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[video]
How's it so many of you are runnin' about and not bringin' back any stories with you? Some of us could use it you know! Instead of havin' 'em all dumped out when they drop those spots on the news, anyway.
[Ahem.
Tracer is broadcasting from the monitor room, where she's clearly been serving out her duties with as much patience as she can muster (read: not a lot). Even with all of the activity, Tracer can't deal with the tedium. She's rigged up a way to continuously spin herself in a chair while she spends time dispatching Legionnaires as is expected of her. Even with that, she's incredibly restless, and has herself perched in the window, lounging on the sill in a manner that probably would be considered unsafe if she weren't capable of rewinding time around her.
Overwatch's systems were mostly automated. When a warning went out, the Strike Team left -- and that was the end of it. This dispatching nonsense makes her thankful that it never got quite as large, but also makes her nostalgic.
That's not the only thing, but. Well, its a big part of it. And while she's trying to think of a way to bring up that first thing without outing herself, she can be seen tapping her fingers nervously on the big glowing machine on her chest.]
...speakin' of stories. How many of you lot got families back where you came from? Maybe a better half...
[She pauses here -- not too long though. Don't want to be suspicious.]
...do you think they're still lookin' for you? It's been a tick, hasn't it?
[Ahem.
Tracer is broadcasting from the monitor room, where she's clearly been serving out her duties with as much patience as she can muster (read: not a lot). Even with all of the activity, Tracer can't deal with the tedium. She's rigged up a way to continuously spin herself in a chair while she spends time dispatching Legionnaires as is expected of her. Even with that, she's incredibly restless, and has herself perched in the window, lounging on the sill in a manner that probably would be considered unsafe if she weren't capable of rewinding time around her.
Overwatch's systems were mostly automated. When a warning went out, the Strike Team left -- and that was the end of it. This dispatching nonsense makes her thankful that it never got quite as large, but also makes her nostalgic.
That's not the only thing, but. Well, its a big part of it. And while she's trying to think of a way to bring up that first thing without outing herself, she can be seen tapping her fingers nervously on the big glowing machine on her chest.]
...speakin' of stories. How many of you lot got families back where you came from? Maybe a better half...
[She pauses here -- not too long though. Don't want to be suspicious.]
...do you think they're still lookin' for you? It's been a tick, hasn't it?
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[It's mild, but firm: comes from a place too grounded to brush off.
He isn't lying, she knows that much from all the little aftershocks that'd rippled through wherever he set foot. That doesn't mean she isn't curious in that typical, self-destructive way. An addiction she can't shake, even if they're closing in on territory that's too close to home.
To her.
She wants to know. She wants to know everything— and she'll push as far as she needs to if it means hearing it straight from his mouth.]
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[One person, with the team that ended the war and the entire United Nations at his back and a world that had no real choice but to follow Overwatch into their new era of peace. He doesn't want to offer her empty excuses, but of course that's what this is. Still, there's a whole host of socio-political factors involved that he doesn't expect someone not in the thick of it like he was to understand. He has to compartmentalize, because he can't live with himself otherwise, thinking of all the things he could have done. How he could have stretched or shuffled or reallocated the power and resources he had to save more lives. Keep people from being overlooked. It does no good to dwell on it, especially when they accomplished what they did, in the end.]
Tried to do what we could. It never would have been enough.
[Not when you're pulling the world back from the brink of extinction. Someone is always going to get lost in the shuffle.]
private;
Show me your face.
[Show her that it matters to you.]
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[He doesn't care if it's private!!!]
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Then come here.
[For once, Jack Morrison, you can walk to her doorstep instead.]
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He finds her out on her beach, but he's silent as he approaches. For a moment it seems like he's taking in what he recognizes as Dorado, but it doesn't last long. He comes to a stop next to her, hands in his pockets.]
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But if you ask her, he does owe her something. A lot of somethings.
Whether or not she'll collect those dues someday might hinge on how this plays out.] Telling you I wasn't from Dorado.
Picking this place out anyway.
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[Doesn't much matter to him, though it does have him recalling some of their initial conversations to remember whether or not she withheld that information from him. Either way, he supposes it's a moot point now, and Jack isn't going to judge her for keeping anything close to the chest.
He doesn't join her on the ground, but he does take off his mask, letting his hand fall to his side with it.]
Are you from Dorado?
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And she suspects he knows it, too.
She tilts her head up as he drops his mask, flexing a tepid little smile, as though confessing to being caught red-handed.]
You were the only familiar thing I found here.
[A beat, settling down again into the warmth of her own hands:] And you're not even real.
'Soldado 76'.
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[More real than Jack Morrison is nowadays--or, hell, ever was. He can't exactly pinpoint the exact moment when he stopped being a person and started being an unattainable ideal that he could never really hope to reach. Sure, he knows when it started, but the way he drowned in it was gradual. By the time he realized he couldn't breathe, it was already too late.
Soldier: 76 is freeing, in a way. He feels more like himself than he has in a very long time--if he manages to disregard the hole in his chest where they ripped Overwatch out of him, that is.
He'd suspected she'd wanted to get to know him because of his infamy and status as an internationally-wanted vigilante. That in itself isn't a problem, or at least he doesn't blame her. It's good tactical sense. Now, however, he knows that his recent activities in Dorado are much more personal to her than he initially thought. He suddenly feels like he has a field of eggshells laid out in front of him, but he wonders if he cares enough to avoid stepping on them.
If he didn't care about anything, however, he wouldn't be here.]
You believe everything you hear?
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She liked hers best.
But the rest speaks for itself: if Azúcar really did buy into everything at face value, their first interaction would have gone a lot less smoothly. She shifts forward, folding her legs beneath her and easing less narrowly into warm sand. He might not want to sit like a human being instead of a máquina, but it doesn't change the fact that it's nice here, even if it isn't real. Someone ought to enjoy it.]
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I was investigating ties to Talon in the area. Terrorist cell.
[Before he'd caught wind of a sniper in Egypt giving that very terrorist group a whole new kind of hell. Jack, predictably, had dropped everything to go there on the impossible chance it was Ana--and it had been.]
Los Muertos. Lumérico.
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[Someone on the streets knowing what little he's told her in person— well, it's a half-step in logic: she knows better, but the woman she's pretending to be? A soldier without a name equates to black ops. Always, always black ops.
And so many people never truly assumed Overwatch was ever just Done.]
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[At least, Soldier: 76 doesn't. He's not at the mercy of the UN anymore, and certainly doesn't need to play by the rules. Everything he does now is to further his own mission.]
This is personal.
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They're just thugs, mijo.
Vatos.
[Her shoulders shrug, head shaking and dropping a few luminescent locks of hair down across her face, like something's been mistranslated.]
Somebody must have sold you bad information.
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They were running guns. Enough weaponry to hold the whole town hostage. Question is who put them up to it. Gave them the resources.
[Of course, his bet is Talon, or maybe Lumérico or maybe a combination of both, even though he'd dropped that lead when he caught wind of Ana.]
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[Some people stole, others bartered, others were dedicated to putting things Right— running their businesses the way they hoped Mexico could really be. And Los Muertos— like their little hermanita— saw an opportunity right down the middle worth taking. It took tenacity.
And fire.
But that, she keeps to herself.] Did you ever get your answers?
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[He should have followed up, he thinks, but what was happening in Giza was much, much more important. It had payed off in the end when his hunch about Ana was proven correct, but he'd been brought here not long after--before the two of them could get anything done.]
Something more important came up elsewhere.
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[The fact that they're both here, now, is proof enough of that.
And why she moves to climb up onto her feet, dusting the sand from her fingertips and peering more closely at his face, lit by pale, artificial moonlight. Studying the sloping contours of his scars.]
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Jack turns to Azúcar, eyeing her in turn.]
Are those the answers you wanted?
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[That little puff of air a snort that comes out of her nose before he's barely finished asking the question, displacing a wayward strand of hair. The subtle shift between street-savvy behavior and what sincere curiosity that follows when she tips her head upwards towards him. The slightest little nod, hands already on her hips.]
Why'd you do it?
[Any of it. All of it. Overwatch, vigilantism— the Legion now. A beat:] And don't say 'it was the right thing to do.'
Everybody always says that.
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[Because he's done an awful lot, and Jack doesn't want to let on more than he has to--that might be abundantly clear in the way he looks down at her and raises his eyebrow.]
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[It's said (predictably) without hesitation. Without elaboration.
He might want specifics, but to her, how he chooses to interpret it— what parts of it he's willing to dislodge— matters more. Only amateurs pigeonhole their targets.
...And she likes listening to what he has to say.]
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[But maybe he can come up with something, especially if she seems to be asking in a general sense. How do you describe why you do what you do to someone who's still very much a stranger? When you don't want them to know these things about you?
He settles on an obvious answer.]
Someone's got to find out what happened to Overwatch.
[Because the rest of them sure aren't.]
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[Trailing off with a clawed finger raised in midair, wide-eyed and seemingly rapt, even by that minimal explanation.]
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