Disclaimer: I do not own Overwatch or any of its characters.

Angela was walking through the corridors of Numbani's national hospital. Everything about the place was clean. The wall panels were white and shinning, gleaming like diamonds. The floor sparkled with polished perfection, spotless enough to host her reflection. It was like walking in a world of glass. There was a sterilised sent in the air, cool and regulated and an absolute pleasure to breathe in. Angela took a mouthful and waited a few seconds before breathing back out. All the space in here was another welcome aspect, she certainly noticed it now after the events of yesterday.

For yesterday this world of glass was filled to the brim.

The crowds were thick as an ocean, made up of healers and doctors whose skills were in demand by the injured and broken. Shoals of ambulances kept pulling up outside, patients kept flowing in through the reception like river rapids and the voices of the pleading were countless. Their cries flooded every hall and room and Angela remembered just wanting to answer them all, knowing full well she never could.

An energy pulse had gone off in the heart of the international museum of Overwatch. A detonation destructive enough to render the entire building to rubble. Angela was in England at the time of the disaster, tending to those who had been injured in the riots stirred up by Tekhartha's assassination. Now she was in Numbani, a utopia city, the one place she expected her skills as a field medic would never be needed.

How times change.

She made her way to the east wing and found Araujo Archibald, the chief surgeon waiting for her just outside the surgical ward. A man who was more interested in doing a job than doing good for people. Both his bionic arms were on display and had undergone a bronze paint job to match his skin color. His face was immaculate, clean of facial hair and his bald head almost shinned as bright as walls surrounding him. Wearing a sharp shirt and tie underneath a buttoned up lab coat, he was dressed more like a businessman than a doctor.

Angela on the other hand had just thrown a lab coat over her Valkyrie suite. A torn up coat at that, after having used a portion of it as a make-shift bandage for a patient in the field. Two slits had also been made in the back, allowing the wings of her suite to spread through. She'd feel underdressed if it wasn't for her nature of knowing better. There just never was any time since yesterday to change. Or sleep.

"Dr Archibald," Angela said, stretching out her hand.

The surgeon took her palm and shook it. "Dr Ziegler," he said. "Or should I call you Mercy?"

"Ziegler is fine. How is Oberon?"

"Who?"

"The patent I left with you yesterday? The one without medical records."

"Ah yes, the uninsured one you mean. He's lucky to be alive considering the state he was in."

"I guess you could say he had a Guardian angel," Angela grinned.

Archibald only frowned.

"Get it? Guardian angel. Because the suit I wear –"

"Yes, yes, Dr Ziegler you need not explain it. Let's at least try to stay on topic, shall we?"

"Very well," Angela said, thinking her joke was rather cleaver. "Is Oberon stable?"

"Indeed he is, out cold in the recovery ward now with an IV drip administering PA stimulants, as you requested."

"Excellent news," Angela smiled, "thank you doctor. I can get out of your hair now." She turned around and was about to leave when a cold metallic palm caught her wrist.

"We're not quite finished yet," said Archibald. "This patient of yours, I am sure you're aware that saving his life took a lot of expensive treatment. Surgical equipment, bionic rehabilitation, Nanorobotic stimuli etc. And considering the fact that he is not insured, would you mind telling me who's going to pay for all this?"

"I'll write you a check," Angela said, pulling her wrist free.

And with that she made for the west wing recovery ward where Oberon would be resting. A curious patient really. His background check had turned up blanker than Archibald's sense of humour. No family records, no known place of birth, not even a name. The man was a ghost. This is why Angela had come to calling him Oberon for the time being, because his blood test came back as type O.

She thought it was clever...

Around the next corner she walked into the recovery ward. Beside every patient's room were small gatherings of their family or friends, little support groups here to comfort them through their recovery. Thankfully almost everyone was outside the museum when the blast occurred, their injuries sustained after tripping and falling as a result of panic induced running. Flesh wounds. Twisted ankles, broken ribs and minor concussions: all things Angela could fix in the field herself with modern technology. These people would all likely be discharged before long.

There was but one who suffered near fatal injuries, the one patient she found in the rubble of the museum itself; the only one without any visitors gathered outside visiting him. Angela allowed the automatic door to slide open and stepped into the room of that patient, Oberon's room.

The sight which greeted her was a bland and sorrowful one. A man around his mid-twenties was fast asleep on a medical bed, his head wrapped in the white fabric of a bandage with silver coloured strands of hair protruding through the seams. He was dressed in the standard white and lime green scrubs that are given to patients after rescue. Any and all cloths he was found in had to be cut off and thrown away so they wouldn't conceal any of his injuries. The covers were pulled up to his waist and a plastic tube ran from his neck up to an IV bag of PA drip hanging off a tall metal stand. The room itself was a small space, with an acute holovision projected on the wall and a little chair sitting in the corner. Apart from that, there was nothing left to look at. No get-well-soon cards or flowers or balloons or any kind of decoration to uplift the mood. That didn't sit well with Angela, the thought of having a patient who had nobody in the world that cared for him.

She took a moment to check Oberon's vitals and read over his medical report. His heart rate was balanced, blood pressure looked average, his breathing nominal, indeed: everything seemed ordinary. Except for brain activity, which was a little higher than it should have been. Though the real trouble was a matter of figuring out what to say when he woke up. Such is the way of being a doctor, Angela would have to once again be the bearer of bad news. She took one of Oberon's palms into hers, a cold metal palm that was once warm flesh before he went into surgery. What do you say to somebody who's had to have their arms amputated without consent? That's part of what PA stimulants are for. Programed Awareness, a solution of Nanobots which are used to temporarily alter a patient's way of thinking. They are used in bionic rehabilitation to reduce the risk of psychological trauma, as waking up with robotic limbs can be too much for the brain to cope with sometimes. Upon waking, Oberon will find himself aware of his new limbs but not totally aware, as if they were a word on the tip of his tongue. It would give his mind the proper amount of time to adapt.

Angela sighed, taking a seat by Oberon's bed. She turned on the holovision with its volume muted and subtitles on. A clear cut image of a news reporter blinked on with the rubble remains of Numbani's museum her backdrop. The headline said it all: Overwatch vigilantes strike again.

"Continuing our coverage on the late restoration of Overwatch," the reporter said. "we turn now to the immense collateral damage caused as a result of their latest acts of so-called heroism. This giant pile of debris you can see behind me was once a museum devoted Overwatch, brought down by what witnesses are calling a sonic blast. Although the details are sketchy, sources have confirmed the two former Overwatch agents, Lena Oxton and Winston to have been present in the museum before the explosion occurred."

The screen changed to an image of the museum's interior. Artefacts from the old days of Overwatch and the Omnic crises decorated the scene. The centre piece of all these trinkets was the gauntlet of Doomfist, suspended from gravity in a tube of glass. There were three figures gathered around this object. The gorilla in white armour and the young women in orange leggings were people Angela recognised right away. The third one though, the one wearing a blue jacket scribed with giant red numbers which read '76': Angela couldn't say she recognised who that was.

The screen went back to the news reporter. Its subtitles read, "now a person known for his exploits as both the defender and DJ of Rio, Lucio Carreia dos Santos is here with his opinion on the matter."

The camera panned, bringing the man called Lucio into frame. He posed with his arms crossed over a green tank top and smiled at the camera. "Hey everyone," he waved.

"So Lucio, what do you make of this new Overwatch organisation and what are your thoughts on their involvement in yesterday's attack?"

"Well first off let's stop talking like they were the one's responsible for what happened. I am sure they were just trying to help."

"So your saying Overwatch shouldn't be blamed?"

"You know it!"

"Then who would you hold responsible for the devastation caused to the museum?"

"I don't like to point fingers. But if people are saying a sonic blast took the building down, then I can only think of one group who have made strides in that kind of weaponry. And they aren't Overwatch."

The reporter frowned, "are you suggesting then that maybe Vishark could be somehow involved?"

Lucio raised his arms to interlock his fingers behind his head, "you said it not me," his subtitles read.

Angela felt a half-smile forming on her lips. Her thoughts on all of this were conflicted. She respected Winston's decision of course. For indeed, the world had become a darker place since Overwatch was disbanded. But she couldn't ignore the consequences its restoration was bringing about, how the lives of innocents were getting caught in the crossfire. Innocents like Oberon.

She thought about changing the channel to something capable of taking her mind off everything. Only to be caught by surprise when her phone started vibrating from within her lab coat pocket. She took the device into her palm and checked the number. It was unknown which, given recent events, pointed to one thing.

"This better not be who I think it is," she answered, her smile gone.

The voice that replied confirmed her suspicions. It was a strong, low pitched voice abundant in all the qualities to be expected of a talking gorilla. "Hi again," said Winston, chuckling nervously as part of his way of breaking the ice. "I wanted to thank you for pitching in yesterday."

"No offence Winston," Angela said, "but don't you mean, cleaning up after your mess?"

"Yeah, I admit that last operation did get a little bit carried away."

"No, no, no: carried away is an understatement. A complete catastrophe is how I would describe it."

"Now I understand your mad —"

"Again Winston," Angela cut in. "understatement."

"— so I assume I can't convince you to reconsider coming back to Overwatch?"

"My answer is the same as yesterday. No. I have responsibilities to consider, patients to care for who, mind you, have quite drastically increased in number since you started knocking buildings down."

"It wasn't my people who brought that museum down," Winston said, his voice retreating into quietness. "And if we hadn't been there to prevent Doomfist from recovering his gauntlet then many more buildings would have followed."

Angela found herself sighing. She wasn't mad at Winston, well she was, but that didn't necessarily mean she wanted to be. It was him after all who tipped her off about what happened at the museum before it hit the news. She may not have arrived in time to save Oberon if otherwise. Maybe she was being too harsh.

"Look," she said, "when Overwatch starts saving people instead of villain memorabilia, I'll reconsider. Until then I have work that needs doing. Bye."

Angela hang up the phone and buried her face in her palm. She felt torn, caught between her current responsibilities and all the good she could do through the resources of Overwatch. One of her former and oldest patients had contacted her on the matter. He said he planned on re-joining and suggested she do the same. His words were, "the world is changing again and they represent the side I deem worthiest of standing by."

Angela pondered for a few moments, enjoying the silence. Then at the door came a loud and aggressive knock. She got up and walked over to it. On the other side was Archibald and in his hand was a pistol, aimed itches away from Angela's face.

"Sorry about this," He said. "it's nothing personal."