Chapter Text
Dorado’s civilians were asleep, the night air was silent and still. The bright lights and colorful decorations from the Omnic Crisis celebration were still hanging about the main streets, starkly contrasting the rest of the city’s darkness.
A shadow moved toward its objective, where intelligence had reported two Overwatch agents would be waiting to escort a batch of newly acquired (and illegal) supplies to their new base. The payload was scheduled to arrive at dawn, only a few hours from now. The supplies and agents would be gone long before Dorado woke.
Sure enough, a few blocks away from one of the brightly lit main streets in a darkened side street stood the two targets. A large man clad in armor, and a petite woman in goggles. Reaper recognized both of them from his vantage point - former colleagues whom he had trusted. His eyes narrowed behind his ghoulish mask as he sneered. How times changed.
Lucky me, he thought as he silently slid from the rooftop into one of the surrounding buildings. Though the newly reformed Overwatch was a shadow of what it had been during the first Omnic Crisis, Reaper wasn’t going to take his chances confronting Reinhardt and Tracer head-on without first clearing out any back-up they might have hiding in the buildings.
As Reaper made his way through the homes, he began to think maybe he was giving Overwatch too much credit this time. Reaper could feel the warmth of the living around him, all unconscious and unaware besides the two agents below. He almost laughed at how unprepared they apparently were, but he frowned as he noticed someone on a higher floor above him, standing by a window.
Sniper. That won’t do.
He wisped through bedrooms and living rooms, ghosting over sleeping figures and watching their peaceful faces shiver and squirm as their dreams became cold, empty. He made his way upwards, toward the unsuspecting victim.
Reaper was surprised to find not a sniper, but a soldier framed in the window. His back was turned to the ghost, but he was standing at ease, rifle held idly at his side, head trained toward the two Overwatch agents in the street. He was watching them.
Soldier: 76 wasn’t there as a recalled Overwatch agent. Quite the contrary - 76 had heard about the dropoff same as Reaper, and had come to observe the operation. So far he wasn’t very impressed. He watched Tracer idly pace around, then sit on the payload and kick her feet, then roll over to the other side and let her head hang upside-down, then back up on her feet skipping about, all the while jabbering away with Reinhardt. Reinhardt was closer to professional, his good eye wandering the horizons carefully even as he kept up the light conversation with his companion. Still, his form was sloppy, he was too at-ease. 76 could have taken the both of them out if he had a mind to.
76 wasn’t interested in securing Overwatch’s payload from them, however; he was simply there to watch and judge if it was something he wanted to sink back into. He hadn’t been easily convinced by Winston and Angela’s invitation.
He shifted his weight and rolled one of his shoulders, then froze as he felt cool metal clack against the neck brace of his helmet. Strange for an enemy to get the drop on him like that. 76 hadn’t heard a sound or been alerted to any sort of movement or heat signature nearby-
“It seems we both had the same idea,” Reaper began, filling Dorado’s still silence with his low, menacing growl. The other man didn’t make any sign of moving, but Reaper definitely had his attention. “Too bad I don’t like sharing. Overwatch is mine, old man.”
Reaper had immediately recognized him - the giant ‘76’ across his broad back was a less-than-subtle giveaway. He hadn’t known the infamous Soldier: 76 was working with the reformed Overwatch. From what he remembered of the sparse reports Talon had on him, 76 was in the business of stealing Overwatch tech and disrupting operations in a manner similar to (but notably less-deadly than) Reaper’s own conduct.
Soldier 76 turned his head slightly, red visor glowing eerily in the darkness. “And you are?”
A raspy, echoing laugh emitted from behind the hooded man’s mask, and he twirled his unoccupied hand out where the soldier could see it. “Drop your rifle and turn around. Slowly.” he commanded. Soldier 76 complied, releasing his firearm and turning, Reaper’s shotgun never wavering from his head.
As soon as he saw the mask, it all clicked together in an instant. Soldier 76’s visor identified the other man as the ‘Reaper’ that Winston had warned him about. None of the other information provided by Athena’s database was much help. No combat recommendations, no exploitable weaknesses; no definitive data that the ghost could even be killed.
The old soldier’s mind was racing as he kept his composure, trying to figure out a way to efficiently and successfully incapacitate smoke when that chilling voice broke his thoughts again, raking at his brain.
“I knew Overwatch was grasping at straws, but don’t tell me the infamous Soldier: 76 got a spot on the new ‘team’? Their standards must have really taken a nosedive.” Reaper sounded amused, and he shifted his weight, leaning forward, closer to the other man’s face. “I’m sorry to say your time serving them is about to be cut very short.”
“I haven’t joined Overwatch,” 76 stated flatly. He seemed to be unphased by the ghost’s threats, despite the very real and very big gun pointed at his brain.
It was true - Dr. Zeigler had reached out to him with an invitation to be part of the Overwatch Recall, but he hadn’t accepted just yet. He had wanted to see what this new operation was going to be like, illegal as it was.
She had told him that they needed a leader.
Soldier 76 had laughed.
“Shame. I was looking forward to blowing your brains out.” Reaper flexed his empty hand, showing off razor sharp talons. “Guess tearing out your heart will have to do.”
There was a flurry of movement. Reaper lunged forward, his claws aimed straight for Soldier 76’s throat. Soldier 76 moved just as fast, pushing the shotgun away from his face as hard as he could while turning his body away from his attacker. The firearm went skidding across the room, but the talons found flesh, sinking deep into 76’s shoulder.
Better a few new stitches than a blown-out skull, he thought grimly before bringing his other arm down on Reaper’s elbow with as much force as he could muster. There was a loud SNAP, a cry of pain, and then the man dissolved into shadow. Soldier 76 swung his head around the room, but his visor couldn’t pinpoint the predator. No heat. No movement. There was no sign of life whatsoever.
So he really WAS just a cloud of smoke. That was... annoying.
Soldier 76 reached down to retrieve his rifle, but found a heavy boot pinning it to the ground. A metal-clad knee collided with his mask, the force of which momentarily sent his vision into painful static, snapping him back to an upright position as a clawed hand grabbed him around the throat and shoved him roughly against the wall. His vision returned with the visor rebooting just in time to see the surrounding shadows pool into place, and the rest of Reaper emerged - that low, cold laugh echoing in 76’s skull.
“Pathetic,” the spectre spat, mercilessly squeezing 76’s airway. “Seems like the rumors about you are exaggerated.” He lifted the soldier off the ground a few inches. A buzz began to ring in Reaper’s ears, but he grit his teeth and ignored it. He was almost done with this geezer. He’d take 76’s soul as a refill before he went to town on the two Overwatch agents below.
Soldier 76 struggled against his assailant’s grip, but it was firm, and the lack of airflow was quickly turning his thoughts to mud. He felt the other man reach up and tap, tap, tap on his visor as the world began to spin.
“What are you hiding under there, I wonder?” Reaper mused, his tone low and hungry. He loved the fear, the despair that shone through the eyes during a person’s last moments. He wanted to watch the warmth drain from him as his body went limp in Reaper’s grip. With a quick movement, he grabbed the rim of Soldier 76’s visor and pulled, popping it and the connected faceplate none-too-gently from its place. Reaper smirked under his own mask, but the smile slowly faded, and his grip faltered. An involuntary shudder ran through Reaper’s form as his cold, dead brain registered what - who he was looking at.
He was holding a dead man.
Without his visor, Soldier 76 couldn’t see, thus he couldn’t gauge why the other man hadn’t already torn his head off. But he felt the split-second hesitation and took his chance. He twisted, grabbing the visor out of Reaper’s now numb hand and kicking out against him with both feet. The blow sent him stumbling backwards against a table, a snarl on his lips. Soldier 76 lunged forward in a roll, righting himself with his rifle in his hands and visor back on his face. His red-tinted world quickly came back into view as the system booted back up, and he took aim at the shadowy figure.
Soldier 76 opened fire, and Reaper faded back into smoke with a hiss.
This was now getting dangerous - it was dragging on for too long. The fight, combined with the long trip to the drop point was taking its toll. Reaper knew he couldn’t last much longer if he kept using his powers without more sustenance. He needed to back out, to retreat to a different home, reap a family in their sleep, recharge… but he couldn’t. He couldn’t break his gaze from the other man. There was something in the pit of his stomach - something he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Soldier 76 backed quickly toward an exit, his gun always trained to the center of the room, waiting for another attack. It was completely still, silent. The soldier ducked into the hallway, heading as quickly as he could down the stairs and toward the open street where he knew he’d have an advantage over this spectre and his close-range shotgun.
Reaper’s voice echoed through the hallways, haunting and surrounding Soldier 76 like an early morning mist. The cold, confident sarcasm from before was replaced with a biting anger.
“Morrison.” Soldier 76 flinched at his old name. So he had recognized him? “Jack Morrison.” It was spit like venom. “Alive and well. Won’t the world be glad to hear it. Their beloved hero returns.”
The soldier shook his head slightly as he rounded a corner, reaching another staircase. “Not my name, pal.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Reaper rematerialized behind the soldier, this time shotguns in his fists. The two opened fire on each other, 76 diving down the short flight and firing up at the ghostly form, his bullets seeming to do no damage as Reaper descended after his prey. They exchanged clips until the ghost was out of bullets, then Reaper disappeared just as quickly as he had come. That dry, haunting laugh filled the dark building once again as Soldier 76 came to the ground floor.
Reaper could feel his arms going numb as the areas where his enemy’s bullets had shredded through were leaking smoke and quickly repairing itself. He shook his head, trying to keep his mind grounded in his incorporeal form until his job was finished.
The door to the street opened before Soldier 76 reached it, and Tracer stood framed in the moonlight. Her face was scrunched in worry, pistols held out in front of her. She looked surprised to see Soldier 76, but she glanced around the room, apparently not considering him a threat.
“I heard shots, luv, what’s-”
A whirlwind of smoke billowed behind him, and Soldier 76 lunged forward, grabbed Tracer by the shoulder, and pushed the both of them out into the open street, barely dodging another rain of shotgun fire.
Reaper felt as if he was an observer in his own skin. He could feel the blackness creeping into the corner of his vision, his limbs moved forward on their own as he futilely tried to command them. He tried to control himself, but this sudden, burning hatred in his chest was the first thing he’d felt in years, and Reaper was determined to see the now-foreign feeling through to the end. The end being, of course, Jack Morrison’s body broken and bleeding at his feet and his soul in Reaper’s claws. The retribution he thought he had been denied all these years was finally here.
Somehow, someway, that bastard was still alive.
Despite the two Overwatch agents there to back him up, Reaper was dead-set on finishing the job the mess at Swiss HQ hadn’t seemed to be able to all those years ago. He was going to send Jack Morrison to the grave - permanently.
Tracer jumped to her feet with Soldier 76 following suit, and the two of them aimed at Reaper. Their blasts ripped holes through his figure, but it didn’t do much as the wounds quickly repaired themselves, smoke billowing from the damaged areas.
Reaper grimaced beneath his mask. Injuries healed automatically, but it was draining. His body was completely numb now as his rage kept him moving forward.
He growled, lunging at Soldier 76 with heavy footsteps, but was knocked aside by Tracer’s running kick. Reaper didn’t even hit the ground - just fell into the shadows and burst back out into the open, resuming his charge and screaming his hated enemy’s old name. He had to kill him. He had to tear his throat open, tear out his heart, leave him empty and cold, leave him nothing but alone and broken and dead.
It was overwhelming, he couldn’t stop himself. He felt his mind clouding, his body harder to control, everything was falling away as he kept getting knocked down by Tracer and Reinhardt. He saw Jack Morrison, but the man didn’t move, he didn’t even bother to fire. He just watched with what looked like pity as the shadow kept struggling like a beaten animal, weaker and weaker as he was kept at bay by the Overwatch agents.
He hated him. He hated the pity, he hated the way he looked at him. Another unearthly scream ripped from his broken form as he continued to strain.
Soldier 76 didn’t understand, and was mildly irritated that the shadow kept shouting his dead name. Reinhardt was trying to be subtle about the surprised side glances he was throwing back at 76, some kind of unsure hope in his eyes. It was giving 76 a boiling resentment in the pit of his stomach. Who was this Reaper? How dare he give his old comrades hope that their old friend was still alive, somehow back from the grave?
Soldier 76 didn’t recognize the other man, and the longer the confrontation dragged the less he could recognize him. Reaper was practically smoke now, large plumes of blackness falling off of his wheezing, gasping form as the Overwatch agents stood between the two men.
Reaper lifted his head and the mask seemed to lock its gaze with Soldier 76. There was a tingling sense of nostalgia at the back of the soldier’s mind, but the growling shrieks of the shadow chased the feeling away.
He’d never met this kind of monster before.
Reaper crashed into the wall from another blow of Reinhardt’s hammer, and his head lolled to the side. He couldn’t feel his body anymore. He couldn’t feel anything - not the pain of his form reconstructing itself, not the pain of his broken bones and shredded skin, not the ache in his chest, not the burning anger. His vision was swimming, blurry, then black as he slumped forward with a gasp.
The earth fell away, voices barely permeating the sudden darkness that engulfed him. Reaper couldn’t make out anything they were saying. They all blended together into a low rumbling chorus ringing all around him, inside of him, through him.
He thought, dully, that he should feel frightened. Or annoyed, at least. The last time this had happened was right after the explosion, when he had first died.
But he couldn’t feel. He didn’t even know if he was actually thinking anything, or if it was just echoes of the past, echoes of his mind’s last moments? Maybe he was finally just trapped in that void. Was this release?
What was he doing? Where was his body?
“...try a treatment, but...”
The sudden, new voice brought up a bubbling scream from the blackness. A wretched sound, trying to drown it out, push the voice and all it meant, all it was associated with far away - away where it couldn’t do damage, couldn’t touch him, couldn’t hear him, couldn’t see--
“...collapsed. Was calling…”
Boyscout. He felt a dim flutter of that anger again at the sound of his enemy’s raspy, tired voice overlaid on the hated first. He chased it, pursued the anger. He didn’t know where he was feeling it, but it was there, surrounding him, pulling him back from the blackness.
--
He didn’t know how long he’d been dead - dissociating, unconscious, whatever. It had never been explained what happened when he didn’t keep up his strength.
What he did know was that when he opened his eyes, it was dim and he couldn’t move his body.
Reaper slowly turned his head, realizing with a bit of relief that his mask was still on his face, and then with horror that he was in some kind of quarantine room. He wasn’t restrained, but his body would not respond to his commands, so it didn’t matter. His entire being felt dry - cold, somehow more like a corpse than usual. He glanced down and saw his left hand was bare - the glove tossed to the side and an IV stuck in his arm. He noted with mild amusement that his skin was a worrying grey color, and tendrils of smoke were lazily rising from his stark black fingertips.
Should have eaten breakfast, he mused in his recovering haze.
From what he could see with his limited mobility, his cell was bare. There was the single bench he was laying on and a few feet of empty space all around (for standing, pacing, or other riveting activities). There were no bars, but he was boxed in by thick glass on all sides.
The room beyond his cell was white and sterile. There were a few unoccupied stretchers, operating tables, and beds. Everything was pristine and sickeningly familiar.
There was a swishing sound of automatic doors opening somewhere outside his field of vision, but he could sense the warm life making its way over to where he lay. Reaper tried to crane his neck to view his captor, and the movement was rewarded with his vision swimming and a feeling of nausea creeping into his throat.
When his eyes righted themselves, the warmth was standing in front of him, just outside the reinforced glass.
If his heart still beat, it definitely would have stopped.
Not her. He felt an echo of the screaming chorus from before. Not again.
Dr. Ziegler greeted Reaper with a small, sympathetic smile. She was wearing a regular coat and high heels, a clipboard in her hand, and her blonde hair tied back loosely.
“Good morning, Gabriel.”
Her clear tones struck deep. Pleasant to any other ear, her voice elicited an illness in his stomach. Reaper’s fists clenched, that familiar burning hatred from before reigniting, this time with a hint of pure survival instinct. Everything in his body and brain was screaming at him to escape, right now.
Since he was very much stuck in his cell, however, he used the adrenaline to force his body to move despite its screaming protests and his better judgement. Dr. Ziegler’s eyes widened as she raised her free hand.
“Please, you shouldn’t move--”
He cut her off with a snarl. The words he managed were broken, raspy. “Witch... Every time I think I'm going to be freed from this fucking curse...” he forced his body upright, jerking movements driving him like he was being puppeteered. His bare hand crashed against the glass, the other taloned fist scratching frantically. “You couldn't let me die, could you? You always have to meddle,” he spat, slamming his head against the glass, desperately trying to get closer to her, to close his claws around her neck, to squeeze that warmth out of existence.
“Gabriel, please…” Mercy’s eyes were filled with a deep sadness as she watched him struggle to remain on his feet, body of smoke feebly trying to keep itself together long enough to do something - anything--
The pity drove him nuts.
“No... Don't look at me... You don’t get to judge me when you made me, you bitch!” He hammered his words into the glass, pounding more weakly than he would have liked. His voice was wavering - that bubbling, heated hatred wasn’t able to keep him up any longer.
Knees gave out beneath him, and Reaper slumped to the floor, talons scratching all the way down. He breathed heavily, injured lungs wheezing as he tried to keep his mind IN his body, tried to keep his vision clear, but it was no use. He needed to feed, he needed sustenance to keep himself together.
He heard the clicking of Angela’s heels as she moved toward the glass. She crouched down to be at his eye level.
“I’m trying to help you, Gabriel-” she paused as his dry cackling cut her off. She patiently waited for him to quiet down before continuing. “If it wasn’t for our agents bringing you in, you would already be gone.” She stood again, moving over to a console connected to the quarantine chamber. “How did you let your condition get so much worse--”
Reaper’s fist crashed against the glass again, and she looked up at him sharply.
“It’s your fault in the first place, doc....” His voice was fading, raspy. “Or, did you forget that I was dead, and you couldn’t just leave well enough alone?”
Angela’s face hardened, and she turned back to the console, punching in a few codes and numbers. The chamber Reaper was contained in began to hum slightly. The floor took on a soft warm, orange glow. He felt his strength slowly return as artificial energy coursed into his weakened body. It was a familiar sensation; one coupled with memories from long gone days and buried pasts.
“The field in that chamber will help your cells balance their regeneration and decomposition, and provide you with the energy to keep up with the process. It will have to do until I find a way to permanently fix your condition.”
Reaper slowly stood up, tearing the IV out of his arm and snatching up his gauntlet. He considered Angela through his mask as he slowly covered his rotted flesh with the armor.
“You could just let me die.”
“And what would that solve?” Angela snapped, exasperated. She had forgotten how difficult a patient Gabriel was.
“It would ‘permanently solve my condition’,” he stated, matter-of-factly. He lifted his hands up against the glass again, putting pressure on it, testing to see if he could escape. “I don’t think what I’ve got is a rampant disease that needs a cure.” He grinned maliciously under his mask as he turned it slowly toward her. “Though I suppose it’s a disease YOU created. Of course you need to cure it. Can’t have any blemishes on that perfect track record you call a conscience.”
Angela’s jaw clenched and she pressed a button. The glass vibrated, and Reaper retracted his hands as a shock ran over the smooth surface.
“Touchy.”
“The glass is fourteen inches of reinforced nanofibers, Gabriel. You will not be escaping, so I suggest you get comfortable.” The doctor pulled up a chair and placed it directly in front of the chamber. “Now, we need to go over what you’ve been doing since our last chat-”
A disgusted noise emanated from Reaper’s throat and he clenched his fists, claws digging into his palms.
She wasn’t really doing this. This wasn’t really happening.
“Jesus, you really are a cold, soulless monster, aren’t you?”
She raised her brows and began to write something down on her clipboard. It just made him more irritated. “None of my patients would agree with you-”
“BECAUSE NONE OF YOUR PATIENTS WERE YOUR VICTIMS,” he roared, smashing his fist against the glass once more, this time with the desired force.
He wasn’t doing this. This wasn’t happening again.
He leaned on the glass, imagining his talons tearing through her heart. She seemed at a loss for words, so he pushed himself back and sat down on the only furniture in his cramped space. There was a drawn-out pause as Angela waited for him to settle down or make demands or, something, as Reaper went through a mental checklist of his current priorities.
“How did I get here?” He asked, finally. He couldn’t believe Jack, Reinhardt and Tracer would bring him back to their base. They couldn’t be that stupid, right?
Angela sniffed. “After you were incapacitated, our agents brought you to our base.”
Reaper blanched. “Why?”
“You’ve been a pain in our side more than once. And you’ve been working for our biggest threat. You’d be a valuable source of information on Talon’s goals and operations.”
Reaper shrugged. “I’m just a mercenary. I just do the job and get paid. I don’t have any interest in their bigger picture.” It wasn’t a total lie - he was doing work for Talon, yes, but Overwatch didn’t need to know the extent of his involvement with them.
“Regardless, I’m glad they brought you in. This gives us a chance to continue your therapy and-”
“What did you do to Jack?” he interrupted, quickly changing the subject to the first thing that popped into his head.
“What-”
“Soldier 76. Jack Morrison. He’s alive. Said he wasn’t working for Overwatch.”
Angela’s face fell. “You talked to him?”
“How long have you known he was still alive, Mercy?” he spat the name. “How long were you gonna keep that one all to yourself, special little Angela?”
Her tone was cold. “You died too, Gabriel. How long were you going to let us all believe you weren’t alive?”
Reaper tapped his foot absently. “I’m not alive. Jack is.”
Angela had a hint of guilt in her eyes and she swallowed.
“He didn’t recognize me,” Reaper laughed, cold and low as he readjusted in his seat. “Unsurprising. Could barely recognize him under all those burns. What were you even doing at HQ? You didn’t save pretty Jack, you didn’t let the dead rest..” Reaper tapped on his mask in mock-thoughtfulness. “I thought I had it bad that day, but it looks like you really couldn’t get anything right.”
Dr. Ziegler couldn’t seem to meet his gaze. She was suddenly very interested in the papers on her lap. “Soldier 76 is one of my patients, and that’s all I’m at liberty to say.”
Reaper leaned forward incredulously. “You’re kidding.”
“Patient confidentiality. It’s why you get to keep your mask,” she gestured vaguely at him.
Reaper tilted his head slightly. “You mean-”
“You’re also my patient.”
“Not a chance. They don’t know who I was?”
“They don’t know who you are,” she corrected. He rolled his eyes. “None of the other agents know your identity. To them, you are simply a threat. I’m the only one here who knows your value.”
Reaper’s stomach turned at the way she said ‘value’. “So what happens now? You keep me against my will for a couple weeks, then I break out and snap your neck? Is that how we’re doing this?”
Angela’s long patience was running very thin. “We haven’t decided exactly what is going to happen to you, Ga-”
“Reaper,” he interrupted, harshly. He’d had enough of that ‘Gabriel’ nonsense. She frowned and began to protest, but he crossed his arms over his chest defiantly. “Patient confidentiality, right?”
She sighed as she stood and moved toward one of the sets of automatic doors. “Reaper, we’re having a meeting about your fate later tonight.”
“I take it I’m not invited?”
Angela glanced over her shoulder. “Of course not. You’re a terrorist and have been working with the enemy.”
“Most of the world would describe this little Overwatch reunion of yours in similar terms.”
His dark, mocking chuckle followed her out the doors, Angela not even bothering to argue because she knew as well as he did that he was right. The Recall was hasty and, more importantly, illegal. They all knew it. But it was necessary. They’d all agreed on that much, at least.
The doors slid closed with an almost inaudible SWISH, and Reaper was left alone again.