Chapter Text
“How is she holding up?”
The helicopter lurched violently, another evasive maneuver to dodge incoming omnic attack droids.
“It would be much better if you kept steering so we don’t crash!” a sharp, commanding voice snapped, unfamiliar to Freja’s ears.
To be fair, she could barely see anything. Everything drifted in a hazy fog. Voices blurred together with the distant thunder of explosions. The young cadet tilted her head, trying to glimpse what was happening outside.
She regretted it instantly.
A missile streaked toward the helicopter. Luckily, the pilot reacted in time, veering sharply to avoid the blast. Credit where it was due, she had just saved the cadet’s life… and her face.
“Are you crazy?” the man barked.
“Hey, you should be thanking me. I just saved our lives!” the pilot shot back.
The man clicked his tongue, either ignoring her entirely or refusing to say the obvious.
“Thanks…” Freja murmured weakly, struggling to lift her hand into something resembling a thumbs-up.
“You shouldn’t waste your energy on two words you can barely manage,” the man said, his voice softening as he addressed her directly.
Freja tried to respond, but he shook his head before she could make a sound. Defeated, she closed her mouth again.
“Well, at least she knows how to thank the best pilot in Overwatch,” the young woman added, clearly admiring herself more than necessary.
“Oxton, I swear - if you don’t shut up and focus, I’ll report to Morrison that you nearly crashed this chopper.”
“Alright, calm down. You’re not even a commander. You don’t get to give me orders.”
“What?” He frowned, brows tightening. “I outrank you. You’re no different from this wounded cadet.” He gestured toward Freja. “I’m an official agent. I’m close to ranking up, actually. Might even join an elite strike team. Maybe lead one someday.”
“Blah, blah, blah.” The pilot idly toyed with her fingers. “Weren’t you the one telling people to be quiet?” She laughed.
The man hesitated, caught somewhere between irritation and anger.
“Just get us back to base in one piece,” he muttered.
Before he could glance at Freja again, the helicopter jolted sharply. This time, the pilot fired back, destroying the last omnic attack droid trailing them.
Silence followed. No more enemies.
When they finally landed at the nearest Overwatch base in Istanbul, Freja felt hands lifting her, carrying her somewhere safe.
“You’re not dying today. Just hold on a little longer.”
Those were the last words she heard before everything went dark. The blood loss had already taken too much.
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“Are you insane? She could have died! Why didn’t you order a retreat?” The woman’s voice came out sharper than she probably intended.
“Our objective was to destroy the main signal tower coordinating the omnics in that area. The mission was completed successfully. She didn’t die. What more do you want from me?” the man shot back, still on the defensive.
“You have to understand the risk you took,” she replied, her voice lowering into a quiet sigh. “Cadets aren’t even full agents yet. We can’t gamble with their lives like that.” Her tone softened, almost gentle now. “You need to take better care of them… especially if you want to lead a squad one day.”
“Are you done scolding me, doctor?”
She clicked her tongue, letting out a tired breath. “Unless you’d prefer I report this... situation to Morrison?”
“I really regret saying I was glad you came to Istanbul,” he muttered with a dry chuckle. “Now you’ll be reporting my every mistake to the commander?”
“Oh, so you do admit it was reckless?”
“I... well... I wouldn’t call it exactly that word, I didn’t have a choice.” He sighed.
“What is going on... where am I?” Freja finally managed to speak, her voice thin as she tried to lift her head.
“Oh, dear, don’t,” the doctor said gently, placing a steady hand on her shoulder. “Save your strength. You’ll recover faster that way.”
The man stood near the desk, leaning against it, his grip tightening slightly on the metal edge. “How long until she’s better?”
The doctor sighed. “A few days, at least. And no, you won’t be running her into the ground the moment she wakes up. You still have Lena for that. She has the energy and heart of a rabbit.”
“I-I didn’t mean to run her into the ground!” he protested, looking genuinely offended.
“Then you can leave,” the doctor replied flatly, though not unkindly. “Let her rest.”
He muttered something under his breath, probably in Turkish, and left the medical room without another word. The blonde woman exhaled softly. She looked... familiar to Freja. Something about her silhouette. The loose, messy bun. Black glasses perched neatly on her nose. Tired eyes, like someone who survived on five espressos a day just to keep going. But before Freja could piece it together, the doctor spoke again.
“What’s your name, dear?”
“I’m… I’m Freja. Freja Skov.”
“Nice to meet you, Freja. My name is Angela Ziegler.”
Right.
Dr.Ziegler.
As soon as she introduced her name, Freja finally connected the dots.
How had she not recognized her immediately?
Maybe because she wasn’t wearing her combat suit. Those radiant, mechanical wings usually made her impossible to miss, casting her in a kind of quiet glow among the other agents. But Mercy, as most called her, wasn’t often found on the battlefield. The medical wing suited her better. Especially at night. Though… somehow, she was always awake in the early mornings too. Freja couldn’t help but wonder if she ever slept at all, judging by the stories she had heard about Dr. Ziegler.
“It’s my pleasure to finally meet you, Dr.Ziegler.” Freja blushed faintly. She had always admired her.
Even though Dr. Ziegler was only five years older, it felt like a decade separated them. Angela carried herself with a kind of quiet brilliance. Talented, disciplined, impossibly accomplished for her age. Her reputation echoed through Overwatch like a steady signal, backed by countless certifications and groundbreaking work.
Freja felt a flicker of something bittersweet. Not quite envy, not quite admiration, but a tangled thread of both. Still, she had never dreamed of being the center of attention. She preferred quieter victories, the kind acknowledged by close friends… or trusted squadmates. So far, though, faces blurred together. It was only her second week. Names slipped through her memory like water. The only ones that truly stuck were Jack Morrison, the strike team commander. Ana Amari, leader of the search and rescue unit she desperately wanted to join. And Gabriel Reyes, the Blackwatch leader she had never seen in person, only glimpsed as a shadow in reports and stories.
Freja coughed lightly before speaking. “How badly injured am I?”
“Well,” Angela Ziegler replied, glancing at the monitor, “I had to remove a bullet from your abdomen. Fortunately, it didn’t damage any vital organs.” She exhaled softly. “Consider yourself lucky you ended up in Sarioglu’s hands. He got you here just in time.”
“Who?” Freja frowned slightly. “I only know Ethan Ward. He was leading my squad… Actually—where are they? Can you tell me what happened?”
“Oh… yes.” Mercy hesitated, then sighed as she moved to her chair, slipping off her glasses and pressing her fingers to her forehead. “I assumed you might have some memory loss. It’s not unusual in your condition.”
Freja blinked. Up close, Angela looked exhausted. Not just tired, but worn thin, like a candle burning at both ends.
“I’m sorry,” Mercy continued, her voice quieter now. “I don’t know every detail. Sarioglu only told me the essentials.” A brief pause. “To put it simply… your commander is gone. Your squad as well.” She lowered her gaze. “You’re the only survivor.”
The words landed like a sudden vacuum.
Freja’s eyes widened, her voice trembling. “What…?”
“I’m sorry,” Mercy said gently. “He was a good man. A bit reckless, but good.”
Silence stretched between them, heavy and unmoving.
“…Where will I be assigned now?” Freja asked at last, her voice distant, as if the question had wandered out on its own.
Mercy blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, dear… that’s not something I can decide.” She softened her tone. “For now, you need to rest. I’ll arrange for you to speak with Amari tomorrow. She’ll make the call.”
“Right…” Freja shut her eyes tightly. “Sorry. That was a stupid question.”
“It wasn’t,” Mercy said with a small, understanding smile. “Sometimes you just need something to hold onto. Even a question.”
She stood, picking up her mug.
“But for now,” she added gently, “rest. I’ll check on you later tonight.”
“Alright… thank you, Dr. Ziegler.” Freja gave a small nod.
“You’re welcome.” Angela Ziegler offered her a soft, reassuring smile before quietly leaving the room.
The door slid shut with a muted hiss. And just like that, Freja was alone.
Completely alone.
The room felt too still, too clean. She lay there, wounded, aching, her body heavy against the bed. For now, the pain was dulled. Wrapped in the gentle illusion of medication. But she knew that sooner or later, the painkillers would fade. And when they did, the pain would come rushing back like a tide. Five times worse. Maybe ten.
In the meantime, she decided to turn on the news. Maybe it would help her piece together what had happened. Her mind was still wrapped in fog, thoughts slipping through like smoke. But it didn’t help. Nothing had been reported yet. No mention of the mission. No sign of the disaster she had barely survived.
Who was that man?
Maybe he could give her answers. He had to know something... he’d been there.
Sarioglu...
The last name echoed in her mind, unfamiliar and oddly heavy. Freja tried to recall the agents she had met so far, flipping through faces and names like scattered files. None matched. No similar surname, no familiar silhouette. She couldn’t even remember his face well enough. In the helicopter, he had worn a combat mask. Later, in the medical room, he had stood with his back to her the entire time. A stranger, stitched together from fragments. Still… a few details lingered. She managed to catch them when he was speaking to Dr. Ziegler - even from behind, now that she could see more clearly.
He was tall. Very tall. Around 190 centimeters, maybe even a bit more, adding up five centimeters. Broad shoulders, strong arms. The kind of build that made carrying another person look effortless.
He had carried her.
Freja wasn’t small herself, standing at around 174 centimeters, yet he had lifted her as if it were nothing. For a fleeting, reckless moment, she imagined getting up, walking through the halls, searching for him. Demanding answers.
Reality shut that thought down immediately. She could barely shift her position. Lying on her back was the only way she could breathe without pain clawing through her chest. Even the smallest movement threatened to pull a whimper from her throat.
Just a couple of days…and I will be out of this medical wing.
Freja let out a quiet sigh, staring ahead. She already knew those days would stretch long and slow... just torture.