Summary: In flight over yet another warzone of the Second Omnic Crisis, Dr. Angela Ziegler reflects on the irony of her armor's name as she seeks to aid those in need.

AN/Obligatory Disclaimer: Overwatch, and the characters, story elements, etcetera, therein are the property of Blizzard Entertainment. Any other elements or sources of pop culture referenced in this story are the property of their respective creators/owners. I make no claim to them, and am simply a humble fan using them to tell a story.

Disclaimer aside, I should note that I initially posted this on my Tumblr blog before deciding to put it up here as well. This was primarily meant to be my contribution to the #ThanksTeamOverwatch tag, a submission to let them know how much I appreciate the hard work and love they've put into making such awesome characters for what promises to be a really great game. In the midst of all the controversy and gunk that clutters the tags and the fandom as of late, I wanted to create something positive to outweigh the negative, something that says how much I love the world they've created and how much I adore the characters they've given us.

I hope this story is able to do just that, and I hope you enjoy this short little drabble. It felt really good to write something again after such a long dry-spell of no inspiration and fleeting desire to continue my current workload of stories. Hopefully, I can find inspiration to continue onwards with more fun stuff in the future.

A Valkyrie's Lament.

A dichotomy of temperatures assailed Dr. Zeigler's bare face as she soared, born aloft upon the frigid Russian winds on brilliant wings of golden light as she survey the battlefield below, heat from still burning fires and scorching plasma radiating with unhindered intensity.

Even in the snow-covered wastes of what many years ago been known as the Eastern Front of the former U.S.S.R., the conflagration of senseless violence flared hotter than ever, snapping and belching pyres of destruction and pain like signal flares in the darkness. The sight of it brought many an unpleasant memory to Mercy's mind, and her grip on her Caduceus Staff tightened. The horrific slaughter of the first Omnic Crisis, the destruction of Overwatch's headquarters in her native Switzerland, the screams of men, women, and children as they cried out in pain from their wounds- physical, mental, or emotional- the sight of comrades and loved ones being carted away, whether upon stretchers or in body-bags...

Another thunderous blast from below rocked Angela from her trance, a physician's resolve coursing through her veins and hardening her like steel, body and soul. Somewhere down there, another victim of what the world was calling the Second Omnic Crisis was in need. A mental command through her neural interface steered her towards to source of the explosion, the Valkyrie Swift-Response Suit angling its radiant wings with mechanized precision and grace as the targeting system zeroed in on her target, HUD already identifying and prioritizing a set of steadily dropping vital signs. Her eyes narrowed at the all too familiar sight.

Somewhere below, a tell-tale crack rang out over the droning rattle of automatic fire. Angela's suit blared an earsplitting alert before a hardcoded self-preservation response kicked in and her wings banked a hard right. Something small, fast, and deadly whizzed past her, now only feet from the space where her head would've been.

Sniper fire.

Light wings flaring wide to slow her descent, Mercy drew her sidearm with practiced ease. Her primary objective minimized itself on her HUD in lieu of identifying and eliminating the omnic sniper, a hindrance to her work and a debilitating threat to those beneath her who fought to protect their homeland from the crazed machines. A series of chirps honed in on the target and the Caduceus Blaster recoiled five times in her grasp, streaks of hot plasma sailing downrange to bore deeply into the sniper's metal chassis. Threat neutralized, Angela emptied the chamber and reloaded her sidearm, holstering it at her hip with a twirling flourish she had picked up from a old friend who fancied himself a cowboy.

The warm smile that memory brought to her lips only reinforced the angelic image she cut in the eyes of the RDF soldiers huddled behind an overturned and smoking jeep as she descended from on high, a flicker of hope returning to their weary hearts at the sight of her. A guardian angel, come to their aid at last. Recognition passed in the eyes of one or two of them, members of the so-called "Overwatch Generation," who had grown up used to the sight of her soaring over battlefields as she tended to the dying and the wounded, who somewhere down deep, still believed in heroes.

Dr. Zielger, of course, never saw herself as such. She was a physician, a healer, and nothing more. This was her passion, her job, her responsibility, her calling. She simply did what came naturally to her.

And in this case, it was saving the life of one of their comrades.

In awestruck reverence, the soldiers shuffled aside to give Mercy room to work as she hurried up to them and knelt before their wounded friend. He couldn't have been much older than she was, perhaps even two years younger. His brilliant white uniform, designed for winter camouflage befitting the terrain about them, was torn open and stained red with blood, a sucking chest wound oozing life out onto the stark fabrics as the light faded from his eyes.

All too familiar. This sight was all too familiar for Mercy. No matter how many battlefields she visited, not matter how many she saved, from war or natural causes, she still could not bring herself to accept and become calloused towards this terrible reality of senseless conflict. Not when she had the power to change it, to defy the fate that would befall those who gave their lives to protect all they held dear.

With a steady thrum of power, the tip of the Caduceus Staff segmented and spun at a lazy pace, golden light arcing like a shot to adhere to the dying man's chest. Around her, the man's comrades stiffened with instinctual alarm, but soon relaxed when they remembered once more that their friend was in good hands, and returned their tension to the task of protecting themselves and the good doctor while she worked to save his life. The suit had got her there just in time, he was not in need of a full resurrection, merely healing that the staff could provide. For a moment, Angela felt herself reflecting on the irony of the device she wore, the name by which it had been christened.

She was no Valkyrie in any sense of the word. She was not a warrior, she would not fight unless need be. She did not descend upon battlefields such as this to take stock of the slain, to pick and choose the most daring, the most heroic worthy of bolstering the ranks of the divine against a coming and inevitable apocalypse. And she most assuredly was not some barmaid to bear mead for her charges in some great hall until said apocalypse arrived- though she did admit the mental image of her doing so in her suit was an amusing one.

She was no Valkyrie, no great, slaughtering shieldmaiden in the service of some half-blind god of old. Just as this man was no einherjar, no once-warrior bound for Valhalla to one day fight and die for a doomed cause. He was a young man, who stood upon death's doorstep for possessing the bravery and courage to fight in defense of his family and homeland.

He would not see Valhalla this day. Not if Mercy had any say in the matter.

A warm glow spread over the man's entire frame as the staff did its work, the light belying nanoscopic biotech that worked to return the man from the brink of death he found himself teetering upon. Before their very eyes, as if by some strange magic, the young soldier's chest wound began to knit itself back together. New skin spread over the wound as muscle tissue and sinew grew to replace what was lost in the explosion, marrow growing like spiny flowers that blossomed into full ribs, bits of lethal shrapnel carefully dislodging themselves before falling uselessly to the powdery snow around them. Mind coming back from the edge of darkness, the young man carefully felt his once gaping chest with child-like amazement, the staff's gentle prompting having induced a rush of adrenal stimuli to return him to his senses, along with a slight addition of morphine to dull any residual pain as the healing completed.

The glow fading as the staff powered down, Mercy gave the soldier a quick once over with her suit's instruments. The wound closed and shrapnel removed, the young man was once more at full health and strength, barring any residual feelings of fatigue any soldier in his position would find themselves subject to in these harsh conditions. He would need a new uniform, or at least a blanket to shield him from the cold, but otherwise, he was fine.

A brief thanks from the gathered warriors was cut short by the sound of automatic fire somewhere in the distance, another engagement being fought against the encroaching omnic forces. Her wings snapping to their full width, Anglea leapt into the air as though shot from a cannon, but not before offering a short farewell to the brave soldiers as they waved her off.

As she turned herself in the direction of the continuing conflict, Mercy thought of the soldiers she had attended, of the young man who had been brought back from the edge of death only to once more plunge headfirst into the conflict that ravaged the Russian countryside. Human as she was, a brief flicker of doubt crossed her otherwise steely determined mind, wondering if she had brought him back only for him to perish elsewhere later on, somewhere far from the reach of her suit and staff. Had she saved him only for him to die at some other day?

Once more, the cacophony of violence broke her from these thoughts, and she pushed the suit faster in their direction. It did not matter. She would protect those she could, she would care for those she could, she would heal them and she would defend them, as was her station, her responsibility, her calling.

Bolstering her resolve, Angela spoke ancient words beneath her breath against the biting winds she rode upon, words of power and strength she had bound herself to long ago.

"I swear by Apollo the physician, and Aesculapius the surgeon, likewise Hygeia and Panacea, and call all of the gods and goddesses to witness..."

END.

AN: And there you have it, my first Overwatch fanfic, my first fic after months of writer's block, and hopefully the first of many writings to come this year. Sorry again for going dark for so long, guys. While I may not have the desire to continue some of my previous works any more, I'll still try and write at least something new every once in a while, just so you have something new and fun to read I can do something I enjoy and don't feel obligated to go again. Hopefully, I'll something new for you guys soon, time and tide providing. Please remember that real life takes precedent before fun stuff like this, regardless of the fact that I'd rather be writing. Remember that reviews/comments of "UPDATE PLZ," "When's the next update," "update soon," and any variation thereof on any of my fics is not helpful and will not make me go faster. Please feel free to R&R as you see fit; constructive criticism is always welcome, trolls get crushed by their own bridges, etcetera. Until next time, True Believers. EXCELSIOR!