And cue the struggling of both me and Fareeha. It's a bit hard trying see how she would react and how Talon would go about it, but i think i got it? Fareeha is strong, physically and mentally, she's not going down without a fight.

Bleeding in the brain, a clot or a piece of shrapnel they missed on their first pass. The story changes with every retelling; always something Fareeha doesn't understand and does not believe.

"These nodes will sit on your forehead and help us monitor your brain in case of further complications."

"No."

"They're only temporary."

"No."

"Fareeha, as much as we want to respect your boundaries, this is a matter of your health-"

"Then let me die."

….

Tired

"You are valued, you are wanted, needed, and very important to me, to all of us here. You have a place here, now, and we hope that you'll see that one day."

The skin on the left side of her forehead tugs and pinches, slight pinpricks barely registering through the haze of anesthesia that have been paused momentarily. Anger comes first, followed by a bitter feeling akin to betrayal but Fareeha has expected this after all; 'betrayal' infers she believed otherwise. And yet the feeling stays. The smugness of being correct that she hoped would never come and the dread to know that…

That she will fight.

Keep fighting

Fareeha tries to reach up to stop them, for a moment forgetting and regretting not taking their offer days ago.

One at the shoulder, one mid bicep.

Everything is strapped down anyways, her vision still blocked by a sheet of turquoise plastic, yet she remembers conversing with the doctor face to face moments ago. She remembers gentle eyes, a gentle voice. Yes?

Does she actually remember?

The calmness comes back, the darkness like hands encroaching, tightening around her throat.

Why did they wake her up in the first place?

The sun is already beginning to stream in when Widow's eyes crack open. Sombra's warm, humming arms are wrapped around her waist and the bitter taste of tobacco lays stagnant on her tongue.

They're late.

She frowns, refusing to acknowledge the empty longing seated back in her chest.

Fareeha is conscious. Yes? Perhaps. Awake, vision coming back into focus but the world is different from the last time she remembers leaving it. No. Same hospital room, same situation of waking bleary eyed and confused.

At first she thinks it's her imagination and paranoia that brings forth a grainy texture to the walls she sees. Every shift of her gaze leaping between something nearby and something across the way is followed by the same hazy film and then a whir before her eyesight sharpens. It doesn't bother her, oddly enough, she feels as if it should, but instead it's a sort of curiosity, an 'oh, that's new'.

She looks down at her hand, a whir then focus; then across-

Wait

Her hand

And there is the panic that explodes like a match to gunpowder she did not know lay dormant in her chest, hungry for a flame. It's not heat but frigid cold that races across her skin, trembling hands.

Hands

Fareeha screams.

The door bursts open, first a nurse and then doctor Faustus.

Faustus? Faustus, who?

The doctor with the kind eyes ever encouraging. His name.

It registers as wrong, so wrong for all this time Fareeha has fought against all of this. To wake up and find herself thinking these things. Leather straps hold her arms fast to the railing of her hospital bed. Futile, maybe, but she struggles because that's all her mind is telling her to do.

Struggle against them

Fight

Resist.

And so she listens.

"Fareeha-" Faustus' words are cut short, his head snapping back with the same sound the leather straps make as they too snap.

One after another, not futile, Fareeha is barely conscious of the strength her arms wield as she tears them from their bonds. The nurses rush forward to pull the doctor's unconscious form to the safety of the hallway.

Panic gives way to fury, easier to be angry than confused and Fareeha lashes out not trying to seek answers but satisfaction. She remembers telling them no, and yet half of her hoped that they would still entertain her requests. Against her wishes, they will regret trying to make her into something she refuses to be.

The restraints on her legs fall to the same fate as the ones that once bound her arms. Now free, she swings her legs over the edge of the bed.

The new found strength is welcome, but Fareeha quickly realizes that the control is not there. Too much force and her arms jerk and flail with every motion. Her elbow catches another nurse in the chest, sending them skidding across the room and crashing loudly into the machinery against the wall.

This anger

Familiar, something Fareeha learned to keep locked up in the recesses of her mind until a proper time to release it.

Now free

Insulted

It claims to want to protect her.

But all it does is demand blood.

It's not her. This rage is not her.

And yet she cannot deny the gleeful satisfaction when she slams another doctor to the ground by their throat.

"Amari, stand down or we will use force." Armed soldier, they see her as a threat now.

Good.

The words don't register, they don't matter right now when it's their tone that promises pain, threatening violence and Fareeha Amari will protect. With a guttural yell, Fareeha pushes herself off the floor, her uncoordinated stumbling ironically lets her duck and weave the soldier's shots. Their aim is hasty and haphazard, it takes no time for Fareeha to close the distance between them. She sees the fear in their eyes.

Even better.

The first one falls, her rifle a mangled mess of metal crushed inside her hands; a feat that surprises them as well as Fareeha. There is no concept of pulling her punches as she sends a swift strike to her neck when she is actually aiming for her chest, and a sickening crack rings out before she collapses onto the floor.

Sudden pain blossoms on the side Fareeha's ribs, it stings more than hurts and she glances down expecting to see blood. Nothing stains her hospital gown, rubber bullets.

Their mistake, her fortune.

Fareeha can only take one step towards the second frightened soldier before her head reels back with a pounding so loud, nausea drumming, forcing her to retch up sour bile. Her senses come back, trickling in. First the smell of acid, then control and the humming at the connection points of her new limbs.

The fog of anger lifts.

The guilt settles in when she sees the blank stare of the soldier she just struck down.

Her hands and knees steady her on the floor for only a moment before they too give out. Onto her side, the world spins, feet form a circle around her. No one is brave enough to step forward.

Darkness comes back, hands.

And then peace.

"Do you remember what happened?"

"I defended myself."

"You attacked nurses and doctors, they were trying to help you."

"Same object, different viewing lens."

"Fareeha."

"Doctor."

Not Faustus, no names, no faces. They are just brainwashed machines trying to make her into one of them.

He sits in his chair, Fareeha strapped with metal cuffs to her bed. The air is colder, not by temperature but by temperament. Fareeha holds his gaze until it's Faustus that shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

New nodes have been installed along the synthetic skin of her arms. 'Monitors' they claim, 'failsafes' she knows better, knows that they're smarter than this.

Anger well earned, their lies have been proven. They brush off her sudden debilitating light headedness, chalking it up to her abrupt awakening. No excuses, the memory of her conversation with the doctor.

"These nodes will sit on your forehead and help us monitor your brain in case of further complications."

"Okay"

No

"They're only temporary."

"I understand"

She does, but-

"Fareeha, we want to respect your boundaries."

"You have my consent, doctor."

That's not what happened. Her head is pounding again, whatever is on the left side of her forehead feels as if it's burning, an itch and she wants to tear them out.

The fight finally begins.

"Your recovery will be easier if you just trust us."

"Why should I?" Fareeha leans forward, gritting her teeth to hide the fact that she can barely even make out the doctor's face. She goes until the metal cuffs demand her to stop, groaning at the strain. She wonders if she could break these if she tried.

Faustus stands his ground, unflinching at her petty attempt of intimidation. Bravery or foolishness, Fareeha sometimes can't tell the difference herself.

"All we've done is provide for you. Do you know how much you are costing-"

"Then let me go or let me die, doctor."

It is the first time since Fareeha's capture a little over a month ago that she has mentioned her release and the prospect of what comes after her recovery. Always irrelevant, an impossible notion that maybe Talon would let her leave with her free will still intact. Faustus narrows his eyes, tight lipped and unreadable.

Gone is the gentle in his eyes.

What an actor.

Fareeha clicks her tongue and leans back into her bed. She doesn't cry, not now in front of her enemy that has yet to earn her respect. Though she feels the dreadful emotion lodging itself into the walls of her throat, feel it nipping away at her defenses. She doesn't need to hear a verbal answer when the silence is already screaming it so loudly.

Still a prisoner.

Perhaps not for long.

"Leave."

"Fareeha-"

Fareeha snaps her eyes back to Faustus, eyes hot and burning with the same whiring and then focus, the phenomenon strikes so much fear into her heart.

"You don't need my cooperation when you can just take it from me. I'm not going to make this easier for you or your disgraceful organization. You better pray that whatever you have done to me holds, Faustus."

The masks are off, the look of annoyance stark on his face. He grunts, displeased, and stands staring down at her for a moment. Hard and unsympathetic.

"We will be moving forward with your new physical therapy tomorrow."

No assurance, his word sounds as if they are law. What a sudden contrast that sends Fareeha into a displaced moment of glee. A challenge, good.

He leave.

Alone.

And yes, very alone.

Her options are nill, what is done is done. New arms, something implanted in her head. Fareeha needs to hold fast and make sure her thoughts are her own.

Fearful, doubtful, but hopeful

She will fight

She will resist

She will make it out of this alive.

Faustus

His name is not Faustus, he does not have a name. Just a man who wants to control her and make her into a monster.

Make her whole

No

No

No

Fareeha tries again with a different train of thought.

The room she is in. A jail cell-

A hospital room, something to bring comfort in knowing there are people watching over her. She doesn't want their help, but they'll be the ones to save her from death.

Try again.

She knows there has been more doctored thoughts that have slipped by right underneath her nose.

It makes her paranoid, questioning everything that comes to mind.

Is the room actually cold, are the sheets really off white, did she eat this morning or puke out bitter bile?

Trivial things, but their implications are deadly.

Her arms are still strapped down after all this time (how much time?), a prisoner awaiting the grace of a caregiver to feed her. (she doesn't want to think of it as grace) As if she is still armless, still helpless.

At first, Fareeha didn't trust Talon. Now neither of them trust each other.

She can't remember ever asking about her arms, she just knows the voice reciting information about them.

Graphene tubes that expand and contract just as real muscles do, can be improved through exercise the same way. Fueled by nanites suspended in her bloodstream. To think; there is actual blood pumping through these false arms of hers. When it's quiet and Fareeha listens closely, she can feel the third thump in her chest that follows the beating of her heart and it's rhythm that runs faster than a normal human heart would. She doesn't know what it means.

The surface of her arms give under the pressure of the metal cuffs keeping her locked to the railing of her bed, indentations as if they are flesh. Something in her mind tells her what the hands are feeling, but she doesn't feel them.

Odd to say the least.

Fareeha wraps her fingers around the railing and squeezes, her breath easing to a pause as she feels the metal creak under her grip. A spark of hope, her arms are strong, perhaps strong enough to-

"Miss Amari?"

She jumps at the sudden voice and rapping at the door, the startled jerking of her arms is enough to create a tiny dent in the railing. Relax, she thinks to herself, it's difficult but Fareeha forces her fingers to uncurl and lay still.

"Come in."

The door is pushed open and in steps a nurse, a familiar face that brings ease to Fareeha's mind. Complacent, false.

Her teeth grit together, another blip, another catch.

Stay angry, stay wary

She fights the calmness that creeps into her mind, a sense of belonging, of home and comfort of human contact. It's fake, she knows it to be, but it's been so long since she's been granted a moment of repose. Forced relaxation that Fareeha feels guilty for not taking advantage of.

It's not her guilt she feels.

She doesn't even realize that the nurse is unlocking the cuffs of her right arm.

Fareeha stares, Robin stares back.

Robin, a name, a splinter in her hand that stings each time she grasps for something. But…

But?

Confusion.

The train of thought lost.

In its place, just anger knowing what is happening to her but she is helpless to stop it.

Robin's face is relaxed with a small smile on her lips as she speaks. Gentle words in soft tones as her wraps Fareeha's stiff fingers around the handle of a plastic spoon. Something akin to awe begins to worm its way into Fareeha's chest.

She wants to fight back

She wants to cooperate

The spoon trembles and shakes and Fareeha can feel her heart beating with it's disgusting triple beats, stampeding like a racehorse down the track. Robin guides her hand down, helping her scoop up some rice.

A few grains fall.

But

It makes it to Fareeha's mouth. The first taste of independence. Petty, yes, but the elation that fills her almost brings tears of joy to her eyes.

Fareeha is smiling. Robin is smiling with her.

With darkness comes rage.

Each night, some worse than the others, all the same.

In the haze of sleep, Fareeha can't tell whether or not she is still dreaming, would she even trust her own judgement claiming she is dreaming or awake? Her body is numb but Fareeha can feel her vocal cords vibrating with a shrill cry.

Is it her who's screaming? It must be, but no sound.

Tugging then groaning, it halts as far as it will let her go and holds her there. The cuffs hold this time but the railing does not fair as well. In the murky blackness she can see the outline of her arms cast in the red light accents interlaced between graphene tubes. The glowing "T" for Talon stamped; one at her shoulder, the other at her forearm.

Bile rises up, disgust but she can't look away.

A monster, a machine not much different from what her mother died protecting the world against.

She's dead because of these people.

New anger

Yet new freedom, no longer bearing the weight of chasing after her mother's praise.

Guilt

And then it's all swept away in a surge of rage, rage, drowning and unbridled.

The thoughts don't stay long enough for her to make sense of them.

Not her own, this is not her and yet she must sit in her cage as the waters rise. Choking and forcing her to sputter with her head barely above the surface until it is taken under.

Until she is forced to breathe it in and feel this fury fill her lungs.

Darkness, like hands caressing.

And this rage becomes her.

Another bed, stronger railings, more sedatives to help her make it through the night.

She getting tired of waking up like this.

It is the first time Fareeha realizes she's looking at herself in a mirror.

The first time since...since her capture. They don't tell her how long it has been. While she wants to ask Ares to watch the news and regain her bearings, it feels as if Fareeha cannot bring herself to say the words. The moment the thought comes up, it is dashed away, then frustration.

Aware of the thoughts she had, watching through glass but unable to fix anything.

She will resist

She will fight

She will-

Fareeha stops.

Again, eyes locked on the reflection in the small bathroom mirror.

What trust they put into her. Not into Fareeha, but into the nodes that sit upon her forehead.

She turns her head to the side, her fingers coming up to run along the scar on her scalp hidden in the part of her hair. It has to be periodically shaven, logically; the hair is still short and stubbly, no more than a week or two in length. She feels as if it has been longer.

Or perhaps it's only been a week or two since the surgery.

Fareeha doesn't know and she doesn't trust herself to sense of time passing.

They tell her the therapy is going well, but she can never remember it happening.

The progress she has made invisible except for the results.

She holds her arms out in front of her.

The whirring of her eyes before they shift into focus.

Her hands are steady.

Her hands are strong

Her hands are hers.

No

An itching beneath the skin, the only emotion she knows to be her own is this fury she recognizes, accustomed to carrying her entire life. Something she had to keep bottled up because her aunt would have none of it, her mother was never home, the only times it came out to play was when the children at school would bully her for her mother's involvement in Overwatch.

She saw her mother as a hero.

They she her mother as a monster.

Same object, different viewing lens.

Fareeha slams her palms onto the steel counter, not even full force but they leave shallow divots all the same. The itching comes back and demands her full attention.

Tears that she wants to let fall; pitiful and weak. Fareeha is not weak.

No

Fight

Fareeha remembers; crying does not equate to weakness, it is a sign of humanity and humility.

A lesson Ana Amari had taught her.

Ana Amari is dead.

She wants to think otherwise, it's impossible. No, not impossible, fight, she will resist.

Fareeha stumbles back from the mirror, suddenly startled by the cold eyes that stare back at her. They glow a eerie red that widen and narrow before settling after her vision focuses. Are they camera's? Would Fareeha find wires attached to her eyes if she were to dig them out?

Her heart pounds; one, two, three.

Comply.

It will be easier if she cooperates.

Madness to drive her mad.

They trust her to use the restroom, they've come so far. The length of her hair says two weeks, but the weariness in her bones says a life time. How much times has passed?

The thoughts comes and go like the tide, ebbing away at her mind and wetting her palette but never staying long enough to drown her. The anger is there, simmering just below, something keeps it in check.

Fareeha doesn't feel the need to use the restroom, isn't quite sure whether or not she has already gone or if this was some sort of ploy she made to get her away from her 'caregivers'. Away from prying eyes yet she doesn't doubt that she is still being watched even in here.

A window.

She finds herself standing before it when moments ago she was staring into the mirror. It's small but enough to give her a view of the outside world. Fareeha stands tall, stands proud dressed in proper clothing; a pair of shorts, a decent t-shirt. Where was she before she came to be in this bathroom?

If only it would all become clear, or at least fade away she Fareeha was no longer bothered by the gnawing guilt at the back of her mind.

Ah yes, the world outside.

Day time

Noon perhaps, bright and sunny outside with a breeze by the looks of how the trees in the distance sway. A forest of some sort. She recalls the smell of it, light and dry. Summer.

It's beautiful.

She can't remember ever being outside the confines of a room.

But the memory is there, her ugly prosthetics digging in the soil with childish satisfaction.

It is home

No

Intrusive thoughts that come over and over again wearing her down, trying to pass as her own. Harder to tell apart.

Mind, values, morals unaltered; only the whole story.

False!

She could leap, punch through the glass and fall down the countless stories to end it all. Perhaps death would be better to spare her future victims from her wrath. And then she remembers blood, she has already killed.

When

Where

Who

Fareeha is a small child that still yearns for the attention and approval of an absent mother. A dead mother.

It hurts

She can't stop thinking about it.

It

It

It

It stops, Fareeha's fingers are grasped around one of the nodes embedded into her forehead.

She stands

Steady

Stoic

Then smiling

Seeing herself in the mirror, a maniac grin splitting her face as she leans into close to her reflection. The mad glint in her eyes that flash before they finally refocus.

She smiles even wider.

It's quiet.

Realization.

"Is that what you are?" Fareeha whispers and gets what she expects as a thought in her mind.

It calls her crazy; it. A partition, a distance, the ability to distinguish it from Fareeha. It tells her to get professional help, a mental disorder that can be treated with therapy, love, and patience. Good advice, but Fareeha has been trained.

A trap; for the only doctors here are the enemy and there is no one, not even herself, that she can trust.

A stand off.

Logically, no, Fareeha understands this but it feels like one all the same. It urges her to let go, finish her business and return to training.

Ah, training, information.

Now the rules begin to surface, now a way to get the memories and knowledge she seeks about her past. A mother who left her for dead on the battlefield, swept up in the duties of Overwatch. The organization that took her in, gave Fareeha "Pharah" Amari a purpose and the training she yearned for.

Lies

So the game is not as clear as Fareeha thought it to be.

Still, learning.

These memories are not her own.

And it realizes its mistake.

The door slams open, the sound of boots and the metallic click of a gun. Pain sears through her back, electricity coursing along every nerve and Fareeha falters.

It demands her to stop and surrender to them.

They threaten and Fareeha will protect.

Her knees give out, only propped up by a single arm. She stares into her reflection.

Still smiling

And she locks eyes with herself.

And tears the implant out.

And her world becomes static.