Chapter 11 Conversations With Friends

The hovercycle's engine fell silent, the jets deactivating with a soft hiss as the sleek vehicle descended gracefully towards the ground, settling into its designated parking spot with a muted thud. A series of shimmering hexagons materialized, coalescing into a protective shield that enveloped the bike in an impenetrable cocoon. Brian's thumb pressed the lock button on the key fob, and the translucent barrier sealed itself with a faint hum, securing the cycle from prying eyes and potential thieves.

Grabbing his phone from his pocket, Brian swiped upward, dismissing the insistent notification from his work with a fleeting glance. His piercing azure gaze scanned the digital contacts, lingering upon Lyudmila's invitation to join him in virtual reality. A glance at the time – 10:37 – elicited a weary sigh from his lips as he slipped the keys into his pocket and turned towards the imposing facade of the apartment building.

The jingle of keys broke the stillness as Brian deposited them on the polished marble countertop. With deft movements, he shrugged off his suit jacket, draping the garment over a hanger with practiced ease. The trousers soon followed, folded before being placed within a protective plastic sheath alongside the jacket.

Padding towards the dresser, Brian retrieved a pair of loose shorts and a crisp white tee, quickly donning the comfortable attire. He settled onto the edge of the bed, reaching into a nearby cabinet to retrieve a sleek white box. Flipping the lid open, he extracted a futuristic white visor, securing it snugly against his face with a series of clasps at the rear.

Reclining onto the welcoming embrace of the mattress, Brian's fingers danced across the visor's surface, activating the device with a subtle hum.

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Reinhardt's Point Of View

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Reinhardt sipped the warm contents of his metal mug, feeling a sense of contentment as the dark liquid warmed his body. Reinhardt's reverie was interrupted by a voice. "So, I've never asked," the guard whispered through the transparent hard light door, his hands wrapped around an identical mug of coffee.

Reinhardt raised an eyebrow. "I don't suppose we could discuss this in the courtyard?"

The guard shook his head. "Sorry, no going out after 8pm."

Reinhardt nodded in understanding. "Always one for rules, Herschliff." The guard, his face obscured by a translucent visor, shrugged. "Better safe than sorry."

Reinhardt placed the mug on the small bedside desk. "Young Lena is... sympathetic," he explained, and Herschliff stared forward blankly. "How so?"

Reinhardt looked to Herschliff with his one good eye, letting the guard get a clear view of his facial scar. "Heroes are a rare breed. And real ones don't live long."

Herschliff scoffed. "You're getting up there. I remember I had posters of you in high school. And I'm turning 46 this year." He chuckled before Reinhardt stated "I am no hero."

The old crusaders face hardened. "Then what about Jack Morrison?" Herschliff asked, and Reinhardt spoke "do you wish to hear a story?" Herschliff shrugged "I don't have anywhere else to be."

"When Overwatch reformed, my squire and I were sent to pick up an old soldier on our way to a rendezvous. We found him surrounded by the bodies of a local gang, cradling the body of a young girl. The police were called, and he placed her there."

Herschliff interrupted. "She was attacked by the local gang?"

Reinhardt grunted. "She had her money taken - barely enough to buy bread. And they took it from her. The old soldier got involved, and when the dust settled, she was a casualty."

Reinhardt raised a hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. "So he wasn't a hero because he couldn't save the girl? Or because he got her killed?"

Reinhardt shook his head. "No, it is because when I held him by his jacket and looked into his eyes, all he could say was... 'Sacrifices must be made.'"

Herschliff clicked his tongue, placing his hands in his pockets. "I... understand the tragedy. An innocent caught between him and them. It shouldn't have happened, but... one girl for an entire gang being wiped out. It's terrible, but think of all the people that were saved due to one girl's sacrifice... it sounds like an acceptable loss."

Reinhardt crushed the metal cup in his palm, his one eye locking onto Herschliff. The guard instinctively reached for his pulse pistol as he felt the wave of fear wash over him. "Jack Morrison believed the same. And what happened to him?" Reinhardt's knuckles popped as he balled his fists.

"It is easy to make sacrifices when your life doesn't hang in the balance," Reinhardt looked to the cell around him, somberly gazing at a singular photo. Some of the former members seemed to look back at him as he did so. "I sacrificed myself for my comrades every time I went out into battle. What was one more time. For a friend?"

Reinhardt simply stared towards the back wall of his cell. "I wish to sleep. Goodnight, Herschliff."

"Goodnight,"

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 Brian's Point Of View

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A familiar cyborg dashed past Brian, jumping over him and flipping midair, bringing a sword down on a mechanical monster that resembled a bipedal dinosaur. The monster roared and swung its massive blade-like weapon down, the metal glowing red-hot.

Brian jumped back, raising his rifle. His finger gripped the trigger, and a spray of kinetic rounds erupted from the barrel, embedding themselves in the dark, oil-black armor plating. The monster roared, "Lyudmila!"

The cyborg nodded, their arms glowing neon red as they stepped back, cracking the pavement. Before Lyudmila, their scarlet-colored katana was tossed into the air. They flipped, kicking the katana forward, the blade embedding itself into the beast's scanner, stunning it.

Brian reached out, and Lyudmila fell, throwing Brian onto the blade. The boy ran up the pillar of steel, sprinting along the blunt side as it began to rise, knocking Brian into the air. He pulled a pistol from his waistband, raising the gun to look through the iron sights. He leveled the barrel towards the scanner and pulled the trigger.

A shrill scream came from the end, and a massive bolt of energy shot out, slicing through the metal plating like a ribbon. A massive explosion rang out, and Brian was thrown back, his back colliding with a building, cracking the wall.

Lyudmila stared up towards the beast, their visor switching to thermal scanning the area through the smoke. A smile broke across the cyborg's face as they spotted the great beast, crumpled on the ground.

A menu appeared, showing the rankings and points from the fight. Lyudmila moved a slider, and the world around the two began to vanish in a wave of code. Brian stood up, standing with Lyudmila on a white, floating plain.

"You got bitch-slapped," Lyudmila spoke with a thick Russian accent, breaking the silence.

Brian places his pistol back on his waistband and shoulders his rifle. He pulls up a menu, and both weapons vanish, along with the combat gear and ammo belts. In their place, a blue bomber jacket, black jeans, and a dark-colored motorcycle helmet appear as the new outfit is equipped.

Lyudmila does the same, a tuxedo with a red undershirt and tie appearing around them, their mask being the only remaining item of their battlesuit. "So, it has been a few days anything interesting happen?" Brian scratches his chin. "not much just work. You mind if we relax for a bit?"

"Sure let me drop a portal," Lyudmila says, raising a hand. A distortion appears on the ground in front of them, and the two step through, finding themselves in an office space that Brian swears is from one of his favorite movies. Lyudmila splays out in a cushy office chair. Brian notices a watermark on the desk and a poster on the wall showing the name of the movie.

"Spaceman, you're zoning out. What's happening?" Lyudmila pulls Brian back to reality.

Brian's eyes seem to look distant as he contemplates his words. "Do you know anything about Tracer? The Overwatch hero?"

Lyudmila tilts their head. "Not much. They're British, they have time powers. They were a recalled agent. They were a squadmate of Jack Morrison."

Brian's eyebrows raise. "What?"

"I don't know much about it, but I do remember Tracer was a squadmate of Jack Morrison, even back during the second Omnic crisis. Supposedly, they were really close. I remember my mother joked about how Morrison was a... 'Manther'?"

Brian chokes on his spit, and Lyudmila chuckles. "That's what my mother called it. Supposedly, the two were really close, but Morrison supposedly had eyes for Angela Ziegler, and the feeling was mutual, supposedly."

Brian ponders the man's words. "Were they a thing?"

Lyudmila shrugs. "Who knows? I mostly studied the history of Overwatch, not really the gossip stuff."

Lyudmila clicked his tongue, a contemplative pause lingering before he tapped the desk with his index finger, tilting his head back. "Can I ask, before you wanted to know history, controversies and drama, but now you're asking about personal relationships." He raised the glass to his lips, eyeing Brian inquisitively. "Did something change?"

Brian understood the implied curiosity, steering the conversation. "I used to be a big fan. And to be honest, it's not every day that you meet an expert." He played to Lyudmila's ego, the Russian's eyes gleaming with a hint of pride.

"If you're truly interested, I know someone who could enlighten you further. They're expensive, but they can answer most of your questions," Lyudmila mused, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. Brian's gaze flickered to the notification popup before him, his index finger swiping across the screen to reveal a sleek webpage emblazoned with a gleaming purple skull icon, eliciting a raised eyebrow. "Seems like a sketchy site."

Lyudmila waved his hand dismissively. "Add the account on the site, and then wait. Make sure your contact information is readily available on your page; people don't usually converse with them directly."

Curiosity piqued, Brian arched an inquisitive brow. "Why?"

"They typically deal with high-value clients, you know, like big secrets." Lyudmila's tone took on a conspiratorial lilt.

"Like paparazzi stuff?" Brian queried, prompting a nonchalant shrug from the Russian.

"Something like that."

With a flick of his wrist, Brian swiped the window away, tucking it into his 'saved for later' file. A name danced tantalizingly on the tip of his tongue, and he wavered, the phantom sensation of Amelie Lacroix's hand lingering on his upper back. Shaking his head, he posed the question, "What about the Widowmaker?"

Brian fell silent, his face slowly flushing crimson as Lyudmila's words hung heavy in the air. The Russian picked up on the confused, almost dumbfounded expression etched across Brian's features, prompting him to continue speaking. However, his voice fell upon deaf ears as Brian grappled with processing the bombshell revelation.

Later, Brian found himself seated before his computer, arms crossed as a video of Lena Oxton delivering an impassioned speech played on the webpage. The Widowmaker's striking figure was present alongside Angela and a familiar girl with brown hair and pink triangular markings adorning her cheeks. Pausing the video, Brian turned his attention to the open messaging app on his socials.

"I don't really know why you're so off about this. You don't even like her," Peter's voice crackled through the phone's speaker, eliciting a weary sigh from Brian.

"Well, how would you feel if you went on a date with a girl, then she didn't tell you that she was with someone who tried to kill you?"

A pregnant pause lingered before Peter's tentative response. "I don't want to be THAT guy, man, but... That sounds like a personal thing?"

Brian's hands rose to rub his temples in frustration. "It's just a bit weird she wouldn't mention that."

Peter's sigh resounded through the line. "I mean, would you want to admit to someone that you got with someone who almost killed them? Maybe she isn't proud of it. I know a ton of girls who are ashamed of their ex's."

His friend's words rang with a semblance of logic, prompting Brian to heave another sigh. "Maybe, but I actually met her tonight."

A groan of exasperation echoed from Peter's end. "I don't even know why I try anymore. So what happened?"

"She's a ballerina now. Or running one, I guess. She rehabilitated and seems nice, but even after talking with her and everything, I still feel a bit awkward thinking the woman who gave me dancing lessons also tried to kill me and ALSO was the girlfriend of a girl I went on a date with."

Silence hung between them before Peter spoke up once more. "This feels like something you might need to ask Tracer about. Have you texted her?"

Brian's palm met his forehead with an audible smack. "I forgot it's been two days..."

"Dude. TEXT HER, JESUS CHRIST." Peter's exasperated voice rang out, prompting Brian to pull the phone away from his ear.

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 Lena Oxton's Point Of View

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Lena stretched languidly across the plush tan couch, her lithe form sinking into the inviting cushions as the living room television flickered with another advertisement – this one hawking an energy drink alongside an antiquated brand called "Red Apple Cigarettes." With a weary rub of her fingers against the bridge of her nose, she seemed to melt further into the couch's embrace, the siren call of slumber growing ever more insistent.

A fleeting thought crossed her mind as she wondered why fatigue weighed so heavily upon her this night, when all-nighters were once a commonplace occurrence. Rousing herself from the couch's depths, Lena rose to her feet and pressed the red power button on the remote, plunging the room into velvety darkness as the television's glow winked out.

Padding towards her bedroom with the silent grace of a prowling feline, Lena eased open the door, her gaze immediately falling upon the familiar sight of her pulse pistols nestled in their holsters alongside her customary gear. An unconscious hand reached out, fingers outstretched to grasp the well-worn weapons.

However, a sudden, shrill ding emanating from her shorts caused Lena to jolt, her hand instinctively darting towards the source of the sound. She wrestled her phone free, nearly juggling the device before securing it in her grasp and raising it before her squinting eyes. The bright screen seared her vision in the dark confines of the room.

Unknown Number: Hey Lena its Brian.

Lena's brow furrows as she reads the text.

Lena: A bit late innit?

Brian: I thought I should. I wanted to talk with you.

Lena's lips quirk into a slight frown as she sits down on the edge of her bed, tearing her eyes away from her phone screen. For a moment, she lets her mind wander, thoughts drifting.

"I'll just see what his motive is," she muses to herself, fingertips absentmindedly tracing the worn bedspread.

Her eyes flit around the room, taking in the scattered piles of gear and well-loved movies stacked haphazardly on the nightstand. A tangle of fairy lights hung unlit above a small mirror

Lena's gaze lingers on an old photo stuck into the edge of the mirror's frame – Amelie sitting drinking coffee in a nightgown on a balcony. She feels a pang, quickly pushing the memory aside.

Refocusing her attention, she picks up her phone again, pulling up Brian's Instagram profile. As she scrolls through his meticulously curated feed, Lena can't quite put her finger on what nags at her. But something about this kid doesn't add up.

With a resigned sigh, she tosses her phone aside, falling back onto the bedspread. For now, she'll have to keep watching...and waiting to catch a glimpse of whatever game he's playing.

Lena: about what?

Three animated dots bounce rhythmically as Brian's tap out a message on his phone screen. Lena watches the looping ellipsis intently, her eyes narrowing slightly as it pauses and starts again.

He types and deletes, the dots pulsing with each revision. Clearly putting a lot of thought into his response.

Brian: I was wondering if you wanted to hang out

Lena arches one perfectly sculpted eyebrow as her keen gaze remains fixed on the screen

Lena: I'm a bit busy this week, maybe some other time.

Brian: I kinda just want to ask for some advice. But it feels like an in-person conversation you know?

Lena: not really.

Brian: I think you'll think it's weird.

Lena: try me.

The pulsating ellipsis bubbles up again as Brian continues tapping out his message, moving in fits and starts. Lena feels her irritation growing with each pause and restart of the animation.

Brian: I met the widowmaker again. And I.. forgave her.

Lena's eyes widen in surprise There was Brian earlier, holding Amelie close as they swayed together to the lilting melody. His hand resting at the small of her back. Lena closed her eyes tightly.

Lena: You forgave her?

Brian: I told her that since she was obviously trying to leave all of it behind her that its stupid for me to hold a grudge with someone who doesn't exist anymore. And even if its just one more thing she doesn't have to worry about then its worth it.

Lena: that's. noble of you.

Brian: it was really hard to say that.

Lena: whys that?

Brian: Because I spent years imagining getting some stupid revenge. Then when I was standing in front of her I could only think. She wasn't in control of herself. Its stupid to hate someone for what they cant control.

Lena: The coffee shop Sunday 5AM be there or be square.

Lena jabs her thumb aggressively, sending the text off with a dissatisfied huff. Tossing her phone down onto the haphazard pile of pillows, she lets out a guttural scream of pure exasperation - muffling the sound against the plush cushion clutched to her face.

"There's just no way this kid can be this NICE!" Her words reverberate through the fabric, dripping with bewildered disdain. "There's gotta be something to him beneath that dopey smile and stupid hair!"

Flopping back dramatically, Lena flings the pillow aside with a groan. Her eyes blaze with skeptical indignation as she replays the scene from earlier in her mind.

The way Brian had simply...forgiven Amelie. After that unhinged ballet mistress had quite literally tried to kill him. Most people would be pressing charges, getting a restraining order at the very least.

But not Brian. No, he just flashed those annoyingly kind blue eyes, wished Amelie well in her recovery, and carried on like it was nothing.

Lena scowls at the memory, fingers raking harshly through her disheveled hair. "I can't fucking believe this kid!" She seethes aloud to the empty room. "What kind of game is he playing at?"

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Peter Omake

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Peter concluded his call with Brian and proceeded to meticulously craft a chalk circle within the confines of his bedroom, meticulously etching a sizable star at its heart. Retrieving a collection of candles, he arranged them symmetrically, savoring the delicate fragrance of lavender as he prepared the ritual space. With deliberate care, he placed a candle at each cardinal point of the circle, punctuating the act with a drop of his own blood at its center. Igniting the candles one by one, he intoned the ancient incantation, "ut mihi amicam!" with fervent repetition, observing as the flames flickered and danced with increasing intensity until a surge of fire surged forth, engulfing the chamber and hurling Peter to the ground.

Reacting swiftly, Peter reached for a fire extinguisher, dousing the inferno until billowing clouds of white smoke filled the room. Amidst the haze, a voice pierced the air, feminine and resonant. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he discerned the figure of an Asian woman, meticulously polishing a pair of thick-rimmed glasses.

In a moment of exuberance, Peter exclaimed, "FUCK YEAH!" as he enveloped the woman in an embrace, only to find himself abruptly encased in a solid block of ice,