Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Soldier 76 scans the Watchpoint from afar, tucked in the limbs of an old oak tree on a hill four miles from the facility. He clicks his visor scan as he observes the guard routes.

Four guard towers, two hugging the walls of the facility, two on the corners.

A gate with a sentry post between the front two, backed up by an APC. Two guards on sentry duty.

Barracks on the eastern corner against the wall. Mess facility and medbay next to it. Control centre up the back.

Armoury on the western wall.

 He almost snorts.

 The real weapons are kept inside.

 For a former Watchpoint, the place has fallen from grace somewhat; now used for storage of prototypes and discontinued tech. He zooms in on the guards, checking their uniforms.

Helix Security. Privately hired.

He observes the two on sentry duty. An older woman and a younger man. He watches the security ‘bots make their rounds within the facility, mapping out their paths in his head, watching.

Waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He waits two more hours, watching every movement of the facility until he’s sure. 

He drops from the tree and moves down the hill, sticking to the shadows. He slips through the forest opposite the facility, barely visible in the dim light of the sliver of moon that’s peering through the clouds.

He clicks off his visor and drops to his stomach, crawling towards the sentry post as he reaches the edge of the woods. The older woman (her patch reads RAMIREZ) sits in the guard hut, rifle propped beside her, feet up on the table, playing some game on a tablet in her hands. The younger man (MILLER, his patch says) paces along the gate, rifle held at the ready, eyes peering into the darkness.

 He slowly picks up a pebble from the ground and tosses it against a tree off to his left. It hits the trunk with a satisfying thwack; Miller hears it too, and immediately hoists his rifle to his shoulder.

Jittery. Ramirez rolls her eyes and pauses her game, tossing her tablet onto the desk. “It’s just a squirrel kid, relax.”

The disdain’s evident in her tone.

“We get them all the time.” Miller squints into the darkness regardless. Ramirez just sighs and picks her tablet back up, unpausing her game and continuing to play. He waits thirty more seconds, and just as Miller starts to lose interest, he tosses another pebble, this time to his right.

Same result: Miller freaks, Ramirez sighs, Miller keeps watching.

One more should do it.

The pebble has barely hit the ground after hitting the tree when Ramirez explodes at Miller.

“Goddammit kid!” she yells. “You think Talon are out there in the woods waiting for us?”

Miller reddens, dropping his rifle back down.

“Fine. Go check it out if you’re so desperate for some action.” Miller pauses. “I’m serious!” she yells.

Despondent, Miller slinks off towards the source of the sound, while Ramirez stomps back inside her hut.

Soldier 76 moves parallel to Miller, feet making no noise as he slinks through the wood. Miller clicks on a torch on his rifle and aims into the woods, scanning through the trees, illuminating the wooden sentinels.

He waits behind one, and tosses another pebble off to his left. Miller’s head whips round, and he hoists up his rifle, slowly moving towards the sound. He waits until the barrel of his rifle is visible from behind the tree, then grabs it with both hands and pulls it round towards him.

He quickly registers Miller’s shocked face before slapping the rifle from his hands and jamming an elbow into his throat. Miller coughs once, then slides down the tree and lands on his face, unconscious.

One down.

He grabs Miller’s rifle and slings it across his back, then stuffs his pistol into his hip holster as well, and scales the tree Miller lies at the base of. Clicking his visor back on, he observes Ramirez.

It takes her ninety seconds to look up from her tablet, a further twenty to look back up again, and thirty more before she groans, picks up her rifle, and walks out of the hut. She carries it slung over her shoulder, unready, far too casually for a trained soldier.

Careless.

She finds Miller quickly, then she’s all business. She clicks on her comm. “All units this is Ramirez, front gate. Miller is-.”

Which is exactly how far she gets before Soldier 76 drops from above and lands on her back, knocking the breath out of her.

He cracks his elbow against the back of her head, and she lies unconscious.

Two down.

He quickly unhooks her comm and sprints for the front gate, hooking it into his right ear as he runs.

Perfect distraction. Gets the guards jittery, but they know nothing else, a low voice whispers from the back of his mind, coming from a lean, scarred face, topped with a black knit cap.

He shakes his head, clearing his mind of ghosts, and sprints on.

“Ramirez?” crackles the comm in his ear. “Ramirez, what’s your status?”

No reply. He quickly shoots out the front gate cameras with Miller’s pistol then vaults the gate and keeps running, heading west.

Furthest from the barracks, closest to the armoury.

 “Ramirez?” the comm asks again. “We may have a situation. Response team, head to the front gate and check it out. Briggs, Harper, secure the armoury.”

Two affirmatives bark out over the comms. He slides behind an APC and leans out to the left, scanning the facility. Soon enough, two teams move out and quickly break off.

Four soldiers and an Omnic heading for the front gate, two heading for the armoury. 

He detaches himself from the shadows and follows them, making it to the side of the armoury just as they jog up.

“What do you wanna bet Miller just tripped over his own feet out there?” the first asks as she walks towards the door, unhooking a keycard off her belt.

“Maybe Ramirez just got tired of his shit and did us all a favour.” The second laughs, turning to watch their back.

“Can you blame her?”

He’s heard enough. He waits for the door to open, then moves silently, grabbing the guard on watch and pulling him down into a chokehold. As soon as he stops struggling, he drops the body and slips into the armoury, where the other soldier is checking the shelves with a flashlight.

“Nothing here.” She says, flicking off the flashlight and turning for the door.

The last thing she sees is a thin red line staring back at her from the darkness before her forehead explodes in pain and she lies unconscious.

 He knows they’re waiting for a report, and he doesn’t have much time. Luckily, he knows Watchpoint armouries inside out, he could move through this one with his eyes closed.

He finds what he’s looking for almost immediately. Leaving the armoury, he drags Briggs’ unconscious form out with him, and rolls it, along with Harper’s, under the APC.

He plants the turrets either side of the armoury, then moves further into the facility, stopping when he reaches the walls of the control centre, finding the junction box.

He reaches in and tears out a fistful of circuitry, just as “Is the armoury secure?” crackles in his ear, worry evident in the tone, and the response team radios in.

“This is Jenkins, Ramirez and Miller are unconscious, no sign of the attacker.”

“Is the armoury secure?” rings out again.

Fear. Now to turn it into panic, the voice mutters again from the back of his mind. His gloved hand closes on the detonator.

The armoury erupts in an enourmous explosion, fragments of steel and and shrapnel flying outward from the fireball that lights up the night.

“We have a situation!” the voice cries. “All units, mobilise and move to engage the intruder!”

He activates the turrets as he hears this. Two turrets spring into life, shooting randomly across the facility.

Panic, into chaos.

The voice in his ear is screaming while other units radio in, floodlights spark and explode into hot glass shards, and the turrets spread chaos across the courtyard.

He opens the door beside him, and moves stealthily into the control centre, rifle at the ready. Ascending the stairs, he finds the main control room, where the comms officer is yelling commands into the radio in front of him, oblivious to Soldier 76 entering the room behind him.

That is, until he slams his head down onto the console in front of him and he lies still. He tosses the unconscious form unceremoniously to the side and leans against the console desk, searching the storage records for what he needs.

Bingo.

He crushes the console with the butt of his rifle, then grabs the keycard off the officer’s belt.

He glances out the window. More soldiers are making their way towards the wreck of the armoury, and they’ll quickly realise they’re not getting any orders.

He looks at the rifle in his hands.

Time for some bigger guns.

He leaves the comm centre through the back door, and makes it to the huge hangar doors of the Watchpoint. He finds the door he knows is there, and quickly swipes the keycard, shouldering the door open and entering.

The door slams shut behind him, cutting out the orange light from the flames. He activates his visor, and the room is illuminated in pale green light as he scans the tall shelves of the storage facility.

He quickly makes his way down the long corridors, flanked by stacks of old weapons and equipment, counting off the shelves as he walks.

Gotcha.

The crate is at head height, and he pulls it down to the floor. Black lettering is stamped across the steel casing.

PROPERTY OF HELIX SECURITY LTD

PROTOTYPE 21A HPR+HRL

SERIAL NUMBER 88 326 970

Soldier 76 drops his scavenged rifle and prises the top off the case. A brief smile splits his scarred features behind his visor. 

That’s more like it.

-

Other Helix security teams make it to the Watchpoint fifteen minutes later. By then, it’s all over.

Specialist Marcus Root climbs out of his APC, barking orders to the other Helix soldiers as they fan out over the Watchpoint.

The facility’s in ruins. Two watchtowers have collapsed at the base, and the other two are still standing; yet their entire top half is engulfed in flames. Fire safety ‘bots speed past him as he walks past the ruins of the front gate into the main courtyard.

The survivors are gathered around the medbay, which is miraculously untouched. He strides over to Sergeant Ramirez, who, despite a broken nose and black eye, is shouting out orders to ‘bots and soldiers alike.

“’Bout time you showed up.” She growls at Root as he walks over.

“Any casualties?” he asks, scanning the survivors.

“All non-lethal takedowns.” She responds. “Kenway got some glass in his face, Choudhury and Miyazaki are being treated for some minor burns. Everyone else was knocked out.”

“What happened?” he asks crisply. Ramirez digs in her uniform and pulls out a packet of cigarettes, withdrawing one with a shaky hand and quickly lighting it. “

Not sure of the size of the team.” She admits, blowing out a stream of smoke. “At least two snipers feeding them info, they knew every position. Probably a demolitions expert as well, judging by…” she waves vaguely around. “…this. Some kind of rocket or grenade launcher.” She takes a long drag. “All the marks of trained soldiers though.” She admits. “We’re checking the security footage but my best bet would be Talon.”

“Blackwatch?” Root asks, overturning a chunk of rubble with his boot.

“Nah.” She shakes her head. “They went down with Overwatch. ‘Sides, why would they attack an old base?”

“They wanted something.” He responds instantly. Another head shake.

“All this place is used for now is storage. Discontinued prototypes or ancient hardware.” She flags down a passing ‘bot. “Keep the news drones out of this until we’re sure of the incursion.” She says sharply.

Another soldier jogs up, holding a tablet in his hands. “Uh, sarge, you might wanna see this.” He says nervously. “What is it Miller?” she growls, holding the cigarette between her teeth and grabbing the tablet.

“We’ve been reviewing the security cam footage and we have some hits. First is at 3:59am.” Miller flicks to a view of the camera above the front gate, just above the hut. The timestamp shows 3:56am as Miller walks out of sight of the camera, towards the woods.

“We’re working on night vision but so far all we have are thermal images showing footprints.” Miller moves the video forward two minutes, then showing Ramirez walking out in the same direction. A few seconds later, and the screen erupts into static.

“Damnit.” Root curses. “Hold up.” Miller says, rewinding the footage and playing it slowly. Just before the camera is shot out, there’s the tiniest movement on the edge of the camera’s field of vision. Miller zooms in and enhances it.

A sleek black visor, with a narrow red line across the eyes peers out of the darkness. A scarred forehead topped with white hair rests above it.

“Who the hell is that?” Root growls.

“No idea sir. Facial recognition can’t get a thing. Forensics are looking into it now, seeing if the scar matches any records, but we have another hit.”

He flips to another item of footage.

“One of the security ‘bots got this as he left.”

“He?” Root and Ramirez demand in sync. Miller withers slightly.

“There was only one?” Ramirez manages through gritted teeth.

“We’ve been monitoring security footage and the satellite info should be through any minute, but all security footage and thermal imaging of the base shows only one person and one set of footprints.”

“Jesus.” Root mutters, rubbing his jaw. Miller flips the tablet around.

“This is all we have to go on.” He says, showing them the image.

The figure stands at the front gate, back towards the camera, just about to leave his destruction behind. The visor is visible again, looking over his left shoulder in an angry red line. A rifle rests across the figure’s right shoulder. They’re wearing black combat trousers, and a red, white, and blue jacket, with 76 emblazoned in red across the back.

Miller flicks to the next image. It’s the figure walking away, rifle held in front of him this time. “All security footage has been slowed down massively. Whoever they were, they’re fast.”

“And strong.” Ramirez mutters, scratching her broken nose.

“Good work Miller.” Root says. The kid beams with pride. “Keep monitoring all security footage.” Ramirez adds as he races off.

“A one man army.” Root grunts as Ramirez wordlessly offers him a cigarette. “Why here though?” she asks after a moment. They smoke in silence for a few moments, interrupted when a security ‘bot hovers up beside them.

“Sergeant.” It announces in its monotone voice. “As requested, we have scanned the facility for any breaches. After the breach at 3:59am, a breach of the communications centre was recorded after the destruction of the armoury at 4:00am. The storage facility was breached at 4:01am, and later exited by the intruder at 4:03am.”

"Fast worker, ain’t they?” Root says. Ramirez questions the ‘bot further. “They take anything?” The ‘bot projects a screen, showing a large rifle, with some kind of launcher mounted underneath.

“A prototype heavy pulse rifle, equipped with a Helix rocket launcher. Scans indicate these rockets caused an estimated 70% of the damage done to the facility.”

Ramirez pales. “Jesus Christ.” Root whispers.

-

Soldier 76 hunkers down in a ditch beside the road as more Helix Security vehicles speed past him. As the last truck passes, he climbs out and melts into the woods beside the road, cradling his new heavy pulse rifle.

It’s good to be back.

Chapter Text

He’s not used to cities. 

Soldier 76 mulls this over as he crouches on a Seattle rooftop, rain pouring around him, plastering his hair to his head. He squints through the visor scan as he watches this city below him, people scurrying through the rain. The hypertrain speeds past him, rattling his teeth in his skull.

Too loud. Too heavy.

He finds himself missing Indiana, the wide blue skies and rolling open fields.

Missing home, another part of his mind says, which he quickly shuts down.

Focus.

He’s been tracking the Dark Eagles for six weeks now. It’s a few up and comers, eager to prove themselves by making a name for themselves, mainly through illegal activities. They’d been small enough to stay under the police’s radar, but now they’re expanding. Buying small arms, body armour. A lot of explosives.

Dangerous.

He gives the city one last scan, and, satisfied, drops down off the roof of the building onto the fire escape below, swinging in through the nearest window.

Shaking the water out of his hair, he pulls off his jacket and unclips his visor, setting them both on the solitary table. He flicks a switch on the wall, and the single, bare lightbulb flickers into life, illuminating his meager living space. A soiled mattress is on his left, the table to his right, his heavy pulse rifle resting against it.

Part of the luxuries of laying low in an abandoned, condemned building.

Opposite the window he’s just swung in, he’s got everything he knows on the Dark Eagles. Any sightings he’s taken from rooftops, known aliases, where they’ve struck. A huge map of Seattle takes up half of the wall, with pins on each area they’ve been spotted and where they’ve attacked.

He scratches his stubbly jaw ruefully, and looks over his intel. It’s not enough. He knows they’re going to try and burst onto the scene soon, he just doesn’t know how.

How and when. He sighs. Two very important pieces of information he’s nowhere near getting.

He starts as a knock on his door echoes through the apartment, his hands flying to his pistol. “Gabe?” a thin voice calls from the door. He relaxes, and goes to the barricaded door. Pulling the dresser he’d placed in front of it aside, he unbolts the door and opens it.

A thin man stands in the doorway, head shaven, his cheeks stubbly. A dull green eye peers out from his dirty face, his other eye is infected with a sty. He wears shabby jeans, and a battered old military jacket with a string vest underneath.

“Hey Ian.” Jack manages, leaning against the doorframe, trying to hide his wall of intel. Ian’s dirty face splits with a grin. “Good to see ye, Gabe.”

Jack grins awkwardly, and tries to remember why he gave the name Gabe when first asked. He pushes it from his mind.

“What can I do for you?” he asks. “Old Sal’s found some meat, and she’s makin’ a pot for the lot of us.” He jerks a thumb upstairs. “You fancy any?” Jack makes a show of considering for a moment, then shakes his head.

“I’m alright.” He says. “Found some stuff round the back of a 7-11 today anyway.” Ian grins. “More for us then.”

He turns to go, then stops for a moment. “Here.” He says, digging in his pocket. “Was down near the docks today and some kids gave me too much.” He produces a handful of dollars and coins, holding them out to Jack. His stomach twists.

“You sure?” he asks, trying to keep his tone light. Ian practically shoves the notes into Jack’s hands. “Who’s gonna look after ya if we don’t?” he cackles, thumping Jack in the arm. “See ya around.” He calls, walking up the stairs.

Jack manages an affirmative, then closes and re-barricades his door. Dropping the cash on his table, he slumps on the singular chair.

He remembers meeting Ian, creeping into the condemned building late one night, when a figure appeared from the shadows, jerking a knife at him, telling him to leave if he valued his life or his balls. Luckily, he had his rifle slung across his back, and raised his hands in surrender. Ian recognised ‘a fellow wanderer’ though, as he put it, and welcomed Jack in, introducing him to the small community of squatters and runaways that sheltered in the abandoned apartment block.

Old Sal, the mother hen, missing one arm and constantly fussing over her charges. The Omnic, who gave no name but Alan T-U, and occasionally whistled synthesized songs at meals. The young kids, Brent and Alexa, who slept next door to Jack and who said little, but he heard cry every night. The old veteran, Ian, who shared every cent he was given.

Jack picks through the cash Ian had given him. A small collection of silver and copper coins, with the odd dollar amongst them. Around $6. He spins the figures in his head. He knows the averages from the docks, and unless Ian struck gold, he was taking cash out of his own stash to feed the rest of the building.

Jack grimaces. He feels like a leech, a thief, sponging off those who already have so little. He glances back at his wall of intel, and sighs. He pulls his jacket on, and picks up the pulse rifle.

Time to ask some friends what they know.

-

He moves through the backstreets of Seattle in the darkness, listening in on a stolen police scanner. Predicting the movements, the paths they take. Waiting.

“All units, we have an attempted robbery at McGrath Arms on the waterfront. Three adult males, all armed.”

Perfect.

-

He sprints through the Seattle streets towards the sound of the gunfire. Police cruisers block off one entrance as he rounds a corner, then ducks back into an alleyway, and scales the building, watching from above. The store they tried to rob is smashed in, their car waiting outside while the police wait for them.

There’s a sudden shout, and the men are moving out, hostages gathered around them. “Hold fire!” the police chief yells. Dammit. They move to their car, shoving the hostages away at the last second and bundling themselves in. He sprints ahead, waiting on the corner they have to turn on. He readies a Helix rocket volley. 

- 

Struck in the left side, the car careens out of control and smashes into a tree by the side of the road. Soldier 76 drops off the roof, as he hears tires squeal on the wet tarmac. Two of the men hang unconscious out of the vehicle, the third, thrown from the front seat, crawls away.

“C’mere.” He growls, grabbing the man by the jacket and hauling him into an alleyway, just as the police cruisers round the corner.

- 

He pulls the bag off his head and tears the tape off his mouth with a sharp jerk. “Wakey wakey.” He sings. The man blearily blinks awake, then jerks in his bindings, terrified, as he realises where he is. Soldier 76 stands over him, jacket tossed to the side, scarred forearms folded across his chest.

The man’s sweating already, afraid. Good. He makes a show of walking to the bare table and looking over his meager equipment.

It’s all in how you wield it, whispers the low voice again. You can have a man begging for his life while you twirl a paperclip in your fingers. It’s all in how you wield it, and what you do with it.

He tunes the voice out and picks up his knife. “I’ll give you all the names man, I swear it, just let me outta hear.” The man jabbers. “Where they are, where they buy their stuff, everything.” He flips it slowly in his palm and walks back to the man.

“I want to know what you’re planning.” He growls. “Everything you know. Whatever the Dark Eagles have a stake in, I want information.” He hisses, slowly trailing the blade of the knife across the man’s throat.

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing and glistening with sweat. “Ok.” The man chokes. “Ok ok ok, I’ll give you everything.” He grins behind his visor.

-

He cuffs him with a coil of rope and tosses him off the building three blocks away, dropping him in the dumpster below with a note pinned to his chest reading “please deliver to Seattle Police Dept.”

Back in his apartment, he looks over what he knows.

The Bank of America Financial Centre. Three days from now. Unsure of numbers, weapons, or what exactly they’re planning. But they’re crooks. His eyes narrow.

Simple men, simpler plans.

- 

He stakes out the bank for three days straight, sleeping in the skeleton of a billboard across the plaza from it. He plans his sightlines and entry routes, mapping out potential plans for the thieves to take.

Meticulously working out every strategy, measuring every sightline, balancing every variable.

As it turns out, he needn’t have bothered.

Just after 1pm on the fourth day, a truck screeches up in front of the bank. Eight men leap out, all dressed with balaclavas and hold-alls slung across their backs. A ninth races across the rooftops.

He’s no match for enhanced limbs though, as Soldier 76 sprints next to him, crashing him into the gravel rooftop and cracking the butt of his rifle across his head. He slips in through the roof entrance the ninth man was meant to take, and moves through the upper workings of the bank, rifle at the ready.

There’s scaffolding inside, which allows him to carefully make his way around, unseen. In the marble interior, at the main lobby, four thieves wait, hostages already taken and cowering behind the desks. He notices one clerk frantically clicking the silent alarm button, until he notices the thin red line of his visor staring at him from the rafters. Sirens erupt nearby. The thieves start, then each grab a hostage, holding them in front of them, all facing the door.

None think to check the ceiling. Why would they?

Flicking a switch on the side of his visor, Soldier 76 leaps from the scaffolding. His vision snaps into sharp definition. The visor locks on and isolates the thieves, scans the hostages, and projects his targets.

I could do this with my eyes closed.

He fires in the air as he falls, four shots cracking out and echoing around the lobby. The hostages scream, the police move in, and the targets fall.

Four thieves slump, each with a bullet through their heads. Their hostages fall to the floor, shaking. Soldier 76 quickly scans the room, then growls “Stay down” to the hostages, and bounds away, just as the police set up their perimeter.

He leaps back into the scaffolding and moves deeper into the bank.

Primary threats down, switching to secondary objective.

The remaining four thieves are gathered around the vault, already wiring up explosives, stuffing dollars and credit chips into hold-alls. He hears the front doors crash in as the police storm the place.

Time to move.

The first thief turns to the doors, grabbing an assault rifle and spewing full-auto shots towards the lobby. Soldier 76 drops down behind him, and just as he notices, cracks his rifle butt into the man’s face. A gold tooth flies past him as he turns for the remaining three men.

The first reaches for his rifle, but Jack reaches faster, and the man falls with a bullet in his chest.

Two left.

The second lunges, brass knuckles bunched, but Jack simply drops his rifle and lets the man overextend himself, then slams his head into a cash trolley, stomping on the back of his head as he slumps to the floor.

Beep.

He looks up. The final thief stands in front of the vault, wired to blow, the detonator clutched in his gloved hand. “Not bad.” They laugh. The police are ready to move in. “One move and I blow this whole joint up.” He hears them shouting out orders, readying themselves to attack. “Now-.” The thief is cut short as they hear a shout from the lobby.

Their attention is distracted for a moment, and that’s all he needs. His hand flies to the small of his back, drawing out his knife, and flinging it at the thief in a singular, almost liquid-like motion.

They crumple, the hilt of the blade sticking out of their balaclava. He leaps forward, catching the detonator before it strikes the marble floor, and crushes it in his fist. The lights on the explosives fade and blink away.

Disarmed. The police shout from behind him. He stoops briefly, and grabs his rifle and one of the hold-alls of cash from the floor, then runs for the back entrance, shouldering his way out of the fire door, and dropping through a nearby manhole into the sewers, just as the police burst into an empty bank, thieves left slumped dead or unconscious on the floor.

-

Back in his apartment, he goes over his intel, and calls the contacts he’s built up. The Dark Eagles are scurrying away, most of their strength and status was lost in this bust of a robbery.

He grins. Job well done. He checks through the money he has. He managed to find a cheap and willing gun dealer who sold him the pulse munitions he needed, but aside from that, his rifle’s in good shape. He grabs a handful of credit chips from the hold-all, and stuffs them into his jacket, then picks up the pulse rifle.

Grabbing the hold-all, he leaves the room, then heads upstairs, where he knows everyone is. He listens at the door. Ian’s telling some old war tale again. He smiles slightly, and deposits the bag just in front of the door.

He knocks hard on the door, then just as he hears footsteps, slips upstairs and lets himself out the roof entrance, just as he hears Ian’s disbelieving laugh echo up from below.

He looks out over the city below him, ringed with neon signs and sprayed with rain, infested with rats and crime and pain. But a home.

He spots the hypertrain coming and readies himself to drop, balancing himself on the balls of his feet and leaping off the roof just as it speeds by.

He lands heavily, nearly drops his rifle, but manages to hold on as it speeds away.

He could get used to cities.

Chapter Text

“No statues.” He remembered insisting. “We’re soldiers, not gods. Bury me in a grave like you would any other soldier. Not an inch of space more.” The governments had wailed and complained, but he stood fast, backed by Ana, Liao, Reinhardt, even Gabriel. They’d all insisted on it.

Simple graves.

All that and I didn’t even fill the one they dug for me, Jack reflects as he leaps over the fence leading to Arlington National Cemetery. He can’t even use the gate, he has to sneak in when the sun’s down. An autumn breeze scatters the dry leaves at his feet as he walks between the row on row of neat white graves.

All soldiers that earned their rest, and here I am, while better people are buried. He walks casually, pulse rifle slung across his back, hands in his jacket pockets. The Overwatch memorial is near the centre of the park, but he finds his steps turning uphill, to the grave his feet have beaten a path between time after time, while he was Strike Commander Morrison and even before that, when he was just Jack the farmer’s son. He hikes up the hill, and finds the grave he knows is there.

Sgt. Rosanna Morrison

2/6/1990-19/4/2036

A loving wife and mother

Gone but not forgotten

He sits cross-legged in front of the grave, and removes his visor. The cool autumn air strokes his scarred face.

“Hey mom.” He says quietly. “It’s me.” He listens to the leaves rustling on the wind. “Sorry I haven’t visited for a while.” He exhales shakily, and looks up at the starry night sky. “Been busy.” He admits. “Off trying to save the world.”

He scrubs a hand over his face, and winces as it pulls as his scars. God, he’s tired. “I miss you mom. I hope Dad and the girls are alright with you. Tell them I say hi.”

She was a fighter son. His father’s words come back to him. She fought so you’d have a good world to grow up in, then she fought so the world would have you three to grace it. So do her proud. Never give up.

“I’m keepin’ alright.” A breeze ruffles his white hair, gentle as a mother’s sigh. “Got some friends here you’d like.” He chuckles ruefully, imaging Ana and his mother gossiping together. “Needa go visit them too.” He stands, clicking his visor back on. “I’ll see you again soon.” He says softly.

He walks down the hill in silence, feet now turning to where he meant to go. The large, circular Overwatch memorial, the Overwatch logo carved into the concrete. Their simple square graves surround the circle. He walks round them. He knows exactly where they are, but still his feet carry him round the names.

Here lies Ana Amari, 19/5/2016-2/8/2069.

A small bunch of white lotuses rest next to Ana’s name.

Here lies Gerard Lacroix-30/3/2039-2/4/2069.

Here lies Gabriel Reyes, 2/11/2020-17/10/2070.

He pauses at Gabriel’s grave for a moment. There’s a small tribute placed just under his name. He stoops.

It’s a statue of Santa Muerte, a black wax candle next to it, the flame snuffed out. He relights it. He’s not sure why. He remembers Gabe having a similar statue, occasionally praying over it, muttering prayers in Spanish under his breath. It’s been knocked over by the wind, there are two names written on the base of the statue.

Daniela and Sara Reyes, 2075

Te queremos Gabi.

-

“Two sisters.” Gabe admits, sitting at a table in their quarters, Jack across from him, deep glasses of whiskey between them. Jack chuckles. “Same here.” It’s 2048, six years deep into the Omnic Crisis. Jack’s just heard about his family in Indiana. He sets his jaw and hides his feelings from the rest of the team, but Gabe knows him inside out. He can’t hide anything from him.

“My parents never wanted me to join.” Gabe confesses, staring at the amber liquid in his glass. Jack’s eyes trace the scars on his cheeks. “But we needed the cash.” Jack leans back in his chair and rubs his chin. “They both managed to make it to college.” A grin splits his face, briefly. “Happiest day of their damn lives.”

Gabe, suddenly smooth and silent, grabs his cigs from his pocket and lights one, the smoke streaming up to the stained ceiling. He offers the packet to Jack, who considers for a moment, then takes one. It’s been a long fight. He’s allowed a vice. Jack coughs slightly as he inhales, Gabe looks back through tired eyes and laughs. “Country boy.” He sing songs, tossing back a swig of whiskey.

Jack laughs, despite himself. It’s been a long, hard fight.  

-

He gets up from the grave. That’s enough memories for one day. He steps back, and his boot hits the grave beneath Gabe’s. He turns, and-.

Here lies Jack Morrison, 5/4/2020-17/10/2070.

The writing hits him like a fist in the gut. Here, it mocks him. You should be in the ground with the others. And yet you go on, playing the hero still. He bristles, his fingers twitching. He shoves his hands into his belt. He looks around the surrounding cemetery.

All so many soldiers, gone before their time. Giving their last for their fellow man. Liar. You should not be here. This is a place for the dead.

He bites his lip so hard he tastes his own blood. What would your mother think?

With a savage cry, he grabs his pulse rifle and slams it into his grave. The stone cracks, a scar mirroring the own that splits his face. He smashes the rifle down, again and again, cracking the grave into splintered shards of stone. He stops when the name is barely legible, chunks of stone strewn across the grass.

He kneels, breathing heavily, hand resting on his rifle. He glances at the graves again. Unworthy. He grabs the rifle and, hoisting it onto his shoulder, leaves quickly, bitter tears falling behind his visor as he melts back into the darkness, and the neat, white graves stand oblivious.

Chapter Text

Zurich, Switzerland

The cold bites into his skin, making the ragged wound in his leg cry out afresh. Soldier 76 grits his teeth behind his visor and keeps firing, ducking to eject the spent magazine, reload, and stand up again. The agent charges him down, leaping over the ruined headquarters.

Ex-Blackwatch, his mind manages to supply through the haze of gunfire and pain. One of Gabe’s protégés before it all went to shit, Howell. He streaks forward, his enhancements glowing a sickly orange against the dark snow. He knocks the rifle from Jack’s hands as he shoves into him. Jack wastes no time, and draws his pistol instead, firing madly while scrabbling with his free hand in the snow for his rifle.

His gloved hand closes around the grip, and he tugs it up out of the snow-.

And his bicep explodes into pain, ripping through layers of skin, bone, and leather. He drops the rifle again, his left arm hanging loosely at his side. His vision swims.

He somehow reloads his pistol, just as Howell charges him down. He squints through the fog of pain, and aims carefully. 

-

Howell’s corpse slumps face down in the snow, his enhancements winking out one by one. Jack turns, and is struck in his arm again.

He staggers, and lurches onto one knee, snow soaking through his trousers, his blood staining it a deep crimson. The sniper languidly unfurls herself from her perch and drops down, casually walking over to Jack as they reload their rifle. He squints into the darkness. They slowly appear.

They’re dressed in one of Overwatch’s dark blue uniforms, a beret jammed on their head, and for a pulse-pounding moment he thinks it’s Ana.

Jack blinks, and his vision sharpens for a moment. Not Ana. No mark of Horus, no long, raven hair. Her head is shaven. Her smile is too wide, too wicked. This sniper enjoys the pain she inflicts.

He breathes heavily, his right leg splayed out behind him, his left arm hanging uselessly. His mind flings a name forward. Yelena. Another of Gabriel’s pet projects.

She smiles mirthlessly, and unsheathes a gleaming finka knife. She chuckles darkly and steps forward.

Then screams as Jack’s knife stabs through the top of her boot, pinning her foot to the floor. He leaps forward, tackling her around the waist, and lands on top of her. He yanks the knife out and brings it down in a savage arc, just as she crosses her arms over her face, holding the knife back.

Mechanical arms fight against enhanced limbs. Nothing else matters. He forgets the cold, forgets the pain, just two fighters.

He pushes down, and jerks the knife to the side in a crimson spray. Blood spurts out over the snow. He breathes raggedly, then slumps over to the side. The cold and pain come back to him, just as he hears a chorus of sirens erupt, red and blue light streaking through the streets of Zurich. He sighs, and sheaths his knife. He scrabbles through the snow for his pistol and rifle, then stands, exhausted, and nearly collapses. He growls, and balances himself on a chunk of concrete, and slowly, painfully, limps away.

He hobbles in the opposite direction to the sirens, his rifle hanging limply around his shoulders, his left arm swaying uselessly.

His vision swims, and he sees darkness.

He’s suddenly in an alleyway in the city. He glances over his shoulder. The police are swarming the ruins of the Overwatch headquarters. He limps on. 

- 

Jack looks up at the hospital in front of him. A few lights glow in various windows, but for the most part, the hospital is silent. Good. His first aid gear is hardly enough to handle the wounds he’s got.

He’d only managed to cauterize his leg with an emergency flare, and he’s only standing due to far too much morphine, and the supersoldier enhancements refusing to let him collapse.

His right leg is still drenched in blood. He feels lightheaded. He scans the street, and quickly limps across the road. There’s a fire escape round the back. He hauls himself onto a dumpster below, then leaps for the fire escape. His left arm is still useless, so it’s by some miracle he manages to tug himself up and collapse on the cold metal.

He pulls himself to his feet, and tugs at the window beside him, forcing it open. It opens a few inches. Damn. He rolls his eyes behind the visor and digs his fingers into the window frame and pulls it out, dropping the window on the fire escape. 

He lowers himself through the window. He thumbs a switch on his visor, and the room blinks into pale green light in his night vision. He strips off his bloody jacket, and dumps it on the bed. He sits in the chair, and props his leg up on the table, rolling his trouser leg up. He takes his pistol out and places it on the table beside him, then unwinds the bandage, tossing it to the floor.

The bullet is lodged in his thigh, at an awkward angle to dig it out with his knife. He picks at the scar on the back of his thigh, gritting his teeth when it breaks, blood flowing freshly.

He feels the muscles in his thigh grinding and shifting, a helpful part of the serum and the various supersoldier drugs coursing through his veins. The muscles knit back together, forcing the bullet out. 

He dresses and rebandages the wound, just as he hears footsteps in the hall, and a muttered voice. His ears strain. One person. He slowly reaches for his pistol, and stands, moving to just beside the door. The footsteps pause outside the door, and he hears the person tapping in a code. He braces himself.

The door hisses open and the lights flicker on, illuminating the room, with the busted window, his bloodied jacket, and the discarded bandage and pulse rifle. The person steps in, oblivious, looking down at a tablet, then looks up.

“Was zum teufel?” they hiss, just as Jack moves in. He claps a hand over their mouth, muffling their scream, and smacks the door with his pistol hand, shutting it and locking it. He holds the person tightly, and whispers in their ear.

“English?” he asks, menace dripping in his voice. The person nods.

“Yes.” They say, voice strained.

“I’m going to let you go.” He continues. “If you scream, or try anything, you’re not leaving this room. Understand?”

They nod against his hand, and he slowly lets them go. They start away, coughing, then turn. 

He stifles a gasp in his throat.

It’s Mercy.

Dr Angela Ziegler, in the flesh. Overwatch’s very own angel.

Of all the goddamn hospitals…Jack curses in his head. She’s dressed in lime green scrubs, her long golden hair tied back tightly.

She looks at Jack, unafraid. Defiant. “You’re injured?” she hisses, her accent thicker in her anger. He nods tightly. She slowly moves over, as if approaching a rabid dog. “Your arm?” she asks gently. He nods again. “Patched up my leg.” He says.

She looks at him quizzically, then motions for him to sit. He does so, and she inspects his bandaged wound. “You’ll live.” She comments dryly. She moves to his arm, inspecting the ruin of his left bicep. “Mein gott.” She murmurs, looking at him oddly. He shifts slightly.

She bites her lip, then moves over to the nearby cupboards and pulls out a box, rummaging through, and pulls out a small orange cylinder. He recognises them from Overwatch field medical kits. Biotic emitters.

“I need a sample of your blood.” She says primly. “There’s a lot of it around, doc.” Jack remarks frostily. “Take your pick.” She glares at him, and moves to his ruined jacket, taking a sample of blood off the sleeve and slotting it into the emitter.

Jack’s mind races. What do I say? Do I say anything? 

Before he can decide, Angela returns, the biotic emitter apparently ready. “This is a biotic emitter.” She says, matter of factly, as she moves to his arm. “It’ll repair the damage done to your arm, but you need to sit still while it works.”

He nods, and, satisfied, she thumbs a switch on the side of it and places it beside him. He bites back a sigh of relief as the warmth of it floods his body. It feels like basking in a warm bath. The skin around his arm tingles as the emitter sets to work.

Angela stands back slightly, leaning against the bed. “The gunfire earlier, was that you?” she asks. “Yeah.” Jack admits. She grimaces. “I’m leaving Switzerland tomorrow.” He finishes. She looks at him, then her eyes widen suddenly. She looks at the jacket beside her, eyes tracing the back.

“You’re that soldier.” She says. “The one that’s been going all over America.” It’s Jack’s turn to grimace. “That’s me.” He sighs. She looks quizzically at him.

He’s unsure what the look in her eyes is.

The emitter pings, apparently done. Jack looks at his arm. Despite the new scar, courtesy of Yelena’s rifle, it’s as good as new. He flexes his arm experimentally, feeling for any stress or strain. “How does it feel?” Angela asks. Jack smiles behind his visor. “It’s good.” He says, standing up and slotting his pistol back in the holster, pulling on his ruined jacket.

“Thanks doc. Sorry about the window.” He says, picking up the pulse rifle and turning to go. “You’ve been attacking Watchpoints.” She says, accusation clear in her tone. “You destroyed Grand Mesa.”

He doesn’t respond.

“What are you doing?” Angela asks. He turns, and remembers Angela at his side, Angela patching everyone up with her kind words and refusal to back down.

An angel.

Their angel.

What are you doing?

“Overwatch was brought down from the inside. I’m trying to figure out why.” He says simply. That’s as close to the truth as he can get. Angela stares back at him, then crosses the room to the box of emitters left on the side.

She pulls out a handful and offers them to him. “These are hard to find, but if you can find a nanobot source they can be reused.” He slowly reaches out and takes them, clipping them onto a set of holsters on his belt.

She turns, picking up the bloody bandage and cleaning the room up. “If you’re going to go around like some vigilante at least look after yourself.”

A goddamn angel.

“Thanks doc.” He says, saluting quickly, and climbing back out the window.

Angela simply sighs, and leaves the room, clicking the lights off behind her.