Knights in Shining Armour

The beer tasted like warm piss.

Not that Brigitte Lindholm had ever drunken piss before, whether it be warm or cold. And she hadn't drunk much beer before either. Maybe the occasional sip when her papa had tried to "develop her tastes," or when Reinhardt had tried to "make you more of a woman" (whatever that meant). Beer tasted bitter. As did wine, whisky, vodka, and every other piece of poison humanity had developed to kill itself. So she hadn't drunk much beer up until now. But she knew that she didn't like it, knew that it tasted like piss, and knew that Norwegian beer was inferior to Swedish beer because…reasons.

She still drank it though. Finished what remained of her pint in one gulp and slammed it down on the table. By all the names that passerbys had left in the wooden surface. She looked at the barkeep.

"En runde til."

She knew that she was butchering the Norwegian language with her pronunciation, but somehow, the barkeep got the message, and poured her another round. Second one this night, while Reinhardt was up to his fifth, and somehow still sober. While she'd seen how his body had started to give out over the years, how he'd moved slower and healed slower, it appeared that neither time nor age had reduced his love of alcohol.

"Ah, Brigitte, that's your third, yes?"

"Second."

"Ah, well, the night is young, no?" He rose his flagon. "A toast, to your first victory."

She turned away, momentarily glad that the barkeep didn't understand Swedish. Of course, she did, along with German, passable English, and the most basic of Norwegian. If the barkeep wondered what her 'first victory' was, he didn't show any sign. His hands were focused on a glass mug, while his eyes were on the flatscreen blaring away from above. Russian forces making headway against omnics. Junkers stirring up trouble in Australia. Civil unrest in the United Kingdom. Talon attacks in Italy, Egypt, and Brazil. She took a sip of the beer, reflecting that not only did it still taste like piss, but that the world was starting to feel like piss as well. That she couldn't chalk that up just to childhood naiveté, that the world had become a worse place over her twenty-something years. That with Overwatch gone, other forces had come forward to fill in the void. Some with good intentions, and others…not.

And he was heading back into that. One detour into Norway aside, Reinhardt was walking back into that, heading off to find a talking monkey (sorry, gorilla) that wanted to "get the gang back together." And God damn it, she was abetting him. Even with her own armour complete. She'd seen today how easy it was to destroy a human body. Sooner or later, Reinhardt's armour would give out, and the world would see its fleshy mess of muscle in all its glory, long enough before the bullets started flying. Closing her eyes, she drew out a pocket knife and started carving something in the wood.

"Ikke gjør det."

She looked up at the barkeep. "Pardon?" she asked, slipping into Swedish.

"Ikke skjære i skogen," the barkeep said. "Sett kniven bort."

She couldn't understand him, but got the gist that he didn't want her carving up his table. Why not, she didn't know, considering that so many others had, but…

"Geh selbst blasen," she murmured, putting her knife away. Hoping that the barkeep didn't understand German. Not caring that Reinhardt did.

"Brigitte?"

"Nothing to worry about, Old Man," she said, returning to Swedish. She took another sip of the piss. "Nothing at all."

"Why glum Brigitte?' he asked, finishing off his tankard. "After today, you should be happy, no?"

Happy. She put the piss aside. Was he that foolish, or that drunk? Maybe both.

"Talon shall not bother Norway again," he said. "Thanks to us, Sir Reinhardt and Sir Brigitte."

"And why is that?" she asked. She turned to face her godfather. "Why won't Talon come back?"

"Because-"

"Because the agents they sent to attack the omnic enclave in Oslo are dead. And why are they dead?"

"Because-"

"Because I killed them. Because I didn't just use my shield, I got out my flail and I killed them." She folded her arms. "Is that victory, Sir Reinhardt? Did you kill?"

"Yes," he said, bluntly.

She scoffed. "I'm not talking about robots, I'm talking about actual humans. Did you ever-"

"Yes," he repeated, his voice low. His tankard abandoned. His Swedish crisp and clear, so different from the stories that he'd told her as a child. Stories of heroes, of legions of metallic horrors coming to wipe out the human race. Never stories of humans killing other humans. Humans still did that. But never before, even as she'd forged her own suit of armour, even as she'd stood aside her mentor in battle, had she considered that she might have to take a life. Even the Dragons had been spared any bloodshed.

She got out her knife again. The barkeep sent her a look that said "don't even think about it." She shot him a look that said "don't worry." She played with it, weaving the blade and hilt around her fingers in a dance. Fingers that were rough and course through years of working in the workshop, or whatever hovel she and her godfather had found themselves in while travelling through Europe. Fingers that now had blood on them. Even after taking a ten minute break in the rest room, even after scrubbing her hands with enough water to drown Holland and using enough soap to kill every germ on Earth, she hadn't got rid of it. It was still there. Staring up at her.

"Did it hurt?" Brigitte whispered. "The first time you killed?"

"Robot, or man?"

"Either." She sighed. "Neither. Both." She sighed again, rubbing her eyes. "Gud fan det jag förlorar mitt sinne."

Reinhardt didn't say anything. Maybe his Swedish wasn't that good – certainly she'd never said that she was losing her mind before. But she found one of her hands being taken by her godfather's, disappearing within his meaty palm. His breath smelt of alcohol. But his eyes were soft and kind.

"You feel," he said, "and you will always feel."

"That's a liability, isn't it?"

"No. It is why I chose you as my squire. And why I know you'll be an excellent knight." He rose up his tankard. "The one who will do what is right, regardless of what it shall cost you."

"I'm not a knight, Godfather."

"Are you not? You, who saved those omnics from Talon? The men, women, and children who would have perished also? You, who risked your life for those you had never seen?"

She smiled. "Is that what the Crusaders would have done?"

"Yes, but you are no Crusader."

Her face fell – the Crusaders used hammers, but Reinhardt's words cut deeper than any sword. Through her shield, through her armour, piercing her heart. Death by one cut, rather than a thousand.

"The Crusaders are gone," he said. "They existed to serve Germany, and they gave their lives for it. You, Brigitte, are no Crusader."

"Thanks," she murmured.

"You are no Crusader, but the first of something new," he said. "Knight, paladin, chevalier, I will let you decide. But a knight, Brigitte Lindholm – you have proven that to yourself. To me. To the world. Not the last of an old order, but the first of a new." People were starting to look at them (well, more than usual, people in power armour tended to attract attention anywhere in the world), but he didn't seem to notice. "To Brigitte, who-"

She hugged him, her arms just making it around his body. "Shut up," she whispered. "Drink your drink, and shut up."

"Ah. Yes. Drink." He looked around the tavern. "Drikk og vær glad, for i morgen dør vi."

It briefly occurred to Brigitte, as everyone returned to their drinks or the flatscreen, that her godfather might know more Norwegian than she thought. But it didn't matter. As he ordered his sixth round, he smiled at her.

For the first time this evening, she smiled back.

Update (17/06/18): Made some alterations as per feedback.