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Brewing Tempests

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Sombra spent the next few hours alone, waiting. Once the gorilla, Winston, and Tracer had disarmed her, they called back to their base. After a conversation that was much longer than it needed to be, it was decided that Tracer would fly the refugees to a nearby town and Winston would guard Sombra. So she stood in the freezing cold for half an hour at gunpoint at two or so in the morning.

The pilot returned with a warm smile, an overcoat, and a cup of hot chocolate that she, quote, "had no bloody intentions of sharing with anyone else". They escorted her onto the plane and ran her through a scanner. The scanner showed the computers throughout her entire outfit, and it was decided that the only way to make sure she was not a real threat was to make her change. Sombra asked for some privacy, which Winston declined. She tried to be angry at him, but he was right to keep an eye on her. After changing into some clothes that did not fit her at all (she felt like she was in a straight-jacket), they escorted her to the holding cell. Tracer was very quick to point out that it was not at all just a repurposed closet. And so she spent the next two hours locked in a closet with crappy, uncomfortable clothes and a lot of jetlag.

They arrived at the base, and Sombra had been escorted to a proper cell. Not that it was much better. She sat on a cold, metal chair at a plain, white desk in a dimly lit room with a suspiciously large mirror to her right. Sombra had always had a good since o0f time, and from what she could guess, she had sat there for about an hour before hearing an argument outside. Loud shouting and a few crashes followed, then eventually ceased once a loud, authoritative voice rang out. The walls were too thick for Sombra to make anything out, but she was certain they were fighting about what to do with her. She had found that funny. Overwatch, the international group of heroes, bickering like children.

Sombra tried to stay awake out of spite, but she was feeling exhausted. Bruises from the night's earlier conflict began to ache. Her arms and legs began to feel heavy, and Sombra decided it wasn't a battle worth fighting and she might as well be comfortable. She got off the chair, rested her head on her arms, and dozed off.

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By the time she had woke up, someone had put a blanket around her shoulders and a pillow under her head. On the table was a simple breakfast and a note reading -hope you like it! ;)-Tracer-. Sombra stubbornly refused to eat, despite the growling of her stomach.

And that was how she ended up here, sitting at a table across a blond woman scribbling down notes on a clipboard with a plot of soggy pancakes and eggs between them. Sombra had studied the woman as she entered. She had immediately disliked the woman. The blonde woman, Dr. Ziegler, her nameplate read, was wearing high heels, a lab coat, lipstick the exact shade of red as lips, and a black skirt. She had entered with the clipboard in hand and a chair in the other. She had this air of formality about her, this upright posture, this need to dress up for a damn interrogation that infuriated Sombra. After thinking about it, she decided that this woman was everything she hated. Uptight, formal, healthy, probably rich and born that way. She didn't understand Sombra at all, and probably never would.

Sombra glared at Doctor Ziegler for several minutes, before the latter woman finally spoke.

"You haven't eaten your food." Sombra's expression changed, from a glare to a more quizzical look, and the woman clarified. "The pancakes. Tracer made them for you. You haven't touched them." She clearly was waiting for a response.

The air felt still like it couldn't move and support the weight of this strained excuse for human contact. The only noise for several seconds was the sound of Ziegler's pen against her paper. Sombra couldn't imagine what she was writing that wouldn't be finished by now. Sombra sat there, thinking of whether to answer and what her answer would be.

"Well, Doctor Ziegler," Sombra spat angrily, though she couldn't help feeling it came off as silly, "I don't need your charity. I was doing just fine by myself."

The constant scratching of the Doctor's pen against the paper stopped, and she set it down on the table. She picked her head up, making eye contact for the first time. "Well, I wouldn't call it charity. We didn't exactly give you a choice to buy your own food, did we? If anything, it's just polite."

Sombra scoffed. "Polite? You're worried about being polite to your prisoner?" Sombra shook her head. "You see that's the problem with you people. You're a bunch of goodie-two-shoes." Sombra stood up.

The doctor mirrored her movement. "Sombra, sit down."

"NO," Sombra yelled back. "I'm tired of you people, going on about the law and good for the people while completely ignoring all the wrong the law has done." Sombra was pacing back and forth, and spotted the mirror on the wall. She continued her speech in a mocking tone. "Oh, what's this? A mirror? How coincidental there would be a mirror in the interrogation room! There's no way this could be one-way glass, that's simply impossible!" Sombra raised her fist.

"Sombra, wait!" Ziegler yelled, but Sombra didn't listen. She punched the mirror with all the force she could. Shards of glass littered the floor, revealing a very white and particularly solid wall. Sombra's hand was bloodied and bruised from the impact. Sombra stood there in shock, almost collapsing from embarrassment. "This room was a dressing room. We repurposed it a holding cell a while back. There are cameras and mics in the ceiling. We left the mirror in because it would have torn up the wall to remove it." Doctor Zeigler explained. Sombra sat down in what could only be described as defeat.

The Doctor sat down and looked at Sombra. Sombra could tell the other woman was searching for the right words. "Sombra," the doctor finally said, "I understand that you're angry. I-," she paused, "I can't say that I know why. I can't say that I know who you are or what you've done. We, Overwatch I mean, we tried to research you, but we couldn't find any information. You're about as far off the grid as you can get. And despite what you may believe, Overwatch isn't as concerned with the law as you might think. We believe in the spirit of the law, not the letter of the law. We believe in," The woman rolled her eyes, "Justice. We, after talking it through, have decided there is a reason to believe that you did not receive that justice." Ziegler looked Sombra in the eye. "We want to give you a chance."

Sombra was startled. She had never expected this, never gotten this impression from Overwatch. She thought to herself for a moment. She thought that they may be lying to her. She thought maybe Talon had lied to her. No, she knew they had.

"Sombra?" The doctor's voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Yes, Doctor Ziegler?" Sombra said. Sombra immediately hated herself for saying that. She hadn't had time to think of a better response, so she answered with a pre-programmed response, like some type of lapdog.

"You're still bleeding." The other woman responded, then stood up. "I'll get something to bandage that up with." She started toward the door. She opened it, then paused. "Oh, and one more thing." The doctor waited for Sombra to look at her. "No one calls me Doctor Ziegler. Around here, they call me Mercy." With that, she left.