокровище? You are our treasure. I treasure you — all of us do: your pretty little lips, that speak in the softest of tones to us; those eyes that stare in slight fright, yet crinkle in as genuine of a smile as you can manage; those eyebrows that furrow over your bright eyes in the subtlest of frowns, in sorrow or frustration, maybe vexation — and that's just your face. What about your hair? Your hands? Your neck? Your body? What is there not to treasure?

Боже мой, Bozhe moy, my God. Oh God, it's as if an angel has descended and granted us salvation, a merciful deity absolving us of our sins and cleansing our soul. And both the angel and deity are You — working in perfect sync, so benevolent and forgiving, taking pity on a creature so pitiful, so ruined, so unfixable.

We can't remember what some of those was.

Those puzzle pieces, of course.

Zakhaev’s torture stole some of the pieces to the jigsaw, and the puzzle won't ever be solved. We ourselves interrogate, torture, eliminate, kill. Sometimes we dissociate. Other times I am completely in control. Yet all the time, we are committing sins, sins, sins.

And You forgive them. Forgive us.

Every prayer is us praying for you, to you, about you. And each one concludes with your sacred name, whispered in hushed tones as the syllables are too precious to utter out loud.

Poor, poor thing. You probably didn't even know what you were signing up for, did you? You probably intended to be charitable. Sympathetic. And you were, sweet one.

But you were naive to have assumed that we wouldn't become possessive of you like an unwanted stay mutt of its only bone. So innocent — perhaps stupid — but we like to think that you were misguided in your intentions, yet guided by some God.

An ignorant God? If You're the God to worship, then are You an ignorant one? An innocent, naive, and unconditionally loving one? Yet, one that, despite Their obliviousness, can knowingly soothe with a simple string of words? With a caress?

What an oxymoron. It suits You. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Aw. Are those tears, dushka? Let's wipe them, hmm? Kiss it better, yes? You will like our lips on you.

Don't scream. Don't hurt those vocal cords. We like the sound of your voice. We want you to talk.

There there, little one. You look beautiful when you cry, but you look most beautiful when you're smiling. Smile, hm? Do it for us. Your Nikto.

You don't have to be afraid, you know. Don't be afraid, krasotka. We love you.

Here, put your hand on our chest. Feel how our heart is beating? It beats only for you.

Our abdomen, our stomach. You feel how toned that is, yes? You feel the muscle?

What about our biceps? The strength in our forearms? They're all for you. We're all yours, yours yours yours.

Our blood looks good on you, dushka. The blood really accentuates your nails. But please, stop. Stop.

You don't have to scratch us, or scream. You know that none of that will change anything. You know that we will love you, even if you tell us you hate us. It's too late.

Get used to touching us, yes? What's left of us, anyways. Yes, our body won't be the most appealing, or the handsomest, but it's all for you. Every inch. All for you — just like how you are all ours.

You're ours, just as much as we belong to you. You could stab us with a knife and we'd smile. You could shoot us with a gun point-blank in the head and we'd thank you. What an honour it would be to live with you by your side, or die by your side. We're a dead man either way. Your dead man. Your Nikto.

You underestimated my capacity for violence. Or were perhaps too naive to understand it.

That's okay. Put your hand on my face. Just like that. See? Nothing to fear. It's just us. Your Nikto.

I can feel it shaking. Why do you shake so much, hm? Don't be afraid. There's nothing to be afraid of. You should know there's nothing to be afraid of. After all, you were fearless when it came to speaking to me, and weren't afraid to reach out to us. Surely you don't want to abandon us now?

That's too bad. You won't abandon us. We won't let you.

I'm crazy: I don't think I need to repeat it, yes?

I know it. We know it. Everyone else knows it.

You drive me crazy.

You drive me crazy.

You drive me crazy.

So crazy.

So, so crazy.

I am already crazy yes but it is You who drives me to insanity do You know that? Why do You deny? Do not deny us this yes? Yes You do know that it is You who makes me mad beyond return of course You do You've always known it and You know it now little one You're just pretending feigning ignorance with surprise in Your eyes. Why pretend that it was all a pretense? Your kindness? Your sympathy? Your company? It was not pretense to us no it was everything. Everything we could have hoped for prayed for and lived for.

You drive me crazy.

You drive me crazy.

You drive me crazy.

So crazy.

So, so crazy, baby.

Craaazyyy. Crazy crazy crazy!

You have made us the craziest we have ever been from the moment we met Your eyes and will be forever driven crazier with Your around from the day You die. And that won't be anytime now, my treasure. We will treasure You, take care of You, keep You safe. You will want for nothing, we can assure You — nothing, nobody, no one. Only Nikto. Nobody will ever look at You, as their eyeballs will be gouged out for having the audacity to spare a glance at the pinnacle of perfection. And nobody will ever want You, nobody will taint that precious skin with unworthy fingers, as anyone who tries will have them broken have their bones crushed to dust their skin muscles and tendons ripped to ribbons until there is no body left.

Nobody will ever look at You. Only Nikto. Us. Forever, and ever, and ever and ever and ever we will have our eyes on You until our retinas dissolve and our pupils can no longer absorb light and we become blind and crippled, crying, crying crying crying for You, crying only for You. You crying out for us until Your voice is hoarse from moaning, until our name becomes a prayer just as much as Yours is to us.

We love You. Think of nobody. Only Nikto. Only of Nikto. Only for and against Nikto. We will live for You. We do already, do you understand? We're yours. Yours. Yours yours yours yours yours yours to have yours to hit yours to scratch with those nails yours to scream at yours yours yours yours yours. Yours. Yours! Yours!

Yours!

Y/N.

I'm crazy: I don't think I needed to say, yes?

I know it. We know it. Everyone else knows it. You should have known it.

And if you didn't know it, then You will know it.

Because You drive me crazy.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/Ns

Really really really Really REALLY had doubts about posting this and thought that no one would like it. I felt inspired and happy and proud of myself when I was almost finished but it took me days to conclude the work since I was second-guessing whether or not I should post this after all. Kind of embarrassed, in all honesty, but I decided to post it in the end since I quite like it. :'>

I just wanted to highlight your, @//connorsui, lovely, lovely words when you reblogged my last Nikto post 😭😭😭💘💘💘. To receive not only some compliments, but your thoughts on my headcanons AND analysis *AND* your evaluation of my post was so, SO heartwarming to wake up to in the morning 🥹🥹🥹💓💓💓, especially when it was so long!!! Like, what?!! 😢😢😢😢😢😿😿😿😿😿😭😭😭😭😭💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💖💖💖💖💖✨✨✨✨✨

Thank you so so so SO much for your positive feedback !!! I've read it over four times by now. O really appreciated and still appreciate it. ☺️💞🫶💖✨✨💕💕

(I also want to kiss Nikto's scarred face ☹️☹️☹️ just wordless acts of intimacy where words aren't necessary and just to show the man some affection, regardless of how he looks 😟💝 need that ugly traumatised Russian man SO BAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 😭😭😭😭😭😭)

Inspiration for this gained from:

thisvvv song!!! and Chapter 7 in Metro 2035 lol,, when Artyom was drunk and disorientated I thought it was written really REALLY well and I wanted to incorporate his meaningless drivel into this.

Nikto's voicelines and his various voices/sporadic changes in character

the Fandom Wiki

my own headcanons lol 😋

From fluff this whatever the fuck this is!!!!!!!!!! Hope you enjoyed 💗💗

you look like you’ve seen a ghost

a ghostface au

characters: atsumu and reader; post! timeskip

wc: 2.1k

warnings: PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS Y’ALL. THIS IS THE DARKEST THING I’VE EVER WRITTEN SO PLEASE PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS! use of pet names such as ‘doll’ and ‘my love’, slightly suggestive early on in the fic but nothing too explicit, mentions of reader having to use a safe word, there is a knife involved so there will be graphic content since the knife is used to harm reader, stabbing, harming, chasing, overpowering, blood, violence, death; MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! this is heavily ooc for atsumu

a/n:  i debated for a long time whether i’d post this or not, so i just hope people heed my warnings. this is loosely based off of the scream movies, which is why it’s being posted the day of the official release of scream 5! i love horror movies y’all that’s why i felt like writing this. also i watched scream 5 yesterday since there was a showing with a live q&a after the movie, and y’all david arquette was so giggly it warmed my heart! not proofread! and thank you @haikyutiehoe​ for beta reading <3

Did you ever think you’d find yourself in a situation like this? No, not in the slightest. Writhing beneath Atsumu, wriggling in his firm grasp in a feeble attempt to slip away. His hands, warm and rough from callouses, held you close. There was no escaping. He had tossed the mask aside long ago, its empty eyes now mocking. Tears welled in your eyes while Atsumu’s glimmered with a craze you had never seen before, not even when he was dead set on winning a match.

“Atsumu, this isn’t funny anymore. Cut it out!” Your voice was hoarse from yelling, only you had been faking it for the most part, thinking Atsumu was just messing around and trying to scare you. Only when the very real, very sharp knife he pulled out from behind his back was held dangerously close to your jugular did it start to dawn on you. But by then he had already pinned you to the bed, and you remember his laugh had suddenly seemed more menacing, more daunting.

See, when you asked Atsumu to watch your all-time favorite slasher film with you, you didn’t think it’d come to this. So really, you’re to blame for your own death…and in a way, the fall of a famous volleyball player that would definitely end up in jail for brutally slaughtering his girlfriend. That is, if he was found guilty. Atsumu is as cunning as he is handsome, but most don’t see it. He hides it well under his boyish charm and dazzling smile. Besides, that accent gets him favors left and right. The judge would probably go weak at the knees and give Atsumu nothing more than a slap on the wrist if there just so happened to be enough evidence to take him to trial.

After having dated him for almost a year, you realized you had never watched the movie with him. You had mentioned it to him a couple of times before, but he never had the time to sit down and enjoy the movie with you. He was always busy, and though you knew that this is what comes with dating someone such as Atsumu, that didn’t mean you were any less bummed about it. So, when Atsumu went up to you one day during his off-season and asked you to put on the movie, you were excited to say the least. And he was hooked. You both ended up binging the rest of the movies until the early morning. You remember looking out the window and noticing the orange and pinkish hues in the sky after the movie marathon. You can almost hear the way he laughed then-an astonishing difference from the way he was laughing now.

And that’s where his fascination with Ghostface started. It was laughable really, because you had gone through this insane phase a few years prior. You remember how quickly you lost count on how many times you watched the first movie. You were just glad he was able to enjoy the movies you enjoy so much. So, when he came home one day with a Ghostface costume, you didn’t think much of it. You thought it was pretty neat actually since it wasn’t one of those cheap costumes. Who knew he’d end up taking it too far?

It started out subtle-the scaring. He’d put on the costume and hide in the hallway closet or under the bed. He’d jump out at you or grab your ankles, anything to get a reaction out of you. Of course, you’d scream because even after the countless number of times that he’d scared you half to death you’d still fall for it. You’d both laugh it off though, and more often than not it would lead to a heavy make out session on the closest surface. Not that you had a thing for the mask, more so you were always up for a quickie with Atsumu. Actually, you were up for anything so long as Atsumu was there. If he was having fun who were you to deny him of his harmless pranks?

To Atsumu this was a rush-chasing you was a rush. And he found himself loving the surge of adrenaline that coursed through his body as you screamed-however fake those screams may be. After a while, he’d find himself gripping you a little tighter, pulling your hair a little harder just to see you wince and suck in a breath of air as you whined about how he was too rough. And he wanted to be rougher, to see just what your limits were. Of course, you had a safe word, and you found yourself using it at an alarming rate. He wasn’t trying to please you anymore; he was trying to break you. He wanted to see how far you could bend until you snapped.

The increasing red flags should have been enough to get you to pack your bags. And you were ready to. You just wanted to have one conversation with Atsumu to talk about whatever it is he was feeling, and you hoped you’d both be able to work it out before you resorted to leaving. He promised he’d stop, and true to his word he did. He wrapped you around his finger and had you eating out of the palm of his hand. He let weeks go by, being on his best behavior. It was so sudden, so drastic you’d be lying if you said you weren’t concerned. But he had you so wonderfully wrapped up in a blanket of ignorance that when he brought up the mask again weeks later you played along. After all, Ghostface was your favorite slasher.

Oh, how you’d regret showing him the movie. And you do. You regret it more than you’ve ever regretted anything in your entire life. Because with the way Atsumu eyed you, with a look in his eyes you’d never seen before, his lips curling into the most godawful smile you’d ever witnessed, you knew if you didn’t run out of your shared apartment alive within the next few minutes you wouldn’t be walking out at all.

Atsumu tapped both of your cheeks with the tip of the knife, a mocking lilt to his voice as he repeated what you said. He dug the tip of the knife into your left cheek just enough to form a dimple. “Cut what out, love?”

His head was tilted, an almost innocent look in his eyes but you knew better. And as he hovered over you, dragging the knife along your neck and down to your stomach, you kneed him in the groin, pushing Atsumu off of you before making a run for your front door. Luckily your bedroom door had been left open, and as you ran down the hallway you heaved a sigh of relief as you welcomed the view of the front door.

However, Atsumu had all his bases covered. He had deadbolted the front door. When? Who knows. How you could have missed that is beyond you. Nonetheless, you jiggled the door knob, but of course the door didn’t budge. You continued to jiggle the door knob, desperately hoping the door would magically open. Your heart was pounding in your ears so loud that you almost missed that behind you, a slightly hunched over Atsumu was shaking the keys dangling from his fingertips. Your blood ran cold.

“What’s the matter, doll? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” And despite his slightly pained expression, you could hear the smugness in his voice and the slightest of smirks tugging at the corner of his lips-a smirk that said he had won and you had lost.

You began to bang on the door, screaming out for help in hopes that the neighbors would hear you. And he laughed. A laugh so awful you couldn’t help but let out a sob. You turned around and pressed your back against the door. As long as you had your eyes on him you could defend yourself.

“So, what are ya’ gonna do now, love?” You shivered at the way the word love rolled off his tongue. What was once the sweetest of pet names now dripped with a hate you didn’t know he harbored; his tone laced with a venom you were sure could kill you. And as he stalked toward you, you decided to fight. Really because there was nothing else you could do. There was no use in letting him close the shortening gap between the two of you, and closing it yourself would surprise him and hopefully have him lose his balance, if only slightly.

So, you lunged at him once he was close enough to you. But just as Atsumu is cunning, he had been enamored with you. He knew you like the back of his hand, knew all of your tells and what the slightest of change in your expression meant. He knew what to watch out for. So, when you were mid-lunge and momentum ran its course, moving you forward no matter what you wanted to do, all he had to do was let you fall onto the knife. It was simple, really, and required little to no effort on his part.

You inhaled a ragged breath that sounded nothing like you, and the pain was unlike anything you’d ever felt. You held onto the hilt of the knife, hoping he wouldn’t pull it out. Your hands covered his own, and you slowly lifted your gaze to meet his, albeit was a little hard since you had to squint your eyes so you could hold a steady gaze. Or at least you hoped it was steady, you couldn’t really tell. Your mouth was gaping in a silent scream. Nothing was coming out and you just can’t seem to find your voice again. Tears fell freely as you desperately hoped he’d regain a semblance of sanity and call the ambulance, but he didn’t. He slowly pulled out the knife, and you felt an unfamiliar warmth run down your stomach. You knew it was your own blood, but you were too afraid to look.

You also couldn’t bring yourself to take your hands off of Atsumu. No matter how repulsed you were, his hands were the ones keeping you upright. You just couldn’t find the strength to fight against him.

“Atsumu please. Please just call the ambulance. Leave me here. I promise I won’t tell anyone; I swear!” You hoped you had gotten that across. You weren’t so sure if the yelling was in your head or if you had actually managed to speak above a soft whisper. One of the few things you’re absolutely sure about at the moment is that your throat feels like it’s been swallowing handfuls of sand.

Atsumu shook his head as if he were scolding a child. “Oh, my love. How right ya’ are ‘bout that. Of course, ya’ won’t tell anyone.” He grunted as he slid the knife back into the same wound, this time twisting it left and right. You screamed, but it sounded nothing like you. At least you think you screamed. You were positive you were having an out of body experience because you couldn’t figure what was real and what wasn’t; you were on the verge of blacking out. Your knees began to buckle, but Atsumu’s hold on you was firm. You weren’t going anywhere, but you wished he’d let you fall. Your head fell back as you were fighting to keep your vision clear. Everything seemed so hazy, and Atsumu looked like he was farther than he actually was.

“Ya’ know why ya’ won’t tell anyone?” He left the knife inside of you so he could grip the hair on the back of your neck to lift your head up. “Pay attention, doll.” He eyes scanned your face before he pressed a kiss to your cheek. His lips trailed up to the shell of your ear, and he repeated his question, this time barely above a whisper and with an edge in his tone that was no longer mockingly sweet. “Ya’ wanna know why ya’ won’t tell anyone?”

You knew Atsumu well enough to know he was expecting a response. So, with the bit of consciousness you had left, you gave him what he wanted by playing his little game. “Why?” You whispered.

Or at least you thought you whispered it.

You could feel the smirk against your ear, and all you could think of was how you wanted this to be over.

Atsumu let go of your head so he could pull the knife out once more. You didn’t have the energy to scream, all you could do was go limp in his hold. And the last words you heard were delivered as he landed the fatal blow.

“Because, my love, ya’ won’t be alive to tell anyone.”

KINKTOBER DAY 4.

Loyalist on Traitor | White Scars | Quickie

SYNOPSIS: White Scar Yiang Shen gets existential crisis while having hate sex with his rival Night Lord Iskaronte (because there is no better moment for clarity). WARNINGS: NSFW, DARK CONTENT, VIOLENCE, BLOOD/GORE/INJURY (acid on skin), SCARRING, CANNIBALISM (hinted), MANIPULATION, SIZE DIFFERENCE, SEX, HATE SEX, HAIR PULLING, MANHANDLING. Word Count: 1.4k A/N: First time publishing my writing on tumblr, so I wrote something somewhat tamed. Used my own OCs to make it easier for me to jump into the pool. Hope you guys like it!

Another kiss, a river of bile gnawing at his lips.

Yiang Shen already had scars there, originally self-imposed by virtue of joining the Ordu. A symbol of pride and belonging, the evidence of his ascension as one of the venerated demi-gods. He was part of something greater now, Yiang Shen thought at the time, something equally as grandiose as he felt. He wore his scars as the irrefutable evidence of his exalted nature, carrying himself with the justificated hubris of detached divinity. He always knew. Yiang Shen had that nagging intuition since he was a child that he was born in the wrong place. He did not behave according to human expectations; nor expressed himself following some unspoken, convoluted decorum.

He did not react properly. Yes, that was the word.

Properness.

He was found, therefore, improper. Ludicrous. Abnormal. On the worst days, they called out his wrongness: something was amiss with this one, they said. He lost his spirit, perhaps snatched from the womb. A curse, proposed by the tribe’s szu. Maybe his parents committed a crime against the Heavens, punishment burdened by birthing a demon made of clay. Soulless, without substance within. Yiang Shen did not understand then, this inadequacy everyone else seemed to recognize. The discordance between their natures was clear, but his tender brain could not comprehend why. So, he pondered the myths and tales. He listened to the various szu he met, sages bearers of the old wisdom. Yiang Shen came to the same conclusion the adults did. He must not be entirely human; or, conceivably, something above humanity. 

Becoming one of the chosen Astartes came naturally to him. He passed the trials at Quan Zhou with cold determination. The implants, the many surgeries, confronted with an aloofness unbefitting of a mortal. There was pain, of course. Remote vestiges of fear. Yiang Shen, however, recalled, most of all, the eagerness. The changes in his body were fitting. He was blooming into the person he always had been: not human. His wrongness was finally proper, he thought, for he lived among the exalted. 

His sense of belonging was soon challenged. While his brothers chuckled, joked and giggled, even outside the passionate dance of the hunt, Yiang Shen was found distant. Removed from joy, incapable of connecting with his companions. He thought the realm of Heaven would be different from the one sitting on earth, but he discovered that they were complementaries. Reflections of one another. 

Among laughing killers, he alone was the quiet one. 

Improper. Ludicrous. Abnormal.

The corrosive saliva on his skin, deforming the twin viperine cuts, eating at the flesh, deforming their precise beauty, felt — right. Proper. The acrid smell of sinful degradation, the pungent pain of the kiss; the tearing of the symbols of conflicted brotherhood was Iskaronte’s favorite defilement. Yiang Shen always corrected them afterwards, reinforcing his allegiance despite his actions. This exchange they shared held no deeper meaning. They were not in love, they were not friends; they were not even on the same side. Yiang Shen saw it as purely transactional. He did not even want to know what the Night Lord got out of it. Iskaronte’s passionate, suffocated grunts suggested the pleasure was the means, not the end; he was digging for something else. Something Yiang Shen had that he aimed to unearth, somehow, with those gross, big lips of his. 

The thought ended there. If he dwelled any deeper, he would end up killing the man. Now that would be proper, wouldn’t it? 

“You are awfully quiet.” Iskaronte said, the words tethering his incongruous smile. This fiend lacked the basis to articulate any expression without making it outlandish. Yiang Shen noted this beast tendency to speak the obvious. He knew it was to provoke him into a response. Of course he was quiet, he always was. Even during intercourse, his breath barely curved outside its original impassivity. It did not mean Yiang Shen was not feeling anything. His enhanced body naturally gravitated towards unerring stoicism. 

Yiang Shen said nothing. He scrutinized his unlikely partner with golden eyes, drowning in the abyssal black. Yiang Shen found this particular feature fascinating. Those two unfathomable dots in a sea of unhealthy white spoke to him. Barely able to separate sclera from iris from pupil, they conjoined in a perfect depiction of unified calmness. Depths that promised silence, coldness. Unending serenity. Those eyes were closer to his own than those of his brothers. Even though Yiang Shen’s own shone with the bright mysticism of the morning sun, he lacked the warmth. Soulless, lacking substance. A black hole posing for a star. 

Those should have been his eyes.

“Take my example.” Yiang Shen spoke imposingly, his eyes fixating on the nostraman black almost obsessively. “Do what you must do quickly, so we may return to our duties.”

Iskaronte grunted, amused. His voice rumbled and bounced in his belly inconsistently. His breathing was animalistic and cacophonous, like a broken engine. That defect prevented the Night Lord from being in complete silence, even with his lips sealed. Fitting. Only death could keep Iskaronte quiet.

“Go back to killing one another?” Iskaronte murmured. He was bigger than Yiang Shen. A truly hulking monstrosity, brewed and spit from the guts of uncaring Nostramo. Iskaronte made their differences even clearer when he straightened his back, unbent his knees and loomed over him. Yiang Shen did not feel any smaller. Even caged, the prideful son of Chogoris gazed upon nostraman nobility as if he were a lowly curious specimen. Nothing more.

“Not so soon.” Iskaronte spreaded his fingers between Yiang Shen’s legs, getting two in between. “Not so soon.” Like a threat, from the bowels of his stomach. Iskaronte crouched once more, his face getting close to Yiang Shen’s. His nose brushing his cheek, his decrypted smell stinging Yiang Shen’s enhanced senses. If it weren’t for those eyes, Yiang Shen would have found it unbearable. 

Well placed intuition brough Yiang Shen’s hand to cover Iskaronte’s mouth, pushing the Night Lord’s wounded cheek to lay on his shoulder.

“No.” Yiang Shen said, his nose brushing the tender spot between jaw and ear. He trailed upwards, tracing Iskaronte’s temple. “You’ll bite me when I’m dead.”

Aggression contained in fraudulent tenderness, intimacy that had teeth. Iskaronte shuddered. 

He never was the bigger man, nor the most vicious. Yiang Shen just wore ruthlessness with a prettier dressing.

“Not even then.” Yiang Shen added, scarred lips against sickening, pale skin. “You may have whoever comes next, but not me.”

Yiang Shen took over. The Night Lord’s power over him via his physicality was an illusion. He shattered it whenever it pleased him, like all malevolent gods do. Yiang Shen’s satisfaction came from this. He knew. With such a depraved creature there was no reason to hide it: Iskaronte was the enemy. The traitor. The heretic.

It was proper to be cruel. It was proper to be himself.

Inhumane.

Yiang Shen released Iskaronte’s mouth, and the Night Lord kissed his shoulder with controlled exasperation. His hands extended over the bigger man’s nape, fingertips massaging flesh like it was made of clay. Soulless clay, like his own. His fingers wrapped on Iskaronte’s shoulders with mechanical precision, pushing him down, forcing the titan on his knees. Even then, Iskaronte’s face ended up pressed against his stomach. 

Yiang Shen felt the perverted devotion in Iskaronte’s kisses, in his tongue, in the trembling strength of his grip under his ribs. The carnality of the noises were indifferent to him. The stimulation of his flesh less so. The warmth was there, its roots crawling upwards and extending through his body. However, Yiang Shen needed one thing to make it work. His fingers curled in black, greasy hair, yanking his head, reminding the Night Lord to look at him. His eyes were his only beauty. 

They were the reason he was interested at all.

“Look at me.” An order, not a suggestion.

“Romanticism, Yiang Shen?” Iskaronte had latched upon under his navel, persistent in following the hair trail underneath. 

“I do not like you, beast.” Yiang Shen released his hair, and caressed Iskaronte’s forehead with his knuckles. Paternalizing. 

“There is no need.” Iskaronte had pressed his lips against the hardened flesh at his inner thigh. His body was far from virgin; the Great Crusade and its exploits had been Yiang Shen’s first lover. Its embrace had left part of his flesh hardened, blemished and lacking in aesthetical charm. Not like the latter mattered. Iskaronte seemed to ignore any flaw, replacing its original perpetrator with his acrid touch.

 “We could be killing each other tomorrow.” The Night Lord added, intent shining in his sharp teeth, its pointing ends gracing skin like a feather.

Yiang Shen, despite himself, smiled.

He smiled wide enough to push his cheeks upwards and thin his impervious, golden eyes.

“I would like that.”

Before I start, I just wanna say I love your work, keep it up!!

A bit of a feminine m!reader and a stalker, kind of like the song stalker’s tango by autoheart (praise kink and anything you wanna add)

Love me love me love me~! (Stalker Oc x feminine male reader) ໒꒰ྀི˶˃ᆺ˂˶ ꒱ྀིა

WC:. 1.5k

Tags: praise kink, back shots, creepy character, dub con (reader doesn’t say but he wants it), stalking, spit as lube, men in panties, college AU, p in a sex, bad prepping(basically no prep cause he wants reader to feel em), slight Yandere themes?, coming inside panties, lil come play<33

A/N thanks for the request! I didn’t know your kinks so I tried to keep it pretty vanil for the fic but I just get the vibe that the stalker is a lil bit of a yandere ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

College was the time you were supposed to be the most happiest. freedom, no parents breathing down your neck and looking at you wearing your new skirts and finally away from Him…anyway this is the beginning of something new and that made you terrified excited.

Here you were grabbing boxes from the back of a hand me down car you bought last year, your hands full walking around campus searching for your dorm room. The sound of other college students bustling past even a frat boy running through the corridor laughing while another man smacks his shoulder.

Your heels clicking on the floors getting into the elevator finally out of view of the other students, not caring if they stared at you when you walked past them in your little skirt.

Finally finding your door room, room 234 in the third wing on campus. Pulling the door open and then it happens, the boxes nearly dropping from your hand “Jasper?..” the man that single handedly ruined your teen years, the man you filed a restraining order against- the one that stalked you since middle school, putting cameras inside your shower, under your bed.

There he stood in all his glory, black hair all messy with his green eyes piercing you over like an interested cat, a crooked grin on his lips looking at you like some god before him. You quickly sit your boxes down on the twin bed to the left of the room with your hands now by your side looking at him.

“Did you miss me any [name]? I really missed you, so goddamn much” he walks over to you leaning down and shoving his face into your neck breathing in your scent without a care in the world “how’d you find me Jasper…my parents made sure you didn’t know the colleges I applied for” your lips pressed into a thin line standing stiff and finding no comfort in the man’s touch.

“I total you I’d never leave you baby? Can’t live without you [name] I wouldn’t wanna” he kisses his way down grabbing at the hem of your shirt slipping under it and massaging his palms into your sides.

“Y’know I don’t want you Jasper, I never have so just stop” you mutter out all squeaky trying to get away even if your body knew you wanted it, even if you couldn’t deny you found him hot you’d never admit it so you did the next best thing and tried to push away but only failing in return.

“Don’t lie to me baby, you’re already getting hard so hard in that little skirt, it’s like you’re asking for me to fuck you?” His lips muffle themselves against your skin starting to suck it red while holding you pined between him and the wall while his second hand makes its way down to your mini skirt starting to lift it.

“Dammit Jasper… stop that” you speak out because you’re in to deep to say otherwise feeling your cock bulging in the pink panties you were wearing. You had no stockings under your skirt letting your bulge get exposed while you go red in the face feeling jaspers hand snaking down giving it a rough squeeze before pulling his lips off your neck breathing heavy in your ear.

“Just be a good boy and bend over for me sweetheart” you don’t know why but you walked over to your twin size bed, not even getting on it just bending over on the side of it and shoving your face into the sheets standing in a pair of heels spreading your thighs.

“Mh, baby so fucking beautiful, no idea how long I’ve been imagining this” he lifts your skirt in the back showing off the cotton fabric with little bows riding up between your cheeks making him smile reading his hands down and grabbing your cheeks spreading them and watching how your rim puckers up against the panties.

His thumb rubbing down your crack spitting on your panties and using his thumb to rub the now translucent fabric against your bud making sure to get it nice and wet while you lay with your cock weeping against the mattress feeling your knees buckle from the feeling.

“O-h you’re a pervert Jasper!” You yelp out and try to yell at him but fail when he reaches his hand off your ass cheek and grabs the back of your neck shoving it into the bed making your voice get muffled, “such a cruel accusation [name] I’m not perverse, I just love you baby?”

He’d coo to you from behind while the hand messing and teasing with your rim finally pulls your panties to the side of your ass just admiring how you’d clench around the air so effortlessly, your rim half prepped from all those nights you’d whine and finger yourself in your bed. Which of course he knew about back then, he had cameras?

“Want me to fuck it?” He’d ask you softly even though you knew he was going to fuck you either way “y-eah” you nod into the pillows gasping when he lets go of the back of your neck to undo his jeans making sure your skirt was pushed upwards on your waist, “you should really get a tramp stamp sweetheart, get me something all pretty to aim at when I’m coming all over that pretty arch”

Your face went red as a beat becoming more thankful he was behind you so he couldn’t see your reaction but he already knew it when your rim winked at him again trying to swallow his finger tip like quicksand having him all giddy and infatuated with you. Jasper having been waiting years to get his cock nuzzled between those perky little cheeks.

“So warm sweetie, just gonna fuck you so nice baby” his voice comes out rigid pulling his boxers down letting his manhood spring free finally standing tall against his t shirt before he presses his dick between your cheeks and uses his hands to grip both cheeks sandwiching his cock between them as he rocks his hips spitting down on your ass again using it as lube fucking between your cheeks having your face down and your ankles bending out in your heels.

“Just push in already Jasper, don’t fuckin tease me~” you moan reaching your hand down to your panties starting to palm yourself through the panties feeling yourself soaking the Cotten closing your eyes just feeling what’s happening to your body having you melting like ice cream during summer.

“Always a greedy boy weren’t you?…well doesn’t matter, still love you” he speaks nudging his pudgy cock head against your rim spreading the muscle open wide making him hiss “fuck that’s it sweetie” he tilts his head back rubbing your ass cheeks softly trying to get you to loosen up around him having him on cloud nine scrunching his nose up bottoming out inside you ready to come on the spot.

“Jas— oh’m g-od” you croak and choke on your words going loose and fuzzy in the head just laying with your ankle wobbling to stay bent in your heels just screwing your eyes shut only opening them with he gives your ass cheek a little smack letting you adjust to his girth. Jasper bucks his hips forward making your face droop back down as his hips squish your plump skin.

Your hands going limp like jello under you unable to palm your neglected cock, just laying with your body limp letting him have his way with you praying to whatever was up in the sky that other students didn’t hear Jasper giving you back-shots on your first day at campus. “You have no idea h’many nights I imagined getting myself inside your pretty body, mmh you’re worth the wait sweetheart”

You feel your rim on fire when his base stretches you wider making your back arch trying to take him, your cock jumps in your panties at his dirty praises having you in hysterics hating the man but also just wanting him to hold you close and fuck you like you deserve, you’d never tell him though. “You can start movin-!” You cry out arching under him gripping the bedsheets tight.

“Shh stay quite sweetheart, stay nice and sweet for me [name]” Jasper speaks softly moaning under his breath bucking his hips feeling a hot flash in his abdomen trying not to come before you but goddamn you were like heaven around him, you were his addiction, his ambrosia and he couldn’t get enough.

The sound of flesh in flesh filling up the dorm, his hands gliding over your body gripping the skin like a feral dog fucking you from behind having you reaching for the wall while the bed creaks shaking back and forth while your eyes open back up going wide and dumb when his cock assaults York inner walls hitting your sweet spot having you loosening up not clenching his cock so tight, jaspers hands pulling in your panties from behind making them tighter in the front, making your cock pulse against the firm fabric

“Please Jas, please just—“ you beg, you break you fold flush like a bad poker game not even knowing what you were pleading for just knowing you needed to come so bad your balls were swelling up going red in your panties about to explode when his cock halts pushing further and further against your prostate like a rubber band being stretched and pressed further and further about to snap.

“Please what sweetheart? Tell me what you want, promise I’ll give it to you” he speaks to you like a doll in complete opposites to how he was fucking you, his hands reaching letting go of your panties making you squeal from the release of pressure, he keeps fucking you thrusting and pumping his hips pressing his pubes to York lower back reaching up under you to your stomach to hold you up.

Holding you up half off the bed fucking you harder with your face still in the sheets and your hips raised high for him mewling feeling your favorite skirt go higher up on you. “Please make me cum, please get me off Jasper” you whine and you spasm around his dick. Your rim trying to take more until his balls press against yours, running together when he fucks into you.

“Come for me baby, just let go, lemme make it all better for you doll” his pace picks up fucking you like some jack rabbit in heat. His hands tugging at your belly leaning forwards leaning back down laying on top of you bent over the bed heaving in your ear kissing the red marks he made on your neck snaking one hand down inside your panties tugging on your cock.

“S’ happening jas, gonna come” you can’t help but to shiver and let go of the bedsheets arching your back against his stomach crying out wailing all cock drunk slurring your words while your cock pulses in his hand coming all inside your panties only further soiling them when the thick ropes leave your red cock head feeling like a release through your whole body having your balls relax a little once they’re fully emptied.

“There’s my good boy, I knew you were a sweetheart, just needed a little pounding to bring it out” Jasper kisses your neck sucking on the red marks using his canines to pinch the skin letting go York your cock and slamming into you harder becoming less in rhythm and more desperate to get off.

You can feel his balls drawling up when they press against your ass, his veins rubbing more prominent against your inner walls having you biting your bottom lip with your toes curling in your heels while he thrusts one more time inside you piling out with a loud gasp “o-h fuck [name] feel what you do to me?” He asks shuddering behind you fucking between your spit slick ass cheeks letting his cock nudge your rim but never actually pushing in.

The next thing you know hot ropes of cum pump out spewing all over your hole getting between your cheeks feeling the hot liquid running down your arch getting on your back and your skirt practically coating you like he meant it. “Thought you were pretty before but admit seeing you covered in my cum makes you even prettier”

He lifts his head from your neck whispering the words out to you before slipping his hands from under you and massaging the cum all over your body rubbing your cheeks down with it slipping two slickened fingers inside you again playing with you before pulling out.

“Let me have a date baby, I promise I can treat you so good, I’ll be so sweet to you I’ll be s’much better than your ex was” he whispers to you cooing like a snake in the garden of Eden ready to tempt you into his sinful world. “You’re fucking crazy Jasper” you huff lifting your head laying now lifting yourself up on your elbows with your body aching from the rough fucking you just took, his hand marks and imprints leaving your skin swollen.

“I’m only crazy for you, you’re the only man that makes me feel it…only wanna kiss N’ love, only wanna come on you sweetie”