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It began innocently enough.
Waking up after a mission on the dropship. Freja beside him, her thigh rested beside his.
“How many?” were the first words to leave his mouth.
They had to be. He had to know. He didn’t get to drift by that reality as if it didn’t concern him.
“Let’s talk about that later.”
“How many?” Emre snapped his eyes open. “How many this time?”
Freja’s breath cut off halfway through. “Six.”
He checked his remaining hand. No blood. Ranged kills, then.
“Were they quick?” He asked.
Her voice floated just above the rumble of the engines outside. “Yes.”
He pressed his head back against the headrest. He pressed the number into his head. Six. He imagined their faces. Featureless crying blobs. Too impersonal. He substituted them for his parents. For Freja. Imagined the bullets piercing through their brains with only a bloody trail to ever follow.
He could picture the splatters in perfect detail.
“How can you stand by me during this?” Emre asked.
“I manage.”
“How can you think I’m a good person?”
He looked at her, he looked at her, the freckles on her face and the braiding of her hair, and at the stern expression of her eyes.
“Because it’s not your fault and you know it.” She replied.
Freja, who never hesitated to cut others down where they stood. She herself was so often a victim of her words.
“You’re still trying. You haven’t given up. You’re still you,” she continued. She pressed her leg into his. “You’re a good person, Emre. You always have been.”
“Thank you,” he reached towards her before he could stop himself. “I. . . really needed to hear that.”
“Of course. Any time. What I’m here for. Right?”
“Thank you.” He relaxed his arm back down by his side.
His chest stopped clenching. His back relaxed into the seat. His throat opened up again and cold air helped soothe the rest within him. Instant clarity. Trusting himself was out of the question and had been for some time, but Freja?
He could always trust Freja to keep him on track, now couldn’t he?
It became part of the post-mission debrief.
How many?
Was it quick?
Are you sure I’m a good person?
The first two answers mattered. Of course they mattered. Emre forced himself to commit them to memory, picture the faces, imagine the families. He had to. Bare minimum of responsibility. But it was the last answer that returned him back to himself. The last chain of his captor wrenched off his wrists, and he became Emre again, and he could help Freja the way she helped him, with whatever small charm he could.
He would stay up at night thinking of better jokes to tell her, and he would actually fall asleep.
And then, when he woke up in the morning, pulse pounding in what remained of his flesh, cold sweat pouring down his face, her affirmations were the only barrier between himself and annihilation.
But some days there wasn’t a mission. Some days it was only himself, and Freja, in gilded red halls. Red opaque helmets and planning meetings, where methods to infiltrate the next target would spill from his mouth. Conversations in the mess hall that followed. He tried to interact with other human beings besides Freja, he did, he really did this time, even as they asked if he’d ever landed a hit on a former Overwatch colleague, or if he thought he could take ‘the gorilla’ in a fight.
And his nausea rose in his throat and his hands shook and the world would dissolve to a pinpoint upon returning to his quarters. He- he couldn’t, he needed-
He sprinted down to Freja’s door and knocked until she answered.
“I don’t think I’m a good person.” He walked in the moment the door slid open wide enough.
“Hey. Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I’m not- do you really think I’m all that good?”
“Of course I do. Not much other reason to stick around this dump.”
-and every wound-up thread in his chest would uncoil, allowing him to breathe.
It was more efficient to start the morning off by seeing her. He’d walk out his door, knock on hers as her alarm clock, and greet her with the best smile he could muster.
“I’m going to grab some breakfast. Want me to grab you something?”
Or, “I’m going to head to the practice range. Want to put a few shots in?”
She would either say yes or that she appreciated the offer. At minimum, he aimed for half a smile. At the maximum, she would say thanks for checking on me.
Proof that he was finally returning the favor. Proof that he was worth at least a fraction of the cost of his continued existence.
Until one morning, when Emre lifted his knuckles to her door, and it opened before he could touch the metal. Freja walked out and into his chest.
“Ah, sorry!” Emre smiled. He checked her balance before stepping back. “Looks like someone’s in a hurry.”
“I have a meeting this morning with leadership.” Freja replied in monotone.
“Ah, best get to it then. Can I grab you breakfast? Or maybe some earplugs, while I’m at it?”
“I have to go.”
Freja swerved around him and vanished down the hall.
He stood, blinking in front of her door. The door slid shut when he stepped back.
Must have been a really important meeting. Maybe Vendetta liked scheduling surprises to keep her operatives on their toes. Except no such meeting had ever been scheduled for him. Surely Mauga would’ve complained about similar, had it happened to him even once.
Then. . . maybe Freja was having a bad day. That must be it. Pulled a muscle, maybe. It was fine. He walked back to his door, then held up his knuckles to knock.
He laughed a little at his own expense, before punching the button and walking into his room. The activity list in here was small, but he’d managed. He always had.
He took a shower. Washed his hair, more like, as the rest of him was a puzzle he didn’t care to untangle right now. He turned the temperature to scalding, enough to warm him through the metal. If he held his arm at the right angle, he could watch the steam evaporating off it. He should show Freja some time. Or maybe she wouldn’t be interested.
He stayed in the shower until the tiny attached bathroom was foggy, then towel-dried by the wardrobe. Next was hairstyle. Cold gel against his fingers and the scent of cedar hanging above him. Freja always liked his hair teased up as high as she remembered. A bit of a pain these days, with how long it was, but the smile on her face was worth it. Maybe that was what had been missing this morning.
He skipped the eyeliner for today- she said it made him look ‘moody’, and he still hadn’t purchased the waterproof brand she’d recommended. He should do that. He needed to do that.
The look in her eyes when he admitted he hadn’t gotten around to it. . .
It was fine. It was fine. She was entitled to her own opinion. He shouldn’t be assuming that she was trying to find something to blame him for, and even if she did, the evidence wasn’t hard to find.
She saw everything.
She knew.
She-
A knock.
His shoulders collapsed back down to his sides. He breathed. He turned around and-
-hit his hand on the mirror.
He’d. . . extended his hand, and he’d-
He snatched his hand back and stared at the eye embedded in his chest.
“What did you do?” He snapped. “What did you do?”
He checked his hand for traces of orange, then felt it against his cheek for the residual heat the nanites had left. But all of him was warm, too warm. He turned away from the mirror and looked down to the screen on his chest.
The eye of his captor tilted up to look at him. Then it cocked to the side.
He stumbled backwards until he hit a solid surface and then he pressed himself into it. He curled over his chest and clenched his wrist, the flesh squishing up between metal fingers. The air burned in his throat.
He slid down to the ground and shook, until the telltale trickle of colder liquid into the vein of his arm made him stop.
He woke from the drug-induced stupor a few hours later.
He stood.
He left his quarters.
He walked to Freja’s.
He held up his hand.
He knocked.
-and the door opened. Freja’s voice spilled through the crack and enveloped him, it enveloped him, and he closed his eyes. “Skov speaking.”
“Freja,” was all he could get his lips to say. After a few seconds of opening and closing like a fish, he managed, “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Can I come in?”
She grabbed his arm and pulled him through the door.
“What’s going on?” She asked.
“I, well, I just,” he pinched his lips up into a smile, “started to get really worried there for a second.”
“About?”
“Oh, you know, something dumb, probably.” He shrugged. “You’re back now, and that’s all that matters.”
“Why do you need me back?”
Instead of laughter, or a playful shake of her head, all she had was an empty stare.
“You know. . .”
She blinked, twice, before furrowing her brow. “Suppose the meeting disrupted your routine. You’re still upset?”
“Routine?”
“Mhmm. Your routine.” She nodded.
“My routine! Of course.” Emre smiled again. “Suppose I should be less obvious, lest the other agents start getting the wrong idea.”
“I don’t give a damn what they think.”
“Good. I don’t either.” He pivoted. “In the mood for a late lunch?”
“Just ate.”
“That’s fine. We could go to the practice range instead.”
“It’s a little late in the day for your routine. Could we try again tomorrow?”
“It’s not just some routine. I’m trying to spend time with you.”
“You’re not a bad person just because I’m saying no to you today, alright?” Freja tilted her head towards him.
“I. . . where’d you get that from?”
“I just wish you’d believe me every time I say it.”
“Say what?”
“That you’re a good person.”
“Of course I believe you.” Emre replied. “If I didn’t believe you, then, well, what else would I have?”
But instead of nodding, she looked away.
“But thank you. I really needed to hear that.” He brushed her shoulder with his real hand.
She looked at his hand, only to step away. “What is that?”
“What is what?” He pulled his wrist away.
“You’re bruised.”
“I’m. . . bruised?” He studied his wrist, and sure enough, found two splotches of purple beside the bone. “This is great! It didn’t stop me. It didn’t take over! If I can bruise myself then maybe I-”
“Have you eaten?”
“No, but-” Emre shut his mouth. Swallowed. Resumed. “I mean, a little, but-”
“You don’t need to wait until I tell you you’re good enough to eat!” Freja snapped.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why don’t you ever believe me? I’m constantly vouching for you. One missed morning and you’re like this?”
“I’m sorry. I mean it.”
“Look. You’re good. I promise. Now leave me alone?” Freja sighed. “Go get lunch.”
He nodded.
He couldn’t breathe.
He turned around.
He couldn’t breathe.
He hovered his fingers over the button to the door.
“. . . are you sure?” he asked.
“Get out of my room already.”
Her words carried him through the door and out into the hall.
He wandered first to the mess hall, where he grabbed a bread roll. He walked back to his quarters. He clenched his fist by his side as he approached the door.
He realized he’d crushed the bread flat upon shutting the door behind himself. He choked down the dough anyway.
He’d hurt Freja.
God damnit, through whatever act of divine providence kept his captor’s hands off her, he’d still managed to hurt her. He’d taken her for granted, he’d used her. For some sort of quick fix. Over and over and over. Routine.
And she tolerated it this entire time.
Then why had she lied? Why would she lie about him being a good-?
No! She wasn’t a liar. She wasn’t a liar. Emre stood and started pacing. She wouldn’t lie, not about something this important, yet she still. . .
Trusting eyes and a charming smile. Of all the things his captor had yet to replace, he still had his same old face. He’d even styled the same old hair.
He lurched to a stop and covered his mouth.
He’d tricked her.
Freja, Freja Skov, famous for her sharp edges and quick judgements, a compass needle that pointed only towards those she was certain she could trust- he’d tricked her. All those years together before, all the things neither of them said, the nights spent off-base, the visit to his parents; everything, everything, everything a weapon now held to her temples whenever she looked at him.
And she’d paid the price. She joined Talon. Did their dirty work. And when she wasn’t being forced to obey them, she was now forced to coddle a man ten years her senior who couldn’t think of anything else except her next soothing words.
He grabbed one of the cords jutting out of his real arm and pulled.
Pain flared, before orange nanites engulfed the area. His captor buzzed in his chest.
No! He was being stupid. All this would do was instigate an override- which Freja would have to clean up after. And she’d coo over him, and say everything was alright, and worst of all he wanted nothing more.
If there was a quicker, quieter way to kill himself he would’ve found it by now.
But even that was just another cry for attention, wasn’t it? The thought of her finding his corpse- it appealed to him; her grief shifting as the vise of his deception fell away, and she'd realize how better off she was in his absence.
What a disgusting thing he was, to wish that upon her.
What a disgusting-
A familiar knock on the door.
He was brought back to reality. He took a deep breath and straightened the sag in his shoulders. He smiled, to clean up the last of whatever he'd tangled his face into.
He opened the door.
“Hey,” Freja said.
“Perfect timing!” Emre held the smile. “I need to talk with you about something.”
Freja shrugged with one shoulder, then gestured for him to lead her inside.
He sat down on his mattress, then patted the empty space beside him. She sat closer than she should have, but- that was alright. He was going to fix that.
“Freja, I need to apologize.” Emre began. “I've been using you. To make myself feel better. It's not right to put that all on you.”
“It's. . . alright.” She paused for a moment, before shaking her head. “I'm just not used to it.”
“I'll try to quit the habit.”
“I should apologize too. I was too short with you earlier.”
“No. You were right. I'm using you to cope. It’s-”
“Hold on now. I agreed to be here.”
“But that doesn't mean-”
“You've been through hell. It's only right you get a little respite.”
"But I can't just come running to you every time I think I blink funny. Right? I should grow a pair and,” he swallowed, “stand on my own a little. Be more fair to you.”
“Nothing's ever fair.”
“But I need to stop. I've crossed the line.”
“There's a difference between stopping and-”
“Damnit, Freja, listen! I'm forcing you to babysit my emotions. It's not right!”
Freja stood and turned to face him. “You're not a bad person.”
“I'm hanging on your every word! You're not responsible- you shouldn’t be responsible!”
“You’re not a bad person for that-”
“Yes, I am!” Emre stood to meet her.
“No, you’re not. That’s final. Now get your head out of your ass and believe me when I tell you this time.”
“That’s the problem. I can’t. I can’t stop. Something is wrong with me.”
“Of course something’s wrong with you.” She gestured to his chest. “But this doesn’t define you, because you’re-”
“Stop reassuring me!” Emre slammed his hand against the wall.
Freja drew her crossbow.
He already felt the apology pressing against his lips. He felt his brow want to soften, his voice want to tremble, his posture want to curl. All of these motions, intimately rehearsed since he was child. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m a good person. I’m a good person. I’m a-
“Emre, are you-”
“This is me!” He stomped towards her. “This is all me. And you’re just indulging me.”
“Emre, there’s-”
“Shut up!” Better a shout than a whimper. “Nothing is ever enough! I’m just- I’m just-!”
A black hole, ever-consuming. A kitchen sink drain, maybe one with those blades the Americans liked to put in. Pulverizing her hand every time she reached out.
And he had the gall to be fighting back tears right now, like the little attention-seeking toddler he was.
“Emre-”
“Get out of here!” He shoved his finger at the door. “Get out!”
“Goodbye.” Freja walked to the door.
“Get the fuck out of here! Don’t come back!” He shouted after her.
But at the words, she stopped.
“What are you waiting for?”
Laughter. Her shoulders trembled louder than her volume. She shook her head and turned around.
“So this is your new strategy to save me?” she said. “Being an asshole so I get away from you?”
“No! No, Freja, I’m not-” his lip trembled, and he bit a tooth through the chapped skin to keep it in line. Blood tanged against his tongue.
“God. You really are too kind.”
“Stop!”
“Stop what?” Freja snapped back.
“Stop telling me I’m good!”
“Emre-”
“I’m not!”
“Why?”
“Because even right now- even just saying that I’m a bad person, I want you to reassure me I’m not. I want it.” He smiled, the corners of his mouth pulling open the new split in his lip. “I’m manipulating you. To make myself feel better. Isn’t that funny?”
Freja’s brows finally furrowed into something more appropriate towards him. Disgust, hopefully.
“A stage-worthy performance, truly.” He imitated a bow.
Freja stared at him.
“I can be your old Emre, still fighting the good fight.” He brushed his hair back. “You love that. You love telling me how great I am, for staying strong. For not having changed.”
“Stop. Now.”
“Or I can be your tragic little victim. Who can’t stop crying. Poor little Emre, can’t hardly breathe without having a migraine or puking his guts out. Poor little Emre, still not used to sleeping on a proper bed again. Better tuck him in.”
“You stop that right now!” Freja gritted her teeth.
“You don’t even know me! I don’t even know me! I’m just- I’m just some animal who follows you around, pretending to be starving until you give me what I want. I can’t help myself!”
“So it’s all a front?”
“It’s all a front!” He smiled again.
Freja pressed her lips together.
“I’m not a good person.” He repeated.
She did not breathe.
He shook his head. “The murder was fine with you, but this is finally what tipped you off?”
“That was never your fault.” Freja’s voice trembled. “But this is.”
She snatched the door open and slammed it behind her.
He kept his mouth shut for only a few short minutes before his pathetic willpower gave out, letting the sobs escape.
For the next three hours, he stared as the ear bud of his comm. It sat on the desk. Fully charged and waiting.
He could call her. He’d already imagined four different ways the conversation would go. Four sets of words to apologize with, to say he didn’t mean it. Because if she didn’t forgive him, then that meant he was a-
He was a bad person.
That was the whole point.
He was throwing a juvenile fit because he didn’t want to accept that reality. But he should. He needed to. He needed to get over himself and stop being his own biggest problem- he always was, he always had been; he had everything going right for him perfect family, perfect health, perfect job; it was only ever his heart pounding in his chest or his thoughts spiraling that ever stopped him from doing more. He’d rolled the best possible luck in life and he threw it all away.
He’d left Overwatch because it’d hurt his delicate sensibilities, as Reyes so aptly put it.
Everything that’d happened after was simply his just reward.
He deserved it.
Freja didn’t.
Simple math. She was usually better at this kind of math than he was. That it took raising his voice to get her to understand felt- felt- he didn’t want to hurt her, god, he hoped she knew this wasn’t her fault, not in the slightest.
He reached for his comm bud, put it in his ear, then dialed her.
The call rang seven times before going to voicemail.
“Freja, I’m sorry. I didn’t- you deserve better. It’s not your fault.” He said. He opened his mouth again. He exhaled hot breath. Nothing else came out.
He hung up.
Fucking moron he was! Begging for her kindness again.
He dialed her again and waited for the voicemail.
“Freja, don’t believe me when I apologize. I’m just attention-seeking. Don’t forgive me.”
He hung up.
There, that was better.
Three sharp notes pounded against his door. Emre brushed his hair back into something more presentable, then opened up.
Freja’s red hair hit his eyes like a fist. She’d deliberately changed up her knock to throw him off.
“We’re talking.” She pushed past him.
He shut the door, then sat down on his mattress, clearing a path for her escape if need be.
“Correction: I’m talking, and you’re listening.” Freja said.
He nodded. Least he could do, to make everything up to her.
“First: I’m not your fucking therapist.”
His throat, traitor that it was, clenched. He swallowed it back as he nodded.
“But,” she sighed, “when’s the last time you got to shout at something that wasn’t an immovable red eye?”
“Don’t you dare start making excuses for me.”
“Hey! I’m talking.”
He snapped his gaze to the floor.
“You think you’re some sort of monster for wanting a compliment.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it again.
“You think that being around me is some sort of unforgivable sin.” Freja put her hand on her hip. “Do you really think that poorly of me?”
“No!” he said, louder than he meant to.
“Exactly! So stop acting like it.”
His throat clenched tighter. He tilted his head back to breathe.
“I don’t know what the hell is going on in your head. I’m not a therapist and especially after all this-” she gestured to all of him, “-I don’t fucking know.”
He hoped she wouldn’t begin the next sentence with a ‘but’. Just another excuse.
He couldn’t stop himself from wanting it so badly.
“But I know that whatever you’re doing right now is just as self-indulgent.”
Emre blinked. He looked back to her face, but her brows or eyes or lips gave no clues as to how he was supposed to respond.
“You’re looking for- certainty, maybe?” Freja shrugged. “You want to be a good person or a bad person, and if you can’t be a good person then clearly that means you’re a bad one.”
He nodded.
“No, that’s not how this works! That’s not how any of this works. You don’t get to have that. Nobody does. That’s life.”
“I’m a child about it, I know.”
“No, I think you’ve spent the past ten years stressed out of your mind about it!” Freja snapped. “You’re a grown man. You are.”
She stared at him. When she didn’t continue, he offered a small tilt of a nod.
“Maybe you’re not a good person, but you sure as hell aren’t a bad one. There’s a lot of space in here with the rest of us, you know.”
“Freja, you’re too hard on-”
“Don’t you say I’m too hard on myself!” She walked forward and grabbed a fistful of his hair. “Do you hear yourself right now?”
The screen on his chest blinked on.
The eye of his captor swiveled up to her grasp.
“You think you’re the worst human being alive just because you want things. Well I want food, I want a warm blanket at night, and I want to be told I’m good enough, too! Am I still pure enough for you?”
Orange-hot nanites engulfed his cybernetic arm. His captor clenched his hand around Freja’s wrist.
“Frej-!” Emre begged.
“YOU!” Freja let go of Emre’s hair and leaned down to the screen. “Stay out of this! I don’t have any of my weapons. Scan me. Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I’d be able to kill you like this? Don’t make me laugh.”
A drop of her spittle landed against its plexiglass.
After eleven heartbeats, his captor let go of Freja’s wrist. She fell forward, catching herself on the mattress beside him.
Emre felt her breath brush past his ear.
“I’m sorry.” He jerked away.
Freja stood up and stepped back. “That wasn’t your fault. You’re not stupid. You know it wasn’t.”
“It wasn’t.”
“You want to know what was?” she asked, “screaming at me earlier. And do you know what I want right now?”
“What do you want?” Anything. Anything, and he’d do it.
“I want an apology.”
“I’m sorry.”
Freja waited. Then she crossed her arms.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“You’re usually a lot better at this.”
“I don’t want to be too,” he bounced around a few self-aggrandizing words, before landing on, “self-indulgent with it.”
“You think this is for you?”
“No! No, it’s not. Not at all. You didn’t deserve any of that from me. You don’t deserve anything like that, from anyone. I’m sorry.”
“Then why’d you do it?” Freja asked. “Don’t say it’s because you’re secretly manipulating me.”
She’d taken the words right out of his mouth. He dipped his head. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.” Freja echoed.
“I just don’t know anymore. I don’t- I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“I have a few ideas.” Freja pointed at the screen on his chest.
“It’s not controlling me right now and it wasn’t controlling me earlier.”
“No, but it’s made your life a living hell. No wonder you’re a little unstable. It’s a goddamned miracle you aren’t losing it more.”
“Don’t make excuses-”
“That’s a statement of fact and you know it.”
Emre bit back his response.
“I’m not sure what will help you.” Freja said.
“You shouldn’t have to help me.”
“Stop talking like that.” She pointed at him this time. “You say you don’t want me to tell you that you’re good? Fine, but you don’t get to insist that you’re so awful either. Deal?”
Freja held out her hand.
“I’ll. . . try.” He held his hand to match hers, but didn’t interlock fingers just yet. “Just, sometimes it’s so strong.”
“What is?”
“Wanting to say things like this. Or. . . wanting to ask you if I’m still good.” He pulled his hand back. “Some days it’s all I can think about. I feel like I’m going to die without it. It’s not- it can’t be healthy.”
“Doesn’t sound healthy, no.” Freja agreed. “Then again, I don’t think anything about us is healthy right now. We’re sitting inside a Talon base right now, for one.”
Emre smiled before he could stop himself.
“And I’m the first person you’ve talked to in ten years. It,” she sighed, “makes sense that you’ve got a bit of a complex about it.”
“I think a part of me has always been like this, though.”
“Doesn’t matter. Don’t care.” Freja said. “Now shake my damn hand.”
Emre let out a shaky breath and took her hand. She laced her fingers between his. Her palm was warm, and her callouses the ridges that kept him from slipping beneath it all.
---
The post-mission routine changed to:
How many?
Was it quick?
And then, from Freja:
What is your name?
“Emre Sarioğlu.”
“Good,” her lips fell into a small smile. “That’s the most important part.”
The first two answers mattered. They had to matter. Freja tried to argue against them but he couldn’t, he wouldn’t let that responsibility slip away.
But it was the last answer that returned him back to himself. He was reminded that he was Emre. He was not good, he was not bad, he was. . . Emre. And there was no other option but to be content with that, no matter how much it hurt.
And maybe this was still a ritual he demanded of her, maybe it all still was; he couldn’t pass by her door in the morning without saying hello, he couldn’t, he couldn’t, not without becoming a dumb, panicky animal. But. . .
. . . his existence no longer hinged upon her words.
It was fairer. To her.
To himself, even if he couldn’t believe it yet.