Chapter 1

Mayday

A throat full of dust left her coughing and wheezing violently when she awoke. The stone slab that was once part of a wall rested squarely on her chest, making every breath short and bittersweet. If it weren't for the Raptora armor, she was sure her ribs would've been crushed on impact. Once again, the suit had saved her life. Her helmet didn't fare so well, however. The visor was shattered-she could feel the stinging cuts where it had clawed her face-and the electrical systems lit her visage with blue sparks periodically. Her jaw clenched. That meant it was probably...

"Alpha Leader…?" Her voice was gravel spilling across her tongue, and she fought off another coughing fit that threatened to tear through her injured torso, "Red Crow…?" Still nothing. As dread set in, her mind went to one other person whom she hoped was listening, someone she would have called out to first if it wasn't against protocol. "...Mercy…?" She hated having to use code names at that moment, as if being able to call out for her team by name would somehow help her words be heard. But, as before, her words were snuffed out in the darkness and the rubble, the strange quiet surrounding her even more frightening than the lack of light.

"...anyone?"

Pharah closed her eyes, smothering the panic flickering in the back of her thoughts, working through the claustrophobia suffocating her crushed lungs. She was going to be fine. She was going to be fine...at least, that's what she forced herself to believe. The helmet's comm was supposed to react to her brain waves and activate hands-free, but as she'd feared, all she heard was a faint, low static and the electrical sparking. It was broken. She was under a collapsed building, pinned by stone and rebar, far enough down that no light could reach her, and she couldn't call out for help.

She was alone. She was going to die alone.

Thankfully, her military upbringing didn't let Pharah's mind spiral into panic for long, quickly flipping the switch to her training as a means of occupying her thoughts. First, she needed to gauge the extent of her injuries. She tried to move her fingers-first the left, then the right. Still working. Then she wiggled her toes. Good, she wasn't paralyzed. She attempted to turn her head, moving slowly in case her neck was helmet didn't follow her head anymore, making it difficult to turn her face too much without messing up its alignment, something she wasn't in a position to fix. She wanted to shake it off completely, so maybe she could see more of her surroundings without broken glass in the way, but quickly found out there wasn't room for that. Good news was, her neck didn't hurt too much. It popped a few times, making her hold her breath, but otherwise it was okay. She would've breathed a sigh of relief if the slab on top of her had allowed it.

Okay, so her spine was intact. Next were her bones. She knew her ribs were in bad shape with the way they were prodding her lungs, but she had to try to move her limbs and see if anything else was broken. This would also tell her just how stuck she was. Pharah attempted to move her left hand, but quickly found out her arm was broken at the elbow after about two inches of lateral movement caused her hand to smack against a boulder and shoot searing pain all the way into her shoulder. She winced, realizing her body had been in shock-the pain immediately made her stomach turn and mouth salivate with dry heaves. Through force of will, she kept herself from vomiting, convincing her body that if coughing hurt her chest that much then she might not survive it should she puke.

After seizing control over her gag reflex, she turned her attention to her right it was not broken, and she actually found she could slide her forearm laterally about a foot in either direction. She felt it smack against her hip one way, and against some rubble the other way, but as she brought it back, her fingers brushed against something that wasn't rock. Her heart skipped a beat when she recognized the square hilt of something that showered her mind with hope.

It was her rocket launcher.

It was dangerous, and it was stupid, but maybe..just maybe...if she could reach the trigger, she'd be able to blast her way out of this mess. She could hear Echo's voice in her mind, telling her the probabilities that this would cause the rubble to shift and crush her, but it was her only chance. Pharah grunted, trying and failing to shift her body in any meaningful way, growling in frustration as her fingertips reached the handle of the launcher, and then also pushed it further away. She tried to lift her hand up on top of it, but the crevice her hand was sandwiched in didn't allow for vertical mobility. Her clavicle didn't hesitate to inform her that it, too, was broken, as she tried to shift her shoulder down to give her arm more length to reach, earning her nothing but a hoarse outcry. Pain throbbed at the base of her skull, her chest burning with agony and forcing her to stop again and center herself.

Almost ten minutes later the pain finally ebbed enough that she could move once more, but no matter how she twisted and swept her hand, her fingers didn't find her weapon after that. Her one chance...gone.

"Angie…?" Code names be damned, Fareeha's voice-normally strong and confident-was nothing more than a meek whisper now, her words choking on more than just dust. Despite herself, she could feel the shiver of tears glossing her eyes. She didn't want to die like this...not before she'd had the chance to… "I'm sorry I didn't listen...I'm so sorry…" She muttered, lowering her head what little she could in her dark tomb. Then it happened. Like a screeching hiss, garbled and static-laden voices assaulted her ears. They cut in and out for several seconds, then went quiet again.

"A-Angela? Commander? Can anyone hear me? Do you copy?!" She spoke desperately, then waited. And waited. Nothing came back for several minutes, then another burst of garbled feedback, this one more faint, broke the silence. She couldn't make out who was speaking or what was said, and judging by the time between responses she couldn't be certain that they could hear her at all, but one thing was clear: her communicator wasn't entirely broken! Maybe it was just the neural interface that was busted!

"Mayday Mayday Mayday!" She began, just in case they could understand her on their end, "This is Raptora one-four-nine, I repeat, Raptora one-four-nine! Call sign, Pharah! This is Raptora one-four-nine, call sign Pharah! Mayday, Grand Mesa HQ! I was shot down in the southwest quadrant of the city and am now buried under a building following enemy rocket fire! I require immediate assistance! Requesting search and rescue!" She paused then, the shortness with which she was able to breathe causing her to become lightheaded, "I am injured, and my suit is damaged...I don't think my neural interface is working...multiple broken bones, possible internal bleeding...kuh...please...if anyone can hear me! Please respond! Over!"

The silence was deafening. A tiny pebble managed to dislodge itself somewhere above her, pittering down through the shadows with freedom she could only dream of. She panted against the stone on her chest, listening to her heart beat frantically in her ears as she tried to catch her breath in strained half-gasps. Pharah waited and waited, but there was no response, just empty static. Sweat broke through the dust on her forehead, and as the minutes stretched on, her heart sank lower and lower.

Knowing the extent of her injuries, she moved on to the next task, what could she do to change her situation for the better? The first thing was to contact help, but clearly that wasn't working out. But maybe…

If the neural interface was really the problem then this wouldn't work, and she couldn't imagine they weren't smashed beyond functionality, but it was worth a shot. Also connected to her brain waves was the suit's flight system. Pharah wasn't sure if they operated from the same interface as the helmet, but she put all of her focus into lighting a fire under her wings. In all honesty this was just as dangerous as the rocket launcher. If the wings were indeed damaged and she tried to light them up, they could just as easily explode, taking her back and the rest of her with them. But if they did work, she could potentially use the thrust to work her way safely out of the rubble.

Unfortunately, her jet system was not responding either. There was a way to manually start them...but that would require freedom of movement for her hands. But that gave her another idea: the concussive missile! It was controlled remotely as well, but had a manual launch switch built into the glove of her suit! If she could just bend her left wrist the right way, maybe she could be freed! Could the solution be that simple?

Click!

Nothing happened.

Clickclickclickclickclickclick!

"Dammit!" Pharah cursed, exasperated. She really thought that she'd done it with that one, but evidently the missile holster on her left arm had been damaged, and no matter how many times she clicked the button all it did was make her broken arm ring with pain.

That was it then. All options exhausted, she was done for. The suit gave her enhanced strength, but the rubble was pinning her limbs in such a way that she could not find the leverage to try and lift anything. Besides, any attempt to do so was punished by one of her many injuries telling her just how bad an idea it was.

All she could do now was wait...and hope. The passage of time was not something she could parse in this darkness, but it felt like hours passed without a peep from her comms or a noise from outside. Pharah struggled to watch the little blue sparks jumping past her vision, counting the seconds between each spurt. One...two...three...four...spark. Spark spark. One...two...spark. It was probably the blood loss, but she reached a point where her eyes grew too heavy to lift. Just as she was ready to slip into oblivion, however, it dawned on her that it wasn't just blue light she was seeing...but something...yellow?

Long tendrils of yellow light had found their way past the crumbled architecture, clawing their way toward Pharah. They moved blindly, wriggling and curling around the surfaces of the broken stone and masonry like worms. First there were only a few, then there were more, seven more. Barely clinging to consciousness, Pharah thought numbly that she must be hallucinating. Aside from that, all she could think about was how...exhausted she was. If she could just rest her eyes for a moment, maybe she could stop imagining golden worms snaking their way down the slab on her chest, and underneath. One of them even curled up right in front of her face, lifting the end of itself and reaching out into the air, millimeters from her nose. It was searching for something. She almost giggled as the golden, warm light of death's worm angels brushed her nose.

It was like electricity.

A hot surge of power flooded Pharah's mind as the tendril, upon contacting her nose, immediately placed itself on her forehead and attached there. As soon as it did, the other worms followed, combining together into a bright holy snake of light that filled up her vision as her eyes burst open. New energy washed over her, making every cell in her body tingle right down to her fingertips and the ends of her toes. She shuddered from the sensation, and found that her injuries didn't hurt as badly as before. Something was numbing them...no...something was healing them. Her bones and ribs were still broken, but the tether of golden yellow energy filled her with strength, bringing her back to consciousness and the realization of just what was happening.

In her youth, Pharah was no stranger to the bombardment of Overwatch propaganda that saturated the world when the peacekeeping organization was in its prime. Back when they were enlisting, you couldn't watch a television show, read a magazine, or walk down the street without seeing Jack Morrison's face. The only face even more prevalent than Commander Jack's was Overwatch's poster girl, the angelic doctor said to work miracles and hold the power of life and death in her hands. For the public she was Mercy, a golden beam of hope that made you feel like there really was a chance for mankind to overcome the Omnic threat. But for little Fareeha, she was Aunt Angie, the surprisingly quick-witted, yet kind and gentle woman who worked closely with her mother. She knew Jack too, of course, but no one really struck Fareeha like Angela did. It was so amazing to her to compare Auntie Angie to the living legend the rest of the world saw her as. To see news clips of Mercy on the battlefield, turning the tide and healing soldiers while still holding her own, and then Angela, who had no problem playing games, telling stories, and teaching Ana Amari's wild child like nothing else mattered. Like there was no one in the world more important than her little Fareeha.

Looking back on it, she shouldn't be surprised that such unbridled admiration for the woman turned into a crush. It started when she was twelve, and Angela was showing her how to do her makeup while Ana was across the globe at some world peace meeting. That memory was still so clear to her, even now. She did Fareeha's mascara and eyeliner, amazing the young girl by showing her a shade of brown she didn't know her eyes could achieve. And then Fareeha watched as Angela did her lipstick, applying a layer of gloss that made her heart flutter, and she remembered so clearly in that instant wondering what it might be like to kiss those lips. A childish thought then, but one that didn't seem to want to go away, even now.

Angela took the adoration in stride, of course, telling her all the time that she enjoyed the way Fareeha could make her world seem so small and simple. Pharah also remembered just how much she enjoyed teasing Aunt Angie with posters and commercials featuring her alter ego: Mercy. It became a tradition of sorts for her to greet Angela with popular slogans, evidently harvested from things Mercy actually said, and watch the blonde's cheeks turn pink and her composure falter. She teased her less and less as time went on, of course, but every now and then she would surprise her with a 'The doctor is in!' or 'Looks like my support has arrived!' and of course, she called Angela her own personal 'guardian angel' whenever she had the chance.

The yellow beam flashed red a few times, and then withdrew, leaving Pharah in darkness once more. The electric feeling lingered, but she could already feel it fading as pain retook its rightful place. The beam had done what it could to heal her, but the red light meant she needed more medical attention, she knew. But that was okay, because all she cared about were the sounds she started to hear nearby. The sound of stone scraping against stone, and muffled, shouting voices. It seemed impossible, but as the rubble shifted and light came pouring across her face, she knew they had found her. And there, silhouetted in golden light, looking every bit like the angel the posters painted her as, was Mercy. Their eyes met, and Pharah felt her heart swell twice its size.

She was saved.