Chapter 16 Sins Of the Past/What we Don't/Do Remember

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The Acts Of The Angel and The Cowboy

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Cole didn't think much of himself growing up - just a young man hustling for spare change by performing tricks outside seedy bars, or learning to pick the pockets of drunks passed out on the curbs. In the nowhere dustbowl town of Redwood where he was born, thinking you were better than your circumstances was a surefire way to find yourself missing teeth and saddled with a limp that no amount of grit could fix. That's just the way it was.

Now, a training dummy slides into view within the stark, industrial chamber. From the leather holster on his hip, Cole raises his weapon and fires a single, well-aimed shot that finds its mark - dead center in the glowing light affixed to the robot's chest plate.

With an electronic ding, two more targets appear - one perched at a mock vantage point, the other ducking for cover behind a hefty crate positioned for added realism. Cole's next two shots come in quick succession, the first bullet knocking the elevated target off-balance before the second fries the central processor in its skull.

Spinning the revolver once with a languid flick of his wrist, Cole returns the heated barrel to its holster as his gaze trails downward. He slowly flexes the articulated, metallic digits of the state-of-the-art prosthetic limb he's been outfitted with, feeling the well-calibrated mechanisms whir faintly with each movement.

His eyes lift towards the small, elevated monitoring station, where three silhouetted figures loom behind reinforced glass. One holds a clipboard, staring down at him with an almost childlike eagerness. The other two regard his performance with guarded nonchalance bordering on apathy.

Bringing his flesh hand to the small, bead-like microphone attached to his ear, Cole offers his assessment in a low drawl. "The new arm's good, but it's real slow on the uptake."

The blonde woman at the monitoring station steps forward, thumb pressing down on the microphone button to open the speaker channel. Her voice crackles through with the heavy lilt of a Swiss accent.

"Is the weight evenly distributed? The difference in speed might be due to the arm's mass, not the technology itself."

Cole shakes his head minutely, gaze drifting down to study the prosthetic limb anew. "It's the arm. Weight's fine - it's actually lighter than my old one. Maybe something's not properly connected."

Pulling back the sleeve of his training blacks, he examines the freshly bandaged stump where the prosthetic nerve-interface meets his flesh and blood. Squinting, he can make out the hair-thin wires seeming to directly meld with his nerve endings. As he cautiously flexes the metallic fingers, he can see a faint pulsating response travel up the wires, like data packets surging through a cable from a remote computer terminal.

At least, that's how Cole conceptualizes the strange synthesis of man and machine. Medical miracle or not, it's a long way from the dusty, hardscrabble existence he once eked out on the streets of Redwood.

The reverence and near-mythic aura surrounding Dr. Angela Ziegler is palpable as Cole makes his way through the stark, brightly-lit corridors of the medical facility. "Never question the methods of Angela Ziegler" - it's an unwritten rule, a dogma that every staff member seems to abide by religiously. From the lowliest janitors who have had the esteemed nurse herself tend to mere paper cuts, to the grizzled soldiers who have had chunks of their bodies obliterated by cannon fire, only to be knitted back together by her pioneering techniques. "Angela Ziegler is an angel" is the immutable law observed within these sterile halls.

Cole can't help the derisive scoff that slips past his lips as memories of searing pain and the sharp claws of a red-headed woman clutching him in a vice-grip flash through his mind - the "emergency" amputation of his arm in less-than-ideal field conditions. He shakes his head, jaw clenching as he mentally files that particular trauma back into the recesses of his mind where it belongs.

A heavy door swings open at the far end of the corridor, its well-oiled hinges silent. Cole lets his footfalls carry him forward on autopilot, gaze unfocused as his mind begins to wander.

The hushed tones of awe and reverence amongst the rank-and-file personnel he passes are inescapable. "I was dead for three whole minutes, and Dr. Ziegler brought me back like it was nothing!" an infantryman had boasted during chow in the cafeteria line, chest puffed out with a bravado bordering on idolatry.

Cole has to admit, from his own limited interactions, the famed medic does carry herself with an air of gentle compassion and unruffled grace. He can still vividly recall the profound sense of shame that had washed over him as she had personally washed his hair during the decontamination process, softly chiding him about the importance of hygiene and avoiding potential lice infestations.

There's an undercurrent of unease churning beneath Cole's surface thoughts as the near-godlike reverence towards Dr. Angela Ziegler begins nagging at him. He hasn't been deployed on any missions yet, but a recent sparring session with a new recruit - more machine than man - left him with a horrific, bloody wound stretching from neck to navel like some dissected specimen. He vividly recalls the feeling of life slipping away into black peaceful oblivion...only to jolt awake on the floor sometime later, not even a scar marring his flesh.

The memory of his heart shuddering to a halt, of his exposed lungs straining for air that wouldn't come, still haunts him. He can almost picture a morbid bystander able to glimpse those vital organs spasming in their final rites. Yet Angela had simply appeared, that glowing staff in hand, and he was violently resurrected in an all-engulfing flash of golden biotic energy - divine retribution made manifest.

Staring down at his upturned palms, Cole can still feel the lingering essence of death itself being forcibly purged from his veins as fresh blood surged back into their channels, returning him to this mortal coil. An unsettling thought crosses his mind, giving rise to a new string of existential pondering.

"Does dying even matter if she can just...bring you back?"

He's no scientist, hasn't had any meaningful education beyond basic reading and writing. But witnessing the fundamental laws of the natural world being subverted with a mere tap of Angela's wand and placid smile...it makes something uneasy twist in the pit of his stomach.

Crossing paths with the esteemed doctor herself as he makes his way to the next evaluation and analysis, Cole offers a cordial greeting as she adjusts the glasses perched on her delicate nose. With little more than a cursory nod of acknowledgment, Angela turns and continues on her way to the office wing.

Cole's gaze lingers on the framed photos lining the corridor walls - captured moments showcasing Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes alongside Angela, her arms slung around the two legendary Overwatch leaders' shoulders as they regard the camera with sour expressions of annoyance.

"You can scare Reyes into a photo but you can't find some better decor?" Cole quips with a lopsided smirk as he takes a seat on the observation table.

Angela's musical lilt of a chuckle drifts back to him from across the room. "I like to keep my things together."

Scratching idly at the stubble peppering his jaw, Cole shakes his head with an easy grin. "Scotty's got a lava lamp in his quarters, you know."

"Moira would likely turn you into a rabbit if she found it interesting enough," Angela fires back with fond exasperation.

Cole can't help but shudder at the thought. "Yeah, I don't doubt that one bit, Doc."

An easy camaraderie has developed between them through his regular check-ins and evaluations to monitor his body's acceptance of the cybernetic implants. As Angela slides a pair of sterile gloves onto her hands, Cole slips into the familiar routine of casual banter.

"You're the supposed witch who can bring people back from the dead. Would you turn me into a toad, given the chance?"

Angela sighs, shaking her head as she moves to collect her instruments from the tray. "It's not reviving the dead, it's..." She launches into a whirlwind of complex medical jargon that flies completely over Cole's head until he's waving his hands in mock surrender.

"It was just a joke, ma'am! No need for the science speak."

Huffing out a rueful chuckle, Angela sets down her tools and turns to face him fully, hands on her hips in an approximation of a stern educator's pose - were it not for the warmth glinting in her eyes.

"Now, tell me - do the bandages itch at all? That's perfectly normal for the integration process."

Cole shakes his head, flexing the articulated fingers of his prosthetic arm with a considering look. "it doesn't and even if they did it's better than nothing."

"I don't like to miss things," Angela warns, tone taking on a clinical edge as she refocuses on her task. "One must be ever vigilant, lest something...slip away."

Meeting his gaze directly, she offers him a reassuring smile that manages to instill a sense of ease despite the lingering shadows of uncertainty clouding his thoughts. "We'll get through this together, okay?"

For now, Cole can accept that - can let himself be soothed by her bedside manner and the conviction shining in those compassionate eyes. If nothing else, he trusts in her medical expertise, even if the implications of her work disturb him on a more fundamental level.

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Genji Shimada lay utterly still in the hospital bed to Cole's left. Only the faintest shifting of the thin hospital blankets hinted at the cyborg's slow, mechanical movements beneath. He had been brought in to have his prosthetic limbs refitted. An acrid, smoky scent - the unmistakable aroma of burnt metal - wafted from the area of Cole's warped stump. his nostrils flared as the harsh odor triggered a sense of nostalgia, memories of his own visits to the medical wing after missions gone awry flickering through his mind unbidden. He could have chuckled at the familiarity of it all, if not for the hushed but intense whispers now emanating from Genji's beside.

Slowly, with what seemed like immense effort, Genji raised his remaining hand towards his face. A puff of heat expelled with a tiny mechanical hiss as the silvery faceplate slid off, allowing the cyborg to speak freely. When he finally did, his gravelly baritone emerged in a rasping growl, the sound of reconstructed cybernetic throat muscles laboring.

"My right arm..." Genji paused, swallowing thickly. "It is not syncing correctly."

The doctor, who had been seated vigilantly at his bedside, leaned in closer at this. Eyebrows knitting together, she examined Genji carefully.

"It can be repaired," she said at last, tone reassuring yet professional. "Would you permit me to recalibrate the nerve interface?"

For a long moment, Genji remained motionless and silent, the only sound the faint whirring of servos. Then, with what seemed like monumental reluctance, he let his right arm fall limply at his side atop the mattress.

"It won't matter," he said, voice little more than a croak now. "You've done it four times and it still remains out of sync with my left arm."

The doctor's shoulders fell slightly at this, a pained expression creasing her features. She opened her mouth to respond, then seemed to think better of it, pursing her lips.

Angela reached out placing a hand on Genji's cheek taking a moment. When she finally did speak, it was with a measured tone, each word carefully enunciated. "I can adjust it however many times it takes, Genji. As many attempts as are needed."

With surprising quickness, he jerked his head away, as if struck - rejecting the doctor's kindness as one would a physical blow.

"If I cannot achieve total synchronization..." He trailed off, then tightened his remaining cybernetic hand into a fist so tightly that the whir of servos grew into a crackle of protest. "It means I'm not operating at peak efficiency."

The doctor reached out, placing her hand over Genji's clenched fist and rubbing slow, soothing circles against the unyielding metal. "You will adapt, Genji. I'm certain of it."

Silence fell, thick and heavy. Cole found himself barely breathing, afraid to so much as shift in his bed for fear of shattering the fragile tension. Just when it seemed the quiet would stretch on indefinitely, Genji's hoarse rasp sliced through it like a blade.

"I won't."

His next words emerged as little more than an anguished growl. ""a quarter of a second of delay is the difference between life and death if I cannot synchronize my organic arm with my inorganic arm then maybe I should remove the weaker link."

The sharp crack of flesh striking flesh rang out like a gunshot, Angela's palm connecting squarely with Genji's cheek. She surged to her feet, staring down at the cyborg with an intensity that made even Cole's heart stutter.

"I will not have you degrading yourself in such a way!" Her voice resonated through the medical bay, bristling with a ferocity that bordered on maternal. " You cannot simply remove parts of yourself that you deem imperfect because you perceive them so! You have a soul you have a life you are so much more than just a tool to be ripped apart and put back together."

Genji did not so much as flinch at her outburst. When his eerie artificial eyes flickered open once more, they glowed a dull, bloody crimson in the dim lighting, regarding the doctor with an almost dispassionate air.

"You misunderstand," She said, each word falling like lead between them. "Your biological components are not the root issue – You are simply...tired." "I am a soldier. Suboptimal performance is a practical concern that must be addressed through practical means."

"Practical, suboptimal. You are not a machine!" Angela's retort was immediate, laced with desperation. "Regardless of what Commander Reyes or anyone else tries to make you believe. You are not a soldier, you are not a machine you are a man!"

Her chest heaved with emotion, but Genji remained utterly motionless, his vivid red lenses fixed unblinkingly on her face.

"I am more machine now than man, Doctor." The words were spoken flatly, without malice or melodrama - a simple statement of fact from one who has accepted their cruel reality. "Without the intervention of Commander Reyes, I would not be here in any capacity."

Angela shook her head slowly, mouth a tight line. "You are alive because I would not allow someone with a chance to be saved die on my watch."

A mirthless rasp of a chuckle escaped Genji then. Lifting his remaining arm with obvious effort, he swept the blankets away from his body, exposing the remnants of his natural limb. Faded tattoos clung to the sickly pale flesh like macabre ornamentation.

"Your definition of 'saving' me seems to differ from mine, Angela." His words were measured, each one carrying profound weight. "At any moment, Reyes could deactivate my life support systems on a whim. Inside this chassis beats a heart regulated by pumps and filters that could be shut off with a single command."

Slowly, with mechanical precision, he resealed his faceplate, the whisper of servos reconnecting barely audible over the pounding of Cole's heart.

"Our perspectives may vary, but the outcome is the same. If I am not executed once my purpose is served, I will simply be kept alive to be studied and dissected by those less..." A contemplative pause. "...principled than you."

Appalled, Angela's hands curled into white-knuckled fists at her sides, whole body rigid with righteous indignation.

"I swear on my life, Genji, I will not allow that to happen. You will not become a glorified guinea pig for them to exploit!"

She turned abruptly, stalking away from Genji's bedside. As she brushed past Cole, the cyborg's parting words - terse and devoid of any inflection - trailed after her.

"Do not swear on what can be easily taken, Doctor."

Angela turned back to face him her mouth opening for a moment before shutting once again as she left the ward.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you it's a bad idea to piss off the lady who gives the drugs?" Cole quipped, unable to stay silent any longer.

Genji slowly turned his crimson gaze towards the source of the new voice. "Painkillers are of no consequence. Pain will only fuel the dragon within."

Cole scoffed, sitting up slightly in his bed despite his body's protests. "Bullshit. That whole 'I am an unfeeling warrior who cares only for the mission' schtick might fool the Commander, but I can see right through you, tin can."

For a long moment, the cyborg said nothing, unmoving.

"Listen buddy. You and I...we are both up the shit creek without a paddle here. We watch each other's backs, that's the only way either of us gets through this in one piece." Cole paused, seeming to weigh his next words carefully. "But if you keep fucking with the doctor, I wont think twice to put another piece of metal between what's left of your eyes. Are we clear?"

Cole held Genji's intense stare for a beat, then turned onto his side with a grunt, pulling the thin hospital blanket up over his shoulder.

" When did you become such an acolyte?" Genji muttered "Whatever that is, I'm not it."

Another pause, then Cole spoke – "I get it you want to die" "that's not true." Though Genji's synthesized tone was as flat as ever, Cole could have sworn he detected a hint of...something else beneath. Weariness, perhaps. "I know what it is to scrounge and be deemed worth less than dirt, doing whatever is needed to survive one day to the next."

Genji remained silent, listening.

"If what you says is true, and you were betrayed by your own family...Then maybe you should reconsider how you treat the few who give a shit. Because if you aren't lying – she's all you got in this world."

Neither man spoke again after that. In the stillness that followed, the rapid beeping of the monitoring machines seemed exponentially louder to Genji's ears. He knew Cole was right - they were both dead men walking without allies. Cole closed his eyes, he silently hoped the deadly cyborg would take his own advice to heart.

After all, having the ninja's literal dragon rage turned against him was the last thing Cole needed.

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Angela shakes the small tin, flakes drifting down into the bubbling glass tank. She watches, transfixed, as the almost translucent flakes slowly sink through the rippling water before the multicolored betta fish dart forward, nipping at them greedily. The fish swim freely, weaving through the large aquarium.

"Angela?" A voice calls from down the hallway, pulling her attention away. "Are you ready?"

Small legs slide off the stool with a thump. Angela trots through her room at an unhurried pace, reaching up on her tiptoes to twist the door handle. She enters the living room, instantly enveloped by warmth. The faint crackling of scorched logs in the fireplace puts the young girl at ease.

She turns slowly, feeling something being placed atop her messy blonde hair. It's a small, multicolored winter hat. A long scarf is draped around her shoulders next, the soft fabric brushing her cheeks. Her mother crouches down deliberately in front of her, gently flattening Angela's jacket and leaning in to sniff.

"You smell like fish food," her mother chides, though her tone is light, a smile playing at her lips.

Angela's brow furrows. "Swanny was hungry," she reasons, a fingertip poking out to brush her nose.

"They're going to get fat if you feed them so often," her mother teases with an exaggerated sigh.

Tears prick at Angela's eyes unexpectedly. "Swanny won't get fat..."

Her mother's expression softens instantly. "Don't cry, sweetheart. I'm just joking."

Rising fluidly to her feet, her mother retrieves two woven white mittens from the side table. Angela sticks out her hands, letting her mother slide the mittens on one by one. She stares up into the thick black rims of her mother's glasses, catching her own blue eyes reflected back in the shiny lenses as her mother smiles down at her warmly.

"Come on now, we're going to be late."

Angela takes her mother's outstretched hand, their fingers intertwining. They step outside together, Angela shivering slightly as the chill wind greets her. Thick snow is falling lazily from the dark sky. She clutches her backpack closer with her free hand as her mother leads her towards their faded green car. Her mother pauses to lift Angela gently, settling her into the car seat. Angela smiles at the bobblehead palm tree cartoon dancing on the dashboard.

The door closes behind her mother with a solid thunk. After a brief pause, the engine starts with a low, faint hum. The older gas engine sputters quietly as her mother twists the key. Pulling out of the driveway, they begin their journey, driving in comfortable silence apart from the children's music drifting through the speakers.

The dark road stretches out endlessly before them, the familiar route seeming even more deserted than usual for the early hours of this winter morning. Through the passenger window, Angela's gaze is drawn to something in the distance. She squints, making out the vague silhouette of an overturned car, lying on its side with its doors flung open haphazardly and one window shattered.

Without warning, their car comes to an abrupt, screeching halt. Angela turns to her mother, perplexed. "Mama?"

Her mother's eyes are wide, her expression one of sheer terror focused on something ahead. Following her mother's gaze through the windshield, Angela feels her heart rate pick up. In the darkness, a pair of eerie red glowing neon eyes seems to be peering directly at them, scanning them over with intense, predatory focus like a wild animal assessing its prey.

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The hovercraft touched down with a gentle thump onto the landing pad, the magnetic landing gear activating with a subtle hum that caused the seats to shake slightly. A few of the other students clad in crisp white uniforms jolted awake at the movement.

In the row ahead, a red-haired woman clutched a small white cage containing a grey rat that scurried nervously at the disturbance. "Temper, temper little Vergil," she soothed, her Irish lilt unmistakable. "We have not reached the gate just yet."

Angela shifted in her seat, blinking the lingering pull of sleep from her eyes. "Moira, you know they will supply us with test subjects once we reach campus," she pointed out, voice still husky from her nap.

"Aye, that they will." Moira didn't look up, her pale blue eyes transfixed on the small creature as she carefully wrapped her slender fingers around the cage bars. The rat - Vergil - immediately perked up, rising on his haunches to nose curiously at her hands. "But I've been painstakingly cultivating this line starting from Vergil's great-great grandparents Socrates and Appolonia, then Plato and Pleides after them..." She ticked off the lineage one by one.

Angela felt the corner of her mouth quirk upwards as she leaned her head against Moira's shoulder. "I remember Socrates," she mused, recalling finding her friend hunched over her bunk at their refuge camp, delicately offering a torn piece of bread to a tiny brown mouse.

"It would be a shame to abandon the fruits of years of my labor now, don't you think?" Moira murmured, finally tearing her gaze from Vergil to glance sidelong at Angela.

The younger woman hummed an affirmative, too relaxed in the moment to fully open her eyes again. "Aingeal beag," Moira said then, the endearment like a gentle caress.

Angela's lips twitched again at the familiar term. "Hmm?"

"We're here. The city..." Moira turned her focus outward, through the view-port beside them. "It's marvelous."

Forcing her eyes fully open, Angela had to blink a few times to adjust to the bright golden light of the setting sun spilling through the windows. Her gaze followed Moira's outward, sweeping over the rolling dunes of golden sand that seemed to stretch on endlessly.

In the distance, an impossibly tall spire rose like the trunk of a metallic palm tree, its burnished surface glinting brilliantly in the fading rays. Angela's breath caught in her throat at the sheer scale of the structure.

"That's...where we'll be studying?" she asked, barely recognizing her own voice with its open awe.

Moira's hum of confirmation vibrated against Angela's cheek where it still rested on her shoulder. When she spoke again, her words were soft but laced with steely determination.

"We're going to change the world." Her gaze drifted back down to the cage in her lap, to the small creature watching them with bright, intelligent eyes. "This is only the beginning."

Angela felt herself smiling, boldly allowing the swell of ambition and optimism to buoy her up. She knew without a doubt that Moira's words rang with truth.

"Yes," she agreed simply, giving a slight nod. "We will."

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The Present

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The energy in the arena was electric, a roar of cheers erupting from the packed stands as the booming voice of the announcer reverberated through the speakers. Giant projection screens flickered to life, displaying names and stats in bright, flashy graphics.

"Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we bear witness to the first round of the regional deathmatch!" The announcer's gravelly tones whipped the crowd into a frenzy. "armor and is permitted - anything goes in this blood-soaked battle for glory!"

Spotlights danced across the messy battleground, illuminating the rusted husks of massive machines long since destroyed, their remnants littering the sand-covered arena floor. Overeager fans hurled food and drink indiscriminately, splattering the ground with stains.

"Twelve combatants, hand-picked from the best of the best, will compete for the ultimate prize..." On cue, the screens displayed a massive golden pot overflowing with digital currency, a gleaming 'Number 1' medal perched atop it all. "A ten thousand dollar prize!"

If possible, the roars from the crowd grew even more deafening at this proclamation. The announcer paused for maximum dramatic effect before bellowing his next words.

"Now...let's meet our fighters!"

The spotlights swiveled across the arena, fixing on a series of heavily reinforced gates lining the outer walls. One by one, the gates groaned open with an ominous mechanical screech. Plumes of smoke and flashing pyrotechnics heralded the entrance of each combatant as they strode through the doors, soaking in the raucous applause.

The heavy doors lining the colosseum groaned open one by one, disgorging a steady stream of combatants into the sandy battleground. Each fighter strode forward confidently, adorned with glittering medals and pins, waving to the roaring crowd that seemed to swell with every new entrance.

The cheers grew to a deafening roar as the assembled warriors gathered in the arena's center, greeting one another with bravado-laced words and posturing. The crunch of coarse sand beneath booted feet grounded one figure - a lithe form clad in sleek motorcycle leathers, a vivid blue sash pinned diagonally across their torso bearing a solitary 'Beginner' medal.

Rather than playing to the crowd, this rider simply stared upwards, eyes inexorably drawn to the massive golden pot and its glittering prize perched tauntingly high above them all.

"Lighten up, donde estan tus huevos?" A mocking voice crackled in their ear.

The announcer's amplified voice drowned out any response as the rules of the deathmatch began scrolling across the projection screens for all to see. A long, punishingly complex list of regulations, restrictions, and stipulations flashed by at dizzying speed.

The rider's shoulders tensed beneath their leathers. "I'm not used to these tournament conditions," they murmured, unable to tear their eyes from the scrolling text. "It's...a lot of pressure."

A burst of static-laced laughter met this admission. "It's not you actually fighting though, is it?" the voice taunted. "You're just playing with them."

Grinding their teeth, the rider scoffed. "Listen, I win this thing and we're even, I don't want to have to do this seedy stuff. It's crappy."

"Ooh, someone's testy!" The laughter returned, more condescending this time. "What, did your girlfriend dump you and now you're all butthurt about it?"

Visions of another battle entirely flickered behind the rider's eyes - one of smoke and screams rather than spotlights and spectacle. They drew a slow, steadying breath through their nostrils.

"That's not...just don't distract me. Please."

A contemplative pause. Then - "Well, since you asked so nicely...sure, I'll can it for now."

The comm-link disconnected with a final crackle of static. Alone once more, the rider flexed their hands into fists, rolling their shoulders as the first-round klaxons began to blare. Bringing their fists up into a ready guard, they exhaled hard through their nostrils.

The other fighters quickly dispersed, filing back through the heavily reinforced gates that lined the arena's outer walls. The rider paid them no mind, gaze rising to scan the packed stands surrounding the battlefield.

There, nestled amidst the raucous crowd, a pair of unmistakable pink bunny ears caught his eye. He shook his head minutely, forcing himself to refocus. No distractions this time.

As the opening klaxons blared, the rider settled into a ready stance - legs spread, hands raised to guard his face. Almost immediately, a swift kick lashed out, slamming against his leather-clad forearm with enough force to vibrate up into his shoulder. He didn't flinch, throwing a controlled jab towards his opponent's torso in retaliation.

The brown-haired fighter leapt back deftly to avoid the blow. Another punch sliced through the air toward the rider's head - he ducked beneath it fluidly, countering with two sharp jabs into the exposed armpit of his opponent's extended arm. The precise strikes visibly stunned them for a split-second.

That's all the opening the rider needed. He pivoted, putting his weight behind a vicious right hook that crashed against his opponent's nose with a sickening crunch. They stumbled back, hands instinctively raising to guard their bloodied face.

Not allowing them to recover, the rider launched himself forward, leading boot slamming squarely into their exposed jaw with brutal force. His opponent crumpled bonelessly to the sand in an unconscious heap.

The klaxon rang out again, signaling the end of the first round as cheers erupted from the crowd. Barely registering the adulation, the rider turned his gaze back towards the stands, seeking out that unmistakable slash of pink amidst the throngs.

There she was - the bunny girl, bobbed brown hair framing her impish features as she offered a small wave, the black bunny-suit and cropped bubblegum pink leather jacket leaving little to the imagination. Inclining his head fractionally, the rider raised two gloved fingers in response.

Then, with the same eerie detachment, he turned and strode through the fighters' entrance once more, leaving his fallen opponent behind.

"Not bad. Not bad at all," the voice crackled back into the rider's earpiece as he made his way through the tunnels beneath the arena. "Almost wish I could've been there to see that beat down in person. But duty calls, I suppose."

The rider - Baskerville, according to the announcer - shrugged one shoulder dismissively. "I didn't do much. Just followed the programmed motions."

"Maybe, but that last kick seemed a little...excessive for tournament regulations, no?" The voice held a lilt of amusement now. "Either way, it sure saved some time."

"That's all it's about," Baskerville replied flatly. "Efficiency."

"Ah, I see. That's my student."

They lapsed into silence then, the only sound the dull thump of Baskerville's boots on the concrete floor. As he rounded the corner into the staging area, the results chart flickered into view on the wall-mounted screens - 12 fighters now whittled down to only 6 remaining.

A harsh dinging klaxon shattered the quiet, signaling the start of the next round. With a final roll of his shoulders, Baskerville turned and made his way back out into the blazing spotlights of the arena's sandy floor.

His next opponent was already waiting - a lithe, golden haired scantily-clad woman adorned in what appeared to be snakeskin-patterned thigh-high boots and a matching corset top, leaving little to the imagination. She offered a predatory smile as Baskerville approached.

The opening klaxon sounded again and she struck like a viper, a lightning-fast jab lancing out towards Baskerville's eyes. In a blur of movement, he snatched her wrist from the air, hauling her forwards off-balance and slamming a brutal elbow squarely into her jaw. Wrenching her captured arm back, he mirrored her attempted blow, driving his other hand like a spear into her momentarily vulnerable eye socket.

With a pained shriek, the woman staggered back, clutching at her face. Baskerville whirled, planting a savage kick flush against her mouth that sent her crashing to the ground. One final arcing elbow plunged down towards her sternum and she went completely limp, knocked unconscious in a crumpled heap.

The victory klaxon blared as the crowd erupted into cheers once more. Baskerville paid them no heed, mechanically turning on his heel and striding back towards the fighters' entrance with the same dispassionate gait.

"Three minutes," he murmured to himself as he rejoined the staging area, studying the projected leaderboard intently.

The announcer's bombastic voice boomed over the loudspeakers then. "All combatants, listen up! Due to Fighter Number Three Baskerville having the quickest elimination times, he will rest while Fighters One and Two have their bout. The winner of that match will then face Baskerville for the final showdown!"

"Baskerville?" the voice piped up in his earpiece again. "Not a bad name. Kinda has a nice ring to it - based on anything?"

Exhaling a slow breath, Baskerville shook his head minutely. "It's...a long story."

A beat of silence, then - "I've got nowhere to be."

Baskerville felt the ghost of a smirk tug at his lips beneath his helmet. "I do."

The klaxons sounded once more, alarms blaring as the final round was announced. Showtime.

Instruments began to blare through hidden speakers as Baskerville emerged into the hazy spotlights, the crowd's deafening roars swelling in fevered anticipation. Across the expanse of sand waited his opponent - a towering, heavily augmented figure whose left arm and leg had been replaced with fearsome-looking cybernetic prosthetics.

As their eyes met through the smoke and flashing lights, Baskerville's eyes analyzed the enemy combatant with lightning speed, making tactical adjustments and noting potential weaknesses. The prosthetic limbs would require extra care - they looked sharp.

Without warning, the fighter spun with blinding speed, a flashing blade extending from the heel of their boot as they lashed out in a wicked slashing arc. Baskerville dropped into a slide at the last moment, the razor-edged heel shearing through the space his head had just occupied. As the fighter stumbled, off-balance from the missed strike, Baskerville swept their remaining leg out from under them.

His opponent went crashing to the sand in an undignified heap, the bladed boot raised defensively. With blurring quickness, Baskerville seized the deadly prosthetic by the dull edges, wrenching it back against the knee joint until the metal shrieked in protest. Then, with a grunt of exertion, he snapped it cleanly in half, leaving a jagged metal stump.

Rising, he loomed over his now-crippled foe, one heavy boot pinning the bladed stump against the sand. With a powerful stamp, the ragged metal edge punched down like a tent spike, pinning the fighter to the ground as they squirmed helplessly.

The final klaxon blared. Baskerville straightened, raising a victorious hand towards the roaring crowd.

Then, as abruptly as the savagery had come, his demeanor shifted once more to that cold detachment. Turning on his heel, he strode away from his defeated opponent, paying no heed to the raining adulation as he disappeared through the exit tunnel.

The tournament was over. Time to collect his prize.

The dingy neon sign proclaiming "Speedy's" bathed the nightclub's interior in its lurid purple glow. Baskerville settled into the cracked vinyl booth, back pressed against the worn material as he eyed his surroundings warily. A small glass clinked onto the table before him, clear liquid sloshing inside.

"I'm a big fan, you know."

The disembodied voice from earlier finally had a physical form - a lithe purple-skinned woman draped in gauzy veils now occupied the seat opposite Baskerville. He didn't so much as glance at her, snatching up the glass and hurling it away to shatter against the far wall.

"I'm not here for fun," he stated flatly. "I have the money. I want the file."

One delicate purple hand drifted up to toy with the shimmering fabric obscuring the woman's face. "Not one for small talk, are you?"

Baskerville leaned forward, fingers drumming an agitated staccato on the tabletop. "Cut the shit. I know what you are and I know what's going on here." His voice lowered to a dangerous rasp. "I have a vague idea that the longer I talk to you, the more likely I am to get arrested somehow. So here."

Producing a small data drive from an inside pocket, he slid it across the sticky surface towards her. A melodic chime sounded from somewhere within the veiled woman's robes.

"I'd usually charge extra for being such a dick," she mused, cyanic digits caressing the drive's casing.

Baskerville's smile was as feral as it was humorless. "I think that out of the two of us, you've done far worse."

The woman's shoulders rolled in an elegant shrug as another chime trilled, this one from Baskerville's side of the table - the data transfer commencing.

"Thanks," he grunted, already rising from the booth and turning away even as the files began downloading.

Raising one hand, Baskerville swiped his fingers through the air, a holographic display flickering into existence before him. A few deft motions later and the shimmering frontispiece of light engulfed his body in a blinding flare.

When the spots cleared from the veiled woman's eyes, her customer had vanished completely, leaving only the empty booth.

With a put-upon sigh, she reached up to dab at her obscured features with a napkin, tutting under her breath.

"Pinche Pendejo..."

+++++++++++++++++++++++

Brian Wiser's Point Of View

+++++++++++++++++++++++

On the tiled countertop, his phone buzzes with a new notification. Amelie has made her next move in their curiously silent game of virtual chess. He can't recall how this match was initiated, only that at some point he must have accidentally sent the invitation to her instead of Peter. Rather than clarifying the mistake, Amelie simply accepted and has been carrying on the game without a single word exchanged, her moves the sole form of communication.

"Everything good?" Royal's voice breaks through his thoughts.

Brian meets his inquisitive gaze. "Yeah, all good. Just...thinking."

His eyebrows arch ever so slightly before she returns his attention to the papers stretched out in front of him, scratching out something.

So much remains unspoken and unresolved from that night. Lena's deafening silence is the most maddening of all. No matter how many times he replays the fragmented memories, he can't piece together what happened or why she has become completely distant.

The notification light flashes again, impatient. Making his next move, Brian pictures Amelie scrutinizing the board through those striking golden eyes, her slender fingers grazing the ceramic pieces as she silently calculates her strategy.

White Pieces:

King: E1

Queen: H5

Rook: A1, F1

Knight: C3

Pawn: A2, B2, D4, E4, G2, H2

Black Pieces:

King: G8

Rook: A8, F8

Bishop: C8

Knight: D7

Pawn: A6, B7, C6, E6, F6, G6, H6

His black pieces are arrayed neatly on the digital board, facing off against Amelie's white forces. Brian has run through dozens of potential scenarios in his mind, thinking several moves ahead as he tries to anticipate her strategizing. But this odd game of silent, virtual chess feels more like a in cryptic dialogue.

Amelie makes her move. The white queen piece glides smoothly to the G6 square. Brian's eyes narrow as he studies the updated board, his fingers hovering over his phone. Placing her queen there makes it susceptible to capture by his rook or knight. A small crease forms on his brow as he considers. If he takes the piece, would it open up an opportunity for her to strike back, eliminating one of his threats?

After a momentary pause, he shakes his head slowly. No, the queen's move seems too brazen, too exposed. She could have easily checkmated him, ending the game right then. His lips purse as he scowls faintly, moving his bishop deliberately to the A6 square – a useless move.

Hitting send, Brian powers off his phone and rises from the couch, letting out a slow breath. His gaze drifts towards the kitchen, drawn by the familiar sights and scents. Baking...that could provide a welcome reprieve. Crossing the room, he begins gathering supplies - bowls, measuring cups, whisks. The bag of rice flour is retrieved from the cupboard.

The scratching of Royal's pen stills as he glances up from his work. "What's all this?"

Brian offers him a faint half-smile. "I'm going to bake something for a friend." Tying on an apron, he sets to work, temporarily losing himself in the rhythmic measuring and gentle whisking of the ingredients.

The air grows heavy with tension as Brian reaches for the door handle, his eyes locking onto the familiar chocolate brown irises, partly obscured by tinted sunglasses. "Lena?" The name falls from his lips, tinged with surprise and uncertainty.

A slightly nervous wave greets him in response. "Heya!" Lena offers, her usual exuberance tempered by a hesitant edge. "Probably didn't expect me here." She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, a tremulous smile playing at her lips. "I sent a text, but you might not have seen it."

Brian's gaze remains steady and unwavering as the seconds stretch between them. "Oh, I've been a bit busy," he finally responds, distraction coloring his tone.

Lena's fingers fidget restlessly at her sides. "Aren't ya gonna invite me in?" She tries for a lighthearted lilt, but the question emerges strained, her nerves palpable.

A flush creeps up Brian's neck as realization dawns. "Oh yeah, sorry." He takes a small step back, creating just enough space for Lena to slide past him. The brief contact as she brushes beneath his arm sends a fresh wave of heat blooming across his cheeks. He gives a slight shake of his head, as if to clear the haze of his thoughts.

Once inside, Lena's eyes eagerly drink in her surroundings, a childlike sense of wonder momentarily breaking through her apprehension. "Wow, this place is much bigger on the inside!" Her gaze is instantly drawn to the cluttered countertop, laden with bowls and an array of cooking ingredients. "Making a spot of lunch?" she inquires, gesturing toward the disarray.

Brian follows her line of sight, his expression turning pensive as he moves to retrieve the tray of fish-shaped pastries, depositing them in the oven with practiced ease. Straightening, he grabs for his phone, thumbing it on to find the unread text from Lena that he had missed. A fleeting look passes over his features, something indecipherable flickering in his eyes as he's reminded of his earlier confrontation with his father. Glancing up, he finds the man in question has conveniently slipped away, the space oddly vacant.

"So we kinda need to talk," Lena declares, her voice pitched low as she perches herself on a barstool at the counter's edge.

Brian remains standing, his shoulders squaring imperceptibly as he meets her gaze across the granite expanse separating them. "Yeah, we do," he agrees, the words emerging hushed yet laden with weight.

A weighted silence stretches between them, pregnant with all the things left unspoken. Lena seems content to let Brian dictate the pace of the conversation, refraining from further comment as she awaits his lead.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Brian speaks. "I've been trying to text you to ask about what happened." His words are measured, carefully doling out just enough to convey the turmoil churning beneath the surface. "And I know you're reading them, so why not answer?"

Lena's fist clenches and unclenches at her side, a nervous tic betraying her unease. "Things have been a bit complicated," she offers by way of explanation, but the platitude rings hollow even to her own ears.

Brian's brow furrows minutely at the vague response. "What?"

Lena hesitates, struggling to find the words to elaborate. "I..." She falters, grasping for a reasonable excuse. "I don't want to get into it, but there's just some drama, and I didn't want to involve you."

Her words are met with a derisive scoff that Brian can't quite stifle in time. "That's not really an explanation," he counters, frustration edging into his tone. "Listen, I don't remember anything from the dinner, and I've been beating myself up over it because you just kind of ghosted me. I was scared that I had said or done something to mess things up."

Surprise flits across Lena's features, her eyes widening fractionally. "You can't remember anything?"

Brian shakes his head, a troubled crease forming between his brows. "I don't," he confirms, dragging a weary hand over his face. "I just remember waking up somewhere I didn't recognize because I had to call someone to come get me. I couldn't get home by myself." He pauses, drawing in a steadying breath before continuing. "And if it's drama between you and Amélie or something else, I'm kind of involved since I'm your friend, Lena."

His gaze softens, the hard edge giving way to something more vulnerable as he struggles to find the right words. "I can tell you what happened, but I didn't want you to get involved with something that wasn't any of your business."

Brian repeats her words back to her, incredulity lacing every syllable. "Involved with something that's none of my business?"

Without warning, his hand moves to grasp the collar of his shirt, tugging the fabric down to reveal a large, mottled bruise marring the skin at the base of his neck. It extends up onto his shoulder in an angry, splotchy discoloration. "I got this that night, and I don't know what it's from," he states, his voice low and hauntingly calm despite the gravity of his words. "For a week, all I knew was that someone might have punched me or I might have gotten drunk, and someone..."

He trails off, the unfinished thought hanging heavy between them. Lena's eyes seem transfixed on a spot beside the bruise, where a quarter-sized scar is branded into his flesh. Brian tenses, panic flashing across his features as he quickly releases his grip on the shirt, allowing the fabric to resettle and hide the wound from view.

"I just want to know what happened," he implores, his desperate confusion finally bleeding into the tremor of his voice. "But it's almost like everyone's agreed to just not tell me anything."

The tension between them amplifies as Lena's gaze is drawn to the marred scar beside the bruise. "What's the scar from?" she asks, her usually buoyant tone subdued by a thread of genuine concern.

Brian's brow knits together as the question registers, confusion flickering across his features. "What?"

Lena's focus remains fixed on the quarter-sized mark, the words seeming to emerge from a place of deep-seated trepidation. "The scar. What's it from?"

A muscle ticks in Brian's jaw as he tenses. When he responds, his voice is tight, constricted. "It doesn't matter. Listen, d-don't change the subject." His attempt at staying calm is undermined by the nervousness bleeding into his words, a discomfort rippling through him as his mind is pulled back to the still-hazy memory surrounding the scar's origin.

Sensing the sharp shift in his demeanor, Lena shifts almost reflexively in her seat, a subtle recalibration as she refocuses their dialogue. "Listen, there was wine," she begins, treading with care over the treacherous terrain of that night's missing fragments. "We all drank some with dinner and-"

The mention of wine acts as a trigger, jarring loose a fleeting memory in the recesses of Brian's mind. The images unfurl in a series of flashes - himself standing in front of a bedroom mirror, Lena's form sprawled across the bed behind him, a bottle of wine cradled loosely in her grasp as her lips move, her words indistinct yet etched into that memory.

His hand rises, fingers pressing against his temple as if to ease the mental whiplash. "Why was there a bedroom?" The bewildered question tumbles from his lips, his voice laced with desperation.

Lena stills, her expression suddenly guarded as she picks up on the undercurrent of Brian's escalating nervousness. A pregnant pause stretches between them before she responds, her words precisely measured. "I thought you said you couldn't remember anything."

"It's coming back to me," Brian insists, his eyes widening incrementally as he turns a questioning gaze back toward Lena. A feverish intensity has crept into his manner, fueled by the emergence of his memories. "Why were we in a bedroom?"

Lena's focus appears to turn inward as her gaze drops, her fingers fidgeting restlessly against her palms. The silence that stretches between them is finally broken by a small, careful exhale as she seems to find her footing once more.

"I was just showing you to the bathroom," she begins in a tone of forced lightness, "and we had a conversation. I told you this story about Angela and me."

Brian's nod of acknowledgment is slow, measured, as he allows the trickle of resurfacing memories to take firmer shape. "Okay," he prompts after a beat, his voice hushed yet insistent. "What happened next?"

The expectant hush that falls over them is punctuated only by the faintest sounds of their mingled breaths. Lena seems to war internally for several long moments before finally offering a small, tight-lipped smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"After that, you big dummy," she murmurs, the words almost fond despite their underpinning of strain, "you spilled some wine on yourself and had to leave."

A pang of uncertainty, sharp and insistent, lances through Brian's chest as a fleeting glimpse of haunting golden eyes flashes through the periphery of his memories. His throat works convulsively as he struggles to maintain his composure.

"You're being honest, right?" The naked vulnerability bleeding into his softly spoken words is nearly palpable, hanging heavily between them.

Lena's gaze remains steady, unwavering, as she offers a solemn nod of affirmation. "I told you I'd tell you the truth," she reminds him, echoing the sentiment of their earlier conversation in the park with quiet conviction. "You get me, right?"

Brian feels his face flush as his mind whiplashes back to that shared moment, the recollection jarring yet grounding in its familiarity. He searches Lena's expression - the small, disarmingly perfect smile curving her lips, the openness reflected in her upturned features - and gives a slight, infinitesimal dip of his chin in acquiescence.

"Yeah."

The shrill chime of the oven timer shatters the tension blanketing the room. Brian turns toward the sound, his movements brisk yet almost mechanically precise as he retrieves the pastries from the tray and transfers them into a waiting Tupperware container.

"I have to deliver these," he explains, the undercurrent of nervous energy driving his actions almost palpable. Yet when he glances back toward Lena, his gaze holds for a heavy pause, weighted by a flood of warring emotions. "But Lena..." he murmurs, the gratitude underpinning his words colored by a lingering worry. "Thanks for explaining what you can. It helps."

The tight smile he offers is a mere shadow of his usual warmth as he continues in a hushed rush. "Think you can see yourself out? I kind of got to get there quickly. It's a long drive."

Lena's nod is equally subdued as she rises from her perch. "I can see myself out, kiddo," she assures him, the fondness in her tone subtly undercut by a current of sadness. "You drive safe, okay?"

With a final exchanged wave, weighted by everything left unspoken, Brian takes his leave, the door closing firmly in his wake with a resonant sense of finality.

Alone in the eerily silent apartment, Lena makes her way toward the balcony in a daze, her steps leaden as she leans her weight against the rails. Her unfocused gaze drifts outward, sweeping over the sprawling cityscape without truly seeing as her thoughts drift inward.

Down on the bustling street below, Brian crosses toward his waiting hoverbike with purposeful strides. He slides the helmet into place with practiced ease, the familiar motions grounding him as he engages the powerful engine. The comforting thrum of the machinery reverberates through him, steadying his nerves as his gaze instinctively lifts toward the balcony.

Lena's silhouette is clearly visible as she offers him a brief, farewell wave, the movement subdued, almost robotic. Something sharp and insistent twists in Brian's gut as flashes of haunting golden eyes sear through his mind, the visceral tremors of fear that had gripped him that night nearly overwhelming in their visceral potency.

"She lied," he reminds himself, the words carrying the weight of frustration as he tears his gaze away from Lena's form.

The tranquil atmosphere of the balcony is disrupted as Royal's imposing figure appears, leaning his weight against the guard rail. His gaze sweeps over the sprawling cityscape below before he clears his throat, a deliberate sound that instantly commands Lena's full attention.

"Mr. Wiser, I don't think we've met yet," she greets, her tone friendly as she extends her hand in welcome.

Royal's eyes flit to her outstretched hand with clear disinterest, not making any move to reciprocate the gesture. His arms remain firmly crossed over his broad chest. "You aren't what I imagined, to be honest," he remarks, his deep voice carrying a hint of skepticism.

Shifting his stance, Royal leans back slightly, his penetrating stare fixed on Lena. "A few weeks ago, Brian said he got a girl's phone number," he begins, the words drawn out and measured. "He seemed really upbeat about things. He's been going out more lately." A faint crease forms between Royal's brows. "And even if I think he should be focusing more on school, he's been happier."

A small, unconscious smile tugs at the corners of Lena's mouth at the mention of Brian's improved spirits. However, the subtle curve of her lips does little to thaw Royal's guarded expression as his gaze bores into her.

"Something irks me," he states flatly, the words hanging heavy in the air between them.

With a slight push off the railing, Royal closes the distance separating them, his towering frame seeming to loom over Lena as she instinctively shifts her weight. "My son came home a week ago with a bruise on his shoulder," he continues, his voice adopting a harder edge. "While he reeked of alcohol. He's never touched it in his life."

Royal pauses, his stern features tight with barely restrained emotion. "And frankly, I don't think he would have unless he was goaded by someone into it." His eyes narrow imperceptibly. "The bruise could have been a hickey, but I've messed around a lot in my time, and I've never seen a hickey perfectly shaped like one's palm before."

Lena meets Royal's intense, scrutinizing stare from behind the tinted lenses of her sunglasses, the glare obscuring her eyes. "I don't understand," she responds, confusion lacing her tone.

Royal's jaw tightens minutely. "I think you lied about what happened," he accuses, each word clipped and precise. "I'm not sure why, but if you are lying and you hurt my son..." He trails off, drawing in a deep, steadying breath through flared nostrils as he visibly reins in the swell of anger welling up inside.

When he continues, his voice is low and weighted with an unspoken threat. "He's a good kid. Been through enough trouble for someone twice his age." Royal takes another step forward, fully closing the distance as he towers over Lena. "If you're just going to string him on or get him into more trouble, do me and him a favor and get lost. I'm sure you can see yourself out."

With those parting words hanging heavy in the air, Royal turns on his heel and strides back through the balcony door, leaving Lena rooted in place. Alone on the balcony, her stomach twists with a sickening sense of unease.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

70-80k CELEBRATION Q AND A ANSWERS! AND 4th WALL BREAK

Hello everyone its me the author! If this was a comic imagine I was at a podium but since the release of the 70K special I have been compiling the questions from every comment people have asked about the story, the characters, the action!

Here are some of the compiled questions.

"Why are there so many coincidences?"

Will Brian become stronger and or learn to fight?"

". Whats going on with mercy she seems weirdly clingy to someone shes supposedly never met?

Let's get into the answers!

The sharp crack of the ruler against the blackboard slices through the classroom air, an authoritative demand for attention from the golden-haired teacher at the front. With practiced strokes of chalk, she meticulously jots down a series of questions, the scratching sounds punctuating each measured movement.

In the front row, a young man with attentive blue eyes watches her intently, his pencil poised over a scrap of paper, ready to transcribe her every word. "You, in the front row. Brian Wiser!" The teacher's finger extends in an accusing point over the class.

Brian snaps to rigid focus at the sound of his name. "Yes, Miss Angela?" he responds, back ramrod straight.

Another resounding thwack of the ruler against the desktop cuts through the hushed silence. "I will answer this question," Angela declares, her tone brooking no argument. "And you will answer the next one."

"Yes, ma'am!" The words tumble from Brian's lips in an reflexive affirmation, a crisp nod accompanying them.

To his right, a young woman pulls a dangling pink earbud free with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "Calm down, weirdo," Hana chides with a lopsided smirk. "It's not life or death."

"Hana, it's the 80k special," Brian insists, leaning in conspiratorially as if imparting a vital secret. "We have to impress the readers, or the author will be struck by lightning."

Hana arches one delicately shaped brow in patent skepticism. "Who told you that?"

Before Brian can respond, another voice cuts through the tense quiet like the crack of a whip. "It's the rules!"

They both turn to find Lena lounging in her seat behind Brian's, one booted foot kicked up onto the chair before her. The oversized blue varsity jacket draped casually over her t-shirt lends an air of studied nonchalance. She leans forward, the fabric parting to reveal a teasing grin. "I'm serious, look at Ernest Hemingway. He got in like two plane crashes in a week or something because a bunch of people thought he was weird."

Slowly pivoting in his seat to face her, Brian's brow furrows in patent dubiousness. "Who told you that?"

With an easy shrug, Lena pulls out her ever-present phone and waves it aloft. "It was on one of the Google doodles."

"Mr. Wiser!" Angela's voice rings out again in sharp reprimand. "Eyes forward!"

Instantly, Brian swivels to face the front once more, his shoulders instinctively squaring under her censuring glare. With a deft motion, Angela perches her glasses on the bridge of her nose and raises the ruler in a silent demand for quiet attention.

"Now," she begins, her voice a study in practiced lecturing. "To answer the question of coincidences..." She pauses deliberately, letting the implications linger before continuing her thought. "The reason so many characters are in San Francisco, where the story takes place, has two answers. One real answer, and one...lore-friendly answer."

Leaning back slightly, Angela launches into an expansive narrative, "For the lore-friendly explanation - after the second year of the Omnic Crisis, key cities were hit by targeted EMP attacks prior to Null Sector's invasion. The goal, of course, was to destroy vital infrastructure and communication lines with the military by shutting down things like aircraft and radar systems."

Her gaze takes on a considering weight as she paces before the blackboard, the ruler tapping an idle cadence against her palm. "But due to the unique nature of omnics, most if not all are immune to the effects of conventional EMPs. This made them incredibly useful tools for hostile takeovers while minimizing the collateral damage to the omnic forces. As you know New York was utterly destroyed leading to refugees finding their way west to places like Texas and California. Brian, Royal and Peter being people who managed to make their way west in a refugee convoy to get to San Fransisco which was one of the most populated cities on the continent."

A slight frown creases Brian's features as he considers her words. "Kinda dumping my crybaby backstory here," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. "I don't even think Lena and Hana, or you for that matter, know any of that in canon yet."

Behind him, Lena leans forward with a wolfish grin, the motion causing her jacket to fall open and her slender form to press flush against the back of Brian's chair. "Keeping secrets, big boy? Ive got a few secrets for you too.. undress" she husks, her breath puffing in a warm caress against his nape.

A full-body shiver ripples through Brian, and he quickly scoots away from the source of that tantalizing distraction, fixing his attention fully on Angela's lecture once more.

"As for why the rest of the Overwatch members are situated in San Francisco," the instructor continues in a measured cadence. "Lena, as the official liaison between Overwatch and the United Nations, would need to be in close proximity to the UN regional headquarters there. While I live in the city due to the ready access to resources and facilities required for production of a second Caduceus staff."

Angela pauses, weighing her next words carefully. "Amélie and Hana are also present because Hana wished to–"

"I'll have you know that is spoiler territory!" The bespectacled Hana suddenly interjects, slamming both palms down on her desktop in a startling burst of emphasis.

"Ah yes," Angela concedes with a slight, chagrined incline of her head. "My mistake. Amélie came to San Francisco due to its proximity to an Overwatch facility where therapy and rehabilitation services would be readily accessible should she require them. Although..." A sly, enigmatic smile curves her lips as she trails off meaningfully. "There may have been another, more...personal reason for her relocation there as well. You see, Amélie still harbors certain lingering feelings for someone."

Raising one hand, Angela muffles a speculative giggle behind its cover. But the sound proves too much for Lena, who rockets up from her seat in a swirl of indignation.

"S-Shut it!" the younger woman sputters, face flushing a vivid crimson. "It's not like that! You're talking bloody nonsense!"

Once again, the thunderous crack of the ruler against the desktop cuts through the clamor, instantly restoring order.

"Now, now," Angela admonishes in a tone of long-suffering patience. "As for the real-life reason behind the San Francisco setting..."

Her expression takes on a warmly rueful caste as she lapses into an indulgent, self-aware 4th wall break, detailing how the entire narrative concept can be traced back to the ill-fated first draft penned when the author was 16.

"In that version," she reveals in an aside to the captive audience, "Brian here was actually an employee at the movie studio I owned. A stuntman of sorts, working as the stuntman about a movie chronicling the life of Genji."

Brian stares down at his hands, looking distinctly discomfited by this revelation of his fictional history. "Yeah," he mutters with a grimace. "And apparently, it was much more raunchy..." He trails off with a weary exhalation and shake of his head.

"Oh, you mean the part where you got fondled by Hana and Mei in a photobooth?" Lena supplies with an impish grin, utterly unperturbed by the furious glare he shoots her way.

"Shut up!" Hana cries, punctuating the demand by whipping a heavy textbook across the room. The projectile sails harmlessly over Lena's head, embedding itself in the wall with a dull thud.

"Let's not forget the weird subplot about Brian learning French...from Pharah, of all people," Angela continues in a musing tone, shaking her head in fond bemusement at the youthful indulgences of her past self. "That one, ah...certainly went somewhere interesting, to say the least." Her porcelain complexion takes on a rosy hue at some recollection left unspoken. "Although if I recall, I was considered more of a romantic interest for Brian in those early chapters. In fact, by chapter fifteen, if memory serves, the two of us had already..."

Her voice trails off delicately as she buries her rapidly reddening face in her hands, unable or unwilling to continue that salacious train of thought.

"Yeah," Brian interjects with a grimace, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Because apparently you drugged me with something. I'm honestly glad things changed from that first, uh, iteration."

Only then does he notice Angela murmuring something under her breath, her words muffled yet still audible from between her fingers. "...and some things stay the same..."

"What was that?" Brian can't help but press,

"Nothing," she finally dismisses with a practiced wave of her hand, smoothly transitioning back into lecturer mode. "Anyway, as I was saying...the real-life reason for choosing San Francisco as the setting mostly boiled down to pragmatism."

Squaring her shoulders, Angela begins to pace before the blackboard once more, the familiar motions seemingly helping to ground her after that momentary lapse of composure.

"You see, when it came time for the author to actually pen this redux, there were copious publicly available maps and resources for the San Francisco area." She punctuates her words with a few crisp gestures of the ruler, using it to emphasize key points. "That level of detail made it an ideal place to set the narrative. If a scene called for a coffee shop or bowling alley, for instance, chances were good that an actual establishment fitting the bill could be easily referenced."

Brian rises to his feet. All eyes turn toward him as he straightens, seeming to draw an intangible mantle of authority around himself.

"Guess this next one's on me," he begins, squaring his shoulders as he reads the query. "'Will I become stronger or learn to fight?'"

A wry chuckle escapes his lips as he considers the question. "I'm not great at fighting or physical stuff really. When I went running with Lena, I kinda was out of breath after only a few blocks." He shrugs in a self-effacing manner. "And I mean, I can fight in VR, but in VR you don't get tired or really have to control your balance. You don't need to be strong since the game will make you as strong as your item or weapon."

To illustrate his point, Brian steps away from his desk and attempts a kick, putting his full weight behind the motion...only to immediately lose his balance and land flat on his backside with a dull thud. A peal of laughter bursts from Hana's lips at the inelegant display.

"Yeah, in VR stuff you kinda move quickly and like a brute," she manages between giggles. "But in a real fight, if you tried that stuff I think you'd die."

Groaning softly, Brian rubs at the base of his spine, shooting Hana a halfhearted glare. "Maybe if you actually learned how to fight, you'd be able to beat me in VR stuff," she counters with a smirk.

In response, Brian sticks out his tongue in a childish taunt. Hana, ever game, immediately mirrors the expression right back at him.

Huffing out an exaggerated sigh, Brian gingerly regains his feet and returns to his seat with as much dignity as he can muster. "I could fight well if I wanted to," he insists, unable to resist getting in the last retort. "But I don't really like being angry, so I'd rather just have fun instead of going all out."

"You should learn to fight like this guy at regionals," Hana presses, undeterred. "He was really cool, kicked everyone's ass in like two minutes flat per round."

An audible scowl contorts Brian's features at her description as he pointedly averts his gaze. "I hate that type of guy," he mutters darkly.

Sensing she's struck a nerve, Hana leans back with a distinctly self-satisfied smile curving her lips. The silent exchange stretches out between them before Angela finally clears her throat, drawing the class's attention back to the front.

"Now, now," she interjects in her professorial tone, eyes skimming over the next inquiry. As she reads it, the faintest of frowns creases her brow before she smooths her features once more with a subtle throat clearing. "What about this next one..."

Her voice trails off as she lingers over the question, seeming to weigh how best to field this particular conversational gambit.

A tense hush descends over the classroom as Angela considers the next query, her brow furrowing ever so slightly as she weighs her response. When she finally speaks, her tone carries a weighty solemnity that commands the rapt attention of every student.

"This next one requires some self-awareness," she begins, casting a meaningful look in Brian's direction. "And I don't particularly believe that it is a simple thing that can be answered definitively."

Under the weight of her studious gaze, a flush creeps up Brian's neck, staining his cheeks with a vivid crimson hue. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat as Angela continues in an even, measured cadence.

"If you look back at the chapters and really pay attention to the small details regarding my narrative..." Her lips quirk in the faintest of enigmatic smiles. "Things like whenever Brian appears, or how I remember certain events and interactions. Like with Cole Cassidy, for instance."

A significant pause follows as she allows the implication to linger in the charged air between them all. "The narrative thread with Reinhardt will play into this sometime in the future. But if you really want something damning..." Angela's gaze intensifies as it locks onto Brian's. "Go back and research the name written on the inside of the coat Brian wakes up wearing in one of the early chapters. And revisit the scene where he first appears and offers me a bottle of water."

A quiet murmur ripples through the captive audience as they digest the potential ramifications of her words. Angela waits for it to ebb before pressing on in that same, unhurried cadence.

"The most recent chapter being referenced here contains a single line of dialogue that I share with Cole," she reveals, letting the detail hang enticingly in the air before adding one last tantalizing tidbit. "It might also connect with the storyline I have in mind regarding the reviving other characters."

With that loaded statement hanging like a lead weight over the classroom, Angela rises languidly from her seat and moves to perch on the edge of Brian's desk. She crosses her legs with studied nonchalance, the practiced move drawing every eye as she leans in toward the flustered young man.

"I can explain it even more," she murmurs in a tone thick with unspoken promises, "if you stay after class for a...one-on-one study session."

The blatant insinuation has Brian's blush deepening to a vivid scarlet as he immediately backtracks. "I-I gotta return some video tapes," he stammers out, the excuse emerging in a strangled rush. "Sorry!"

Before he can extricate himself further, he feels the slender weight of Lena's arms encircling his torso from behind in a warm, intimate embrace. Her chin comes to rest on his shoulder as she leans in with a shameless grin.

"I'd be happy to help out with some...private tutoring, if you need it, babe," she husks, her breath puffing in a tantalizing caress against the side of Brian's neck.

The combination of Angela's heated innuendo and Lena's boldly amorous display proves too much for the flustered young man. With an inarticulate squeak of distress, Brian shoots upright and out of the classroom without a backward glance, his hasty retreat punctuated by Lena's lilting peal of laughter chasing him down the hallway.