Chapter Text
Alluvium blinked into the airspace over the lighthouse and hovered toward the famous rocky cliffside, leaving a blue light trail in its wake. The technology originally developed for the ill-fated Slipstream had been perfected years ago by Winston, and what was once a 9 hour flight could now be completed in twenty minutes.
Strike Commander Pharah had spent four of those minutes taking stock of her personnel. A centering hand on Mercy’s shoulder to assure herself that her wife had made it through the mission unscathed. A quick glance over to Tracer and Kirin, where they were chatting excitedly, neither hurt. Then back to the table where Brynhildr and Mercy examined the torn and bloodied fabric on Electricus’s shoulder. He stared, embarrassed, up at the ceiling and accepted their prodding and scoldings. With the Caduceus’s assistance, the gunshot wound had already healed, and had been the only notable injury the team had sustained…
... thanks to them.
For fourteen she had been on the comm-line with Sombra and Athena, desperate for answers that neither of the typically impeccable intelligence agents were able to provide about the baffling mission the strike team had just completed.
The remaining two, Pharah spent in simmering silence.
The teleporting VTOL completed its steady hover to the landing pad cut into the cliffs and came to a stop a few feet off the ground. The ramp door opened with a soft pop as the gaskets were released, and Pharah stepped out of the ship before it even hit the ground. Making a hard right, she strode toward the stairwell, a wave of emotions flicking over her. Confusion reigned.
Athena had insisted that no audio of the pertinent parts of their mission existed. Back at Gibraltar, Sombra hadn’t heard the mysterious voice that had alerted Pharah and her team to incoming dangers, protected them by directing them around like puppets on a stage in the balmy Cairo winter. Beautifully executed counter maneuvers. Known all their callsigns, even Kirin and Electricus, two of their youngest fully-fledged agents. The voice in their comms had known all their strengths, and, more disturbingly, all their weaknesses. After Electricus had been shot, and Pharah and Mercy separated from the rest of the squad, she had feared the team’s presence might end up putting more civilians in danger and doing more damage to the protesters than the infiltrators’ violent attack would have. The voice had helped them identify the targets hidden in the crowd, had gotten them back together using easy to spot landmarks, had kept Tracer calm when she had accidentally blinked into a private courtyard. They had ended up accomplishing their goal faster than expected, protecting the civilians from the attack that would have been blamed on the peaceful protestors, separating the ill-willed infiltrators from their weapons, handing the suspects over to local authorities… It was almost too easy and for that Pharah was suspicious. If every mission could go that well…
As she reached the landing, Pharah pulled off the helmet of the Raptora and shook her head, but Sombra has no leads on the voice’s source. The sound of the Valkyrie’s wing’s caught her attention and she turned.
Mercy flew down the flight of stairs and rested a hand on Pharah’s armored shoulder, “I said wait up!”
“Sorry, I didn't hear you, I was just thinking about-”
“I know,” Mercy nodded and reached a hand up to tuck Pharah’s slightly greying bangs behind an ear. “Lets see what the others have to say, but remember, even if it was unnerving, they helped us, that was the smoothest mission we’ve been on in a long time.”
Pharah nodded and pushed back the Valkyrie's halo to press her forehead to Mercy’s. They breathed together for a few quiet moments, before Mercy saw the twinkle in Pharah’s eye as her mood shifted.
“We could use someone with a view like that,” Fareeha agreed, “We won’t be up there forever… I’d like to take you away to some island somewhere- you’ll be retiring soon since you’re so much older than I.”
Angela whacked her playfully and pushed away from her wife’s chuckling embrace, “It’s barely five years, Fareeha!”
The old joke was even more ridiculous now, as Fareeha looked beautifully every bit her mid-fifties, while the nanite-infused 58 year old could easily pass for someone in her 40s. Angela pouted and sauntered down the remaining flight of stairs to the briefing room… hips swaying, knowing full well that her wife was watching.