#But after new evidence I have now decided he will get the punniest name ever

[alphawave-writes]

Evil actions and good intentions chapter 12: Earthshine

Synopsis: The newly reformed Overwatch and its new recruits, Harold Winston and Sigma, 

Read it here on find it on AO3. You guys can find me on twitter or in my Sigma/Harold discord server. If you want to support me, buy me a ko-fi or commission a work from me

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Harold never thought he’d be back here, but here he is, staring at the Xichang Satellite Launch Center again. It hasn’t changed all that much since the last time he saw it, back when he was to board Chang’e 50 to get back up to the moon. It gives him a strange sense of nostalgia as he watches this new, smaller spacecraft, aglow with a million lights, engineers and technicians preparing it for its flight. News crews are all here with their cameras pointing at the spacecraft, waiting on bated breath for the moment it launches up into the sky and disappears from sight. Everywhere Harold looks, everybody is talking about it. The world’s first lunar rescue mission. A race against time. A historic moment in the making.

And he has to go up there and literally steal the spacecraft for himself, the very man they think is trapped on the moon.

As people watch Hou Yi 1 get prepared, Harold sneaks in through the engineer side. He taps at his temple, briefly getting an x-ray glimpse at everybody else’s position. Genji and Symmetra are making their preparations at the side of the building while Tracer and Lucio are in the crowd, hiding in plain sight. Brigitte and Reinhardt and Lucio are waiting on the airship with Winston, ready to help in the charge if needed. That just leaves him and Siebren to find a way onto the spacecraft.

Harold tugs uncomfortably at the cap on his head. “I hate hats,” he grumbles.

“I know you don’t like hats, but you have to keep it together. We cannot afford to blow our cover now.”

For the purposes of infiltration, Siebren and Harold had to get disguises. For Harold, all it took was a change in his hairstyle, but for Siebren they had to go one step further. Apparently, Mei had a lot of fun putting make-up on Siebren, hiding his wrinkles and making him look younger. A cheap wig was considered, but it was ultimately decided that he looked less like himself with his bald head. Siebren, of course, had no idea how to respond to such a comment.

“Sigma, are you there?” Harold hears Winston’s voice crackle from his ear piece.

“Sigma, present and in position.”

“Good. Charon?”

Harold can’t help but smile a little. The codename is probably unnecessary, but he has to admit, he can see why Siebren’s so attached to his own. It’s another life to breathe beneath his skin. Another little mask to hide behind. “Charon here, with Sigma,” he said.

“Everybody is in position,” Winston says.” If all goes absolutely well, you might be able to get into the spacecraft without any trouble, but the chances of that are unlikely at best. Most likely, you will have to fight some guards off. We still don’t know what Talon has in store.”

“Talon has resources, but even they have difficulty in acquiring resources when it comes to space travel,” Siebren says. “I only rescued Har—Charon on their behalf because they managed to scrounge up the necessary parts for an abandoned spacecraft and secure a private air yard, and apparently that took well over a year’s worth of effort. I very much doubt they have the resources to get up to the moon by themselves. They need this mission to go smoothly.”

Winston hums in thought. “Symmetra, do you think Lucheng might have connections to Vishkar or Talon?”

“I cannot speak for Talon, but I can assure you that we have petitioned to collaborate with Lucheng Interstellar on numerous occasions, and each time we have been turned down. They have been unwilling to see the true potential of hard light in space colonization.”

“So the answer is no,” Winston says.

Satya lets out a quiet sigh before saying, “Correct. There are currently no ties between Lucheng and Vishkar. None that I am aware of.”

“Ladies and Gents, the show is starting,” Tracer announces. “Everybody ready? We gotta time this distraction perfectly, and then the show is on!”

All around him, men and women and omnics in identical uniforms do their final checks on Hou Yi 1. Each person is designated one specific thing on the spacecraft to double-check. Nobody seemed to glance twice at Harold or Siebren, to his relief. Disguising themselves as Vishkar guards was definitely a stroke of genius on his part, even if he has to force himself to wear a hat throughout the ordeal.

Harold’s eyes catch on the walkway above him, where the astronauts will enter. Through the ear pieces, Harold can hear a smattering of polite clapping. In the reflection of the glass, he can see Lucheng Interstellar’s presentation for himself, projecting through the news cameras. Within seconds he sees a projected portrait of his younger self. The CEO was speaking now, making some grand speech. Unlike last time, neither Moira nor Sanjay Korpal could be seen behind him. Instead, it was the small crew of astronauts chosen to pilot the space craft.

His eyesight still wasn’t that good even with the nanobots partially correcting his vision, but he could vaguely make out the astronauts’ faces. They were all young, wide-eyed Chinese men and women who looked like they’d rather be anywhere but at the press conference. It wasn’t too different from his own first mission up to the moon, nervous as hell, just waiting for everything to hurry up.

By Harold’s side, Siebren frowns deeply.

“What’s wrong?” Harold asks.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” he murmured. “Something is wrong.”

Harold is about to open his mouth to ask how, but then he heard a terrifying sound. It isthe noise of the universe, the gaping maw before the black hole threatening to swallow the world whole, the calm piano arpeggios before the storm. He stares at Siebren wide-eyed, lips tight in morbid understanding.

And then he hears the screams.

Behind him, he sees the omnic workers jolt and jitter, their eyes shining red in warning. They grab the workers and beat them up or throw them away. Siebren begins to float up, toeing away his shoes, hyperspheres forming in his hands before he flings them at the nearest omnic. Almost immediately, the omnics all turn not to Siebren but to Harold himself, red lights sparkling with resolution.

“Jade Hare…” they say in unison.

Harold takes the jet injector out from its hiding place, switches it on, and pulls the trigger. Bolts of lightning flash and flicker, zapping at all the omnics who dare come close, making them fall down one by one. With a grunt, Harold tosses his hat away and runs away before the cameras can pick up his face.

“Change of plans,” Harold calls into the communicator. “Omnics are on us. We have to break for the ship now.”

“We’re on our way,” Winston cries. “Everyone, they’re on the attack. Change to plan B: we have to hijack the spacecraft.”

“I should be able to hack into the computer systems from here, but I’ll need help,” Symmetra says.

“I will watch her back,” Genji says.

“People haven’t noticed yet, but the omnics are acting real fishy. Me and Lucio’ll cause a distraction, Tracer style,” Tracer says.

Harold almost doesn’t see the omnic rushing straight at him, but it explodes before his eyes with a well-placed volley by Siebren. His lips curl into a frown. “Pay attention,” Siebren says.

“I will, don’t worry,” Harold says.

As he runs, he shrugs the Vishkar uniform off to reveal the Overwatch uniform underneath. With a grunt, Harold connected the jet injector to his backpack, sighing when he felt the nanobots begin to activate, flowing out of his veins, into the backpack and filling the vial of the jet injector. Siebren shrugged his own uniform out, the heavier plates of his armour floating over his shoulders.

There’s a smaller contingent of omnic guards in front of them. They outnumber them, but Siebren summons a barrier in front of them to block the bullets. Harold runs forward, letting the lightning rip through their systems while Siebren launches volleys of hyperspheres as cover fire. When a bullet grazes Siebren’s armour and draws blood, Harold switches the mode of the jet injector and points the trigger at Siebren, a stream of nanobots healing Siebren’s wound in an instant.

When the final omnic guard falls to its knees, Harold’s earpiece crackles again. “We’re on-route to your position,” Winston cries.

“The press sure is loving us,” Tracer cries. The sounds of gunfire and more screams can faintly be heard. Some up-tempo nu-techno song is playing faintly in the background.

“The spotlight loves us as well,” Lucio laughs.

“Where do we go, champ?” Harold asks Winston.

“You’ll have to go to the main hall and backstage. The stairs up to the spacecraft is there.” The comms crackles off.

“Let’s hope this distraction goes as planned,” Siebren grumbles to himself. “This mission is ruined if people realise who you are.”

“They won’t,” Harold says as his eyes begin to glow gold. “I’m not the man I used to be.”

“No,” Siebren laughs. “You’ve got just the right amount of him.”

They enter the building and go through the winding hallways of the staff areas. It’s fortunately empty, apart from the few fleeing staff members, but they are too busy escaping to give them any heed. When they get to the end, Siebren uses his powers to shove the doors open. Harold stops in his tracks at the sight before him. Everybody has already fled, leaving only Tracer, Lucio, and their attackers. Reaper and Moira are here with an army of omnics supporting them, launching their own offensive. The giant screen that used to show Harold’s younger face now displays a very familiar sugar skull icon.

It’s a nightmare come true. Talon is here.

Tracer and Lucio are fast, trying their hardest to fight, but no matter how many hits they can dish out, it all gets healed up in an instance by Moira’s biotic orb or by Reaper’s abnormal healing. But Reaper and Moira are too slow in trying to fight them. It’s literally a battle of speed versus attrition.

“We have to help them,” Harold says.

“We can’t. We don’t have much time.”

Above their heads is a few smaller screens, each connected to a different news channel. On the corner of each of the screens is a countdown for the spacecraft’s imminent launch. One by one, the countdown decreases dramatically from one hour to ten minutes. On screen, the astronauts are hurriedly putting on their spacesuits, making their hasty final checks.

In front of him, Tracer and Lucio are slowing down, losing their speed. Reaper and Moira also look tired, but not nearly tired enough. Moira’s blackened hand reaches out for Lucio, sapping the life away from him. They’re distracted. He can slip past, get to the spacecraft, and finish the mission. This will all be for nothing if Harold doesn’t get on the spacecraft. But he also wants to help them. He sees Siebren’s jaw clench, the same thought going through his head.

“I’ll see you in hell,�� Reaper growls, pointing a shotgun square at Lucio’s face.

The blast goes off but Lucio is still standing and alive. Siebren is in front of him, absorbing the energy round and dispersing them into dust. Harold quickly moves to join him, a small stream of nanobots healing Lucio before he flicks the gun back to attack mode as Tracer escorts Lucio out. In the corner of his eye he sees Siebren give a fleeting little smile before staring down his new foes. Harold does his best not to smile too wide.

“You two have been a real pain on my backside,” Reaper growls.

“Dr. Winston,” Moira sneers. “I shouldn’t be surprised you have picked an organization such as Overwatch to protect you, but I am surprised with you, Sigma. I thought you were more intelligent than that.”

“The purpose of my work was always to build a better future,” Siebren declares. “Giving myself up to this cause is not injudicious.”

“And you think you did not have a purpose with Talon? We saw who you really are, that is why we set you free. We’ve cultivated your mind, your abilities. Overwatch has undermined brilliance in the past, and they will do it again. It’s a place of stagnation, where great minds go to die. Do you honestly think a change of leaders will not bring up the same issues?”

Siebren doesn’t speak, the hyperspheres flickering slightly, growing darker. His lips dip for just a second.

“You don’t belong with them. You belong in a different environment, where you can grow without restriction, where no one can judge you for the way that you think.” She glances coldly at Harold. “Where you are not led astray by those who don’t know what your best interests truly are.”

Harold can hear the hitch in Siebren’s throat, quiet but unmistakable. He feels those ocean blue eyes upon his body, breaking down his body molecule by molecule, trying to find the nonexistent needle in the haystack. He doesn’t dare turn his head and give Siebren the benefit of the doubt. He can’t hesitate now. All he can do is keep his weapon trained on Reaper and Moira.

“Dr. Winston doesn’t speak because he knows it’s the truth,” Moira continues. “He’s using you. You just don’t realise it.”

“And you didn’t use me?” Siebren spits.

“Perhaps, but we never mislead you. We’ve always wanted to help you develop your research and your abilities.” Moira turns to Harold. “Can you say the same, Dr. Winston?”

“All you care about is what he can do, not the person himself. You don’t care about his well-being. You don’t care about how he feels about this violence.”

“You’re not answering the question,” Moira smirks. “Might as well be an admission of your guilt.”

“And let you twist my words even more?” Harold asks.

Harold turns his head just a bit only to find Siebren stare blankly in front of him. He’s glancing between Moira and Harold, eyes wide, a myriad of emotions flickering and scintillating. Then, they narrow, and those ocean blue eyes turn cold as ice. With a wave of his hand, he lowers the barrier and floats forward.

“Siebren?”

He does not react as he joins Reaper and Moira’s side, his head ducked in submission. Moira’s smile is wide, a curious mix between glee and cruelty. Siebren only spares a single knowing glance in Harold’s direction. Harold’s eyes widen.

“Perhaps we should restart your mental conditioning. For now, I’ll let you decide if you want to fight or not.”

“I think I will fight,” Siebren utters, his expression growing cruel, “but not for you!”

Siebren raises his hand and breaks the shackles of gravity, taking him and Reaper and Moira high in the air. He’s floating above them, the universe’s song playing for deaf ears, the back of his head glowing as he summons the hyperspheres into fruition. One hits Reaper in the side while the other barely misses Moira. Siebren grits his teeth as he slams their bodies down, but they both turn into mist just before they land. Siebren floats down to the ground beside Harold, summoning the barrier once again as a volley of shotgun pellets flies.

Moira tries to go forward, but electricity crackles from Harold’s jet injector, making her keep her distance. Reaper rushes forward, looking for an angle, but Siebren flickers the barrier in and out, tilting gravity to keep them away.

From the main entrance Harold hears the heavy thud of Reinhardt’s armoured footsteps approaching. Reaper turns to Moira, his voice tinged with annoyance. “We can’t stay.”

“Very well,” Moira huffs, and the two of them disappear in a cloud of smoke. Siebren tries to chase after them, but it’s far too late. They are gone without a trace. There’s no way they can catch them now.

Harold glances up at the countdown. Five minutes left. “We have to get to the spacecraft quick!”

Siebren grumbles to himself but nods sharply. He has stopped floating now, bare feet running on the floor as they head backstage and up the staircase. When they get to the top floor, the elevator next to them chimes. Winston, Genji, and Symmetra are there, rushing out behind them. There’s a new wave of Horizon guards in front of them, but together they cut them down to size easily.

“What’s the situation?” Harold asks.

“Reinhardt and Brigitte are at the front, distracting everybody,” Winston says. “Echo tried to hack into the spacecraft but she couldn’t. Athena tried as well and failed. We’ll have to launch it manually.”

“You know that’s impossible for Gen IV Lunar spacecrafts. I can’t fly it with Siebren alone.”

“That’s why I am coming along,” Winston says. “We’ll need all hands on deck.”

“You will require my assistance as well,” Symmetra adds. “I will not allow any more chaos or disruptions to this plan.”

“I’ll make sure no one gets into the spacecraft,” Genji says.

“But we need to get into the spacecraft ourselves and make sure they don’t activate the emergency kill switch from the control tower,” Harold says.

“Then we’ll just have to make sure we’re quick enough that they can’t activate it,” Siebren says.

They run through the hallway and into a giant room lined with glass windows. The astronauts are there, waving to the cameras but they stop in their tracks when they see them. They shout their orders in Mandarin, but Siebren curls his fingers and suspends them in the air like they’re ragdolls. They can’t do anything but speak, a litany of foul words escaping their mouths. “Bàoqiàn,” Harold smiles nervously as he rushes forward.

From the room he walks down the small runway to the spacecraft. In front of him he can see the interior of the spacecraft, which should lead up to the payload, where he can pilot with Siebren. For a moment, time is in slow motion as the lights of a thousand cameras flash onto him. As he turns his head to the glass walls, he sees his reflection staring back at him. Except it’s not really his reflection. There’s a trace of the man the public know as Harold Winston, but it’s overshadowed by someone else. A man he knows has been residing in his bones for decades. It is this man that is control, this hero that lives and breathes strength. The real Harold Winston.

He heads inside and makes his way to the payload area, getting into the front seat. The buttons and dials and switches are second nature to him, his hands moving fluidly as he gets everything prepared.

Outside he hears the sounds of a fight erupting, of bullets and blades dancing in a deadly ballet. Winston comes in soon, then Symmetra, taking their positions near the rear. Faintly, Harold hears Reinhardt’s sharp laugh of joy, and the unmistakable sound of a mace hitting a metal body.

“Where’s Sigma?” Winston asks.

Harold’s about to ask the same question when suddenly the controls all turn red. “Get him in here now! They’re already starting the emergency kill switch.”

“The guards have him trapped!” Symmetra calls. “We have to go now.”

“I literally can’t survive the trip without him. The G-force will kill me! We need him here!” Harold taps at his communicator. “Sig, you need to get yourself over here.”

“I’m…trying!” There’s a loud huff, as Siebren scrambles in, shutting the door behind him. There are rhythmic thumps as people try to hit and shoot at the door, but it remains stable. He quickly flies over to the seat next to Harold, strapping himself in. His fingers dance over the dashboard, his expression stoic in thought. “Engine temperatures?”

“We don’t have time,” Harold says. “We have to launch now before the emergency kill switch grounds us for good.”

Siebren begins to go through the motions, but is repeatedly stopped by a klaxon alarm. “It’s too late,” Siebren grumbles. “There’s nothing here that can stop it. We’ve failed.”

Just as Siebren says this, the red screen suddenly flickers in and out. In its place, a purple sugar skull appears. From Harold’s communicator, Harold hears a nasally, abrasive laugh. From the way Siebren jumps in his seat, it seems he’s the only one who can hear it.

“Ground Control to Major Tom. You really made the grade here.”

“Sombra?” Harold gasps.

“What? You thought I wouldn’t help you out? Shame, Dr. Winston, shame. Hey, can I call you Harold? Harry? I like the ring of Harry.”

The sugar skull symbol fades and the controls are back to normal. The roar of the engines is almost deafening. A computerized voice is counting down from twenty. Amidst the noise Harold laughs shrilly in relief.

“I’ll let you call me whatever you want if you can get us to the moon and back. I assume you want a favour after this?”

“Perhaps,” Sombra says, in a voice that made it very clear what her true intentions are, “but way later. You wanna pay me back now? Get back down alive and take some photos for me. Oh, and keep Sigma alive too.”

Harold turns to Siebren and smirks confidently. From his vantage point he can see everybody watches the spacecraft in morbid fascination. The countdown is ticking down. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.

“Ready to head back to the stars?” Siebren asks.

Five. Four. Three.

“You know what?” Harold says.

Two. One.

“I think I finally am.”

The spacecraft rattles and bobs. The engine gushes as it propels them upwards towards the sky. As they break through the atmosphere, the gravity engines kick in, the outer shell breaking away. As they get higher, the G-force gets almost overwhelming for Harold but he sees the plate behind Siebren’s head glow as he keeps the gravitational forces at bay. But even with Siebren’s help, it’s still a bit too much for his fragile body. He gets a glimpse of the Earth, wide and blue and glorious, and is able to give a weak smile before he falls unconscious.

When Harold finally wakes up, the spacecraft is already docking itself in Sector 06, right next to the Observatory. By his side, everybody else are preparing for their departure. He’s groggy, but it quickly fades away when he sees the Earth, once so near, now far away. Winston approaches him, nervous but trying his best not to appear it.

“We’re here,” he says.

Harold lets out a small smile as he grasps him tenderly on the shoulder. “No,” Harold replies. “We’re back home.”

They go through the standard decontamination process—Harold first, followed by Siebren, Symmetra, and finally Winston, who took the time to explain the process to her. The rooms are fortunately still sealed properly, as intel suggested. The number pad for many of the doors are malfunctioning and damaged, but the one to the Observatory still works. Harold places his hand on the scanner, and it opens with an audible swish.

Harold can’t help but gasp as he takes in the sight. It’s almost pristine, like it hasn’t changed at all. The Observatory doors are slightly open, the telescope facing directly at the Earth. While Winston shows Symmetra the telescope, Harold moves further ahead. Far on the other side, Harold’s office sits untouched, fake plants still green as ever, files in the same place he left them all these years ago. He walks over to his desk, his fingers catching on the framed photograph of himself and a baby Winston. His thumb trails over his younger face. He looked so innocent and naïve back then.

“I can’t even recognize myself,” he whispers.

“Harold?” Siebren asks.

He shakes his head lightly and places the photograph down. “Sorry. It’s just…it’s a lot. Being back here.”

“In a good way, or a bad way?”

“In a lot of different ways,” Harold utters. “This place was my home away from home, the stepping stone paving the way for the future of space travel. It’s tragic, seeing it all in ruins like this.”

“You are not the only one. I always thought this place was beautiful, and it still is, but it’s now so cold and empty. A husk of its former self.”

It’s more than that, Harold thinks, but if he says that out loud, Siebren will expect clarification, and Harold doesn’t think he can give Siebren clarification. He takes his old files and tucks them under his arm. The four of them meet up and they head out of the Observatory.

As they walk through the empty hallways, Harold can hear the faint noises of the apes and chimps, muttering behind closed doors. Outside the Observatory, he sees the extent of the rebellion’s destruction. Appliances in the Commissary are broken and rifled through, the peanut butter jars empty and smashed onto the ground. Furniture blocks many of the doors to the other sectors, while most of the personal rooms for the scientists have had their number pads smashed beyond repair.

He doesn’t know how to feel about seeing all this. He thought he was prepared, but it’s another thing altogether to see the gorilla paw prints on the door to Hammond’s room, schematics lying haphazardly on the floor. If he was any weaker than he was, he might cry, but he’s got a mission to complete and loved ones to support him. His hand reaches for Winston’s, squeezing softly.

“Where do we need to go?” Symmetra asks.

“The Hangar,” Harold says. “We need to shut down all the data and monitoring systems, so we need to get to the servers. From the Hangar, we can get there easily enough.”

“A little bit too late for that,” a voice says.

In the Training Facility, smiling cruelly, is a man that looks almost identical to Harold himself, but with some differences. Their clothes are the typical Horizon uniform with a lab coat on top, the sleeves rolled above their elbows—a complete contrast to Harold’s own Overwatch uniform. Their hair is in a similar haircut but slightly darker, giving a salt and pepper look. A rectangular pair of glasses framed the imposter’s face, no cybernetic implants or scars or tubes to wreak havoc over his skin. Even the eye colour was wrong, a dark blue rather than Harold's dark brown eyes. It’s like someone has used an age filter on a younger picture of Harold. This imposter is too clean, too perfect, but it's not an omnic or a robot. Only a human could ever smile like that, condescending and innocent all at the same time.

Harold doesn’t even hesitate raising his jet injector at the imposter, who immediately throws their hands up. He’s confused as to their weird actions, until he sees it. A camera, hidden in the corner of the room, red light blinking on and recording.

No, not just recording. Broadcasting. Thousands, if not millions, are probably watching this right now.

“Who are you?” Harold seethes.

The imposter smiles. “I’m Dr. Harold Winston,” he says, “and I believe you have been trying to steal my work, you imposter.”

Wide eyes fall on Harold's body but he ignores them all. He stares at his mirror image, an unspeakable rage clamming his throat shut, golden eyes staring down fake blue eyes.