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The first week within the remote compound, Jack could hear the bubble of chemicals in the medbay from the kitchen. He figured it was a misjudgment on the part of the organizers, to put the medbay so close to the mess hall, but he sees the rows of seats that are yet to be filled by the remaining volunteers and knows how easy it would be to pull batches from their tables and to the gurneys. Each day they’re stuck here is a battle unfought out there. There’s no rushing science, but there was control over how quickly soldiers were being brought into and out of the clinic.
Not that it mattered. The medbay was the center of the whole project, and therefore, the center of the entire compound. It was just easier to enter it from the mess hall. Easier to find the next batch needed for new tests or a new round of serums.
The sizzle of oil competed with the bubbling sound in his ears, but it was far more welcome than the chatter when the doctors come flooding in at dawn for a cup of coffee. The gym wasn’t any quieter. He found more solace breaking eggs than beside the few restless soldiers running laps on the treadmills. 2am, making scrambled eggs, was the only time he found himself alone while in the program.
Not a lot of soldiers bothered with the kitchen. Not even when the next batch of guinea pigs arrived. The last thing any of them wanted after the first dose was to be anywhere near the smell of antiseptics. Jack has to admit, it stings his nose the wrong way too, but he’s spent enough time on a gurney to make it more familiar than nauseating. Besides, when the eggs hit the pan, the smell is torn through long enough for Jack to feel some sort of comfort. It’s no diner eggs and toast, but- nothing is more bright and yellow in this compound. Except his hair, 28 likes to remind him.
Sometimes, there’d be a few soldiers coming in and out of the kitchen. Mostly for a cup of water or a light snack. Rarely did anyone share the stove with Jack. With each new batch of volunteers, the number of visitors did grow. At lunch, he’d hear the occasional Golden Goose nickname. He isn’t surprised with how many eggs he’s gone through over the first two weeks.
“God, where’s my plate, 24?” 23 hangs off the side of the top bunk, nose sniffing for the plate of gold in the dark.
“Didn’t think you were up. That was rough last night.”
“And you’re out making some goddamn eggs.” The outstretched hand is given a half-eaten plate, and Jack hears the familiar satisfied hum. His voice was barely above a whisper. How could he risk having the rest of the barrack scrambling for a bite? “Oh fuck, the cooks could never.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts. Once the last two batches arrive, who knows what other psychopath would be cooking at 0200.”
“I think it’s a Bloomington thing, and we’re fucked if we get two of you in the program.”
Jack barks out a laugh in response. As if anyone else from that town would volunteer for an experiment like this. They’re good people, but they’re barely as insane as he is. All the soldiers here left little behind when they decided to volunteer for this. At least, he hopes that’s the case. Someone too optimistic of getting out of here alive was never going to make it. For a person to sign up for the SEP waiting to return home to family was stupid because even if they do survive the program, there was no guarantee the Omnics were going to be any easier to overcome.
Someone bright-eyed and overconfident is not the type of person Jack expects to be strapped to a gurney in their medbay.
---
Leave it to the SEP to break expectations.
Jack tried not to give in to the curiosity sprung up by the crowd gathering in the gym. It was probably another soldier trying to beat their PR on the bench press. He raises a brow at the number being cheered out by one of the more enthusiastic soldiers of the bunch. Giving it a second of thought, he backtracks and peeks into the gym again. He has to squint into the sea of heads to get a good look at what exactly has the attention of the entire hoard, but all he sees is a fist connecting to 48’s jaw.
The crowd doesn’t part for him until he gets within view of the fight. The rest start to take notice of who’s weaving through to the front and they start to shuffle away. Jack doesn’t recognize the gesture, but with 48 on the ground and being hauled off by one of the 41-60, no one else has the new guy’s attention but him. There was a challenge in the grin that follows, and Jack is sure everyone else feels the electricity in the air as well.
“24?”
People have been talking.
“Been looking for me?”
“I hear you’re the one to beat in this hell hole.”
Jack steps onto the mat with an unsure nod. They’re right. No one’s been able to pin him down on the mat yet, but he’s never kept count of how many. Victories on the mat didn’t matter.
It seemed that 76 didn’t care much for the lack of reply because when Jack steps up in front of him, he has his fists raised to his face. He’s ready to bite and already calculating the best course of combat in his head. Jack notices the traces of a full beard trying to grow. He’s taking advantage of the loose regulations here, for sure.
While they circle each other, something else catches Jack’s eye. The hint of excitement in the man’s eyes, the kind that comes from pent up aggression of a man trained to kill. Not quite the bloodlust of a man who has killed. Of course, in a war against omnics, it was hard to find blood-stained hands.
Jack waits for his opponent to rush forward. He expected it from someone as electrified as 76 was. He could almost smile at how tense his shoulders are in comparison to his own. It would be admirable if he hadn’t recognized the same from his previous competitors on the same mat.
“Soldiers sixty-one to eighty, report to the medbay,” one of the medical staff calls out before 76, predictably, could throw the first fist.
“Of fucking course. We’re taking a raincheck on this—” his eyes fall briefly to the number on Jack’s shirt, “Twenty-four.”
“That’s if you survive!” One of the onlookers laughed out, but Jack just sighs at the remark.
“Good luck.”
A mutual nod between the two ends their conversation then 76 is pulled away with the rest of his batch. The others disperse with disappointed chatter. They either wanted to see Jack finally on his back on the mat or to be proven once more than Jack has them all beat in hand-to-hand. Jack just— watches as the new group leaves the gym with misplaced enthusiasm. 76 has the gall to toss a grin back at him.
His face turns grim with the last of them out of sight. Now, he didn’t want to make any assumptions about them, but in the back of his mind he thought those soldiers have not seen enough battles to be able to survive the program. It’s either that or they weren’t given the same briefing on the program as he did. There were a lot of them that looked like they could’ve been picked straight out of basic, and it made him curious of the selection process of the participants.
What part of his genetics left him here beside marines or rangers?
Jack stares off at the door they left in before leaving out the opposite one himself. The sun was still high in the sky, and the empty tracks were looking especially tempting today.
¬—
That awful sulfuric smell wafted into the kitchen with the swing of the doors, prompting a gag and a pause out Jack. Out of the dark hall peeked in a very exhausted 76, his skin paling dangerously under the white lights of the kitchen. Something buttery and salty called him here, and he was determined to hunt it down.
“Mierda, what is that?” the visitor ambles over to the stove where Jack is stationed, raising a brow at him.
“The floor here isn’t the best to pass out on.”
“And I’ll be damned if I pass on whatever the hell it is you’re cooking.”
“Eggs.”
“Eggs?”
“Eggs.”
“Just eggs?”
There’s a spoon to his face before he can ask if they were eggs again, and who is Gabriel to turn down an offering of food.
The same satisfied hum comes rumbling from the delirious soldier, but Jack didn’t expect for the spoon being taken away from him so the man could scoop another spoon of eggs.
“No way that’s eggs, pollo. It’s like a fucking- like- fuck, what’s that jelly thing they serve those unlucky kids in school-”
“Pudding.”
“That’s the fucker. Pudding. Like salty, heavenly pudding.”
“It’s just eggs.”
“You’re pulling my leg. What the hell did you put in there?”
“Salt, pepper, butter, cream.”
“Cream. You sly dog.”
Jack already has 76 propped up in his arms, his legs having given up from underneath him. The damned man was still going on about the cream.
“Come on, 76,” He says, hoisting the soldier onto his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. The eggs could wait. He didn’t want this guy hurling all over the floor and leaving something else for him to clean up.
Out in the hall, the smell cut through the air quick enough to make Jack grimace. 81-100 were probably in there. He’s expecting a herd of tired scientists to come barreling into the kitchen in a few hours, so Jack quickens his steps towards the barracks.
“Hey. Where do I drop you off?”
No answer.
“76.”
A groan. Rude.
And of course, he’s lost. He hasn’t explored the layout of the base and never mingled with the other soldiers to be familiar with their barracks. 61-80 must be in the west wing, right? Jack found himself running circles looking for the man’s bed before finally deciding that he could sacrifice his own if it meant his eggs weren’t going to go cold.
Jack could hear his own footsteps in his barrack. There were barely any soldiers awake, and the ones who were probably left for the gym earlier. He’s thankful for the lack of peering eyes and curious quips as he laid 76 on his own bed. The blanket was immediately reached for in a blind search by the exhausted man. If this was how he reacted to the preliminary tests, Jack could only imagine what could happen when they start pumping in the real serums into their veins. Seeing 76 like this reminded him of the rest of his barrack that night they arrived as well. The night wasn’t quiet like this. The smell never left their noses. Jack felt his body’s confused response to the first thing the scientists pumped into their bodies. The fever the man was breaking into now was the same thing the scientists dismissed as a predicted side effect. He had to wait it out like the rest of his barrack was probably doing. The morning was going to hit them like a truck.
—
“So. This is where I’d find you.” The familiar snarky tone gets an amused huff out of Jack.
“Thought you’d catch on much earlier.”
Already anticipating the request, Jack had a small plate of eggs ready for 76 in a minute. Together they roamed the quiet halls of the compound, plates of eggs in hand while they wait for sunrise. They had to escape the telltale signs of a busy medbay. The first batch was already in there, taking the brunt of the first real dose of the serum. It’s hard to imagine something so blue being pumped into their bodies.
They had been there since dinner. It unnerved the rest of the volunteers and brought their attention to reality. This was it. They were being turned into guinea pigs, and there were only two outcomes to an experiment like this. None of them wanted to be sent home in a casket before they ever see the Omnic Crisis from the ground, but they all agreed to wait for the results.
That’s the worst part about this program. The air buzzed where the soldiers restlessly tried to make use of their time here. Track, obstacle course, gym, or recreation. They started running out of new options by the start of the third month.
Jack and Gabriel would postpone their fight by a week every time, mostly because Jack felt it was wrong to be enjoying the effects of the serums when so many of them were already dropping like flies in the medbay. Gabriel on the other hand, had his mind on testing the new limits of their bodies. He pinned soldier after soldier on the mat, getting his fair share of defeats when he got too cocky. Jack had a routine of watching from the sidelines to study his eventual opponent’s habits.
Gabriel got lost in his thoughts during a fight. Jack would notice how his eyes quickly roam to find an opening or a way to make one. He took every chance to stop and think before going in for the kill, always catching his opponent off guard. Jack goes over similar plans in his head to predict Gabriel’s next move. The way his attention struggled to stick to one point. The man had back up plans for his back up plans.
Every spar session, Jack looked forward to watching Gabriel lose his thoughts to the plan of attack. He enjoyed when he was proven wrong with his predictions, learning from them and getting better at the sport. Jack likes to think there were commentators in his head, so he didn’t have to worry about hearing his own voice plan how exactly Gabriel would die on the field.
Gabriel, on the other hand, struggled to find the pattern in Jack’s movement. He notices every time that Jack would take full advantage of moments when his opponent faltered. But that was the point. His opponents always paused at the wrong time, but he can’t catch when. It’s difficult to keep track when things escalate too quickly and too suddenly.
Jack notices the hint of confusion on Gabriel’s face when the match ends, but the blonde doesn’t answer his questions like he does after a fight.
It just, you know, happens.
I don’t know. Things just fall into place, I guess.
Then Jack leaves when he gives up looking for answers.
“Is this going to be a thing?” That’s what greets 24 when he circles back to the beginning of the course, the other man scraping his empty plate clean. “You must’ve memorized the track by now, pollo.”
“Can’t exactly concentrate with how many of us are hogging the gym.”
“You don’t have to think that much when you’re on the treadmill.”
Jack’s brows knit tight in thought while he catches his breath.
“Nothing about this is right. The progress we’re seeing is slow. Real fucking slow. The omnics aren’t waiting for any of us to finish growing into better bodies.”
“Don’t like it either. We have no clue if there’s even still a war to fight out there, but that’s the risk we took when we agreed to all this. We need to believe something’s working, so we don’t give up on tomorrow’s fight. Don’t think running the course again would make the serum work any better though.”
Jack laughs bitterly, fists tight against his sides while he tries not to throw something. “What the hell is there to do?”
Water starts to soak the ground in little droplets, but the two don’t rush for cover. No one else is around. The mud that’s forming is looking pretty inviting.
“Want to cash in on that raincheck?”
—
The rain is pounding by the time they get some momentum, and that didn’t take too long. The ragged breaths come mainly from Gabriel, whose perfectly timed punches are countered and whose plans go awry last second. What frustrates Gabriel the most is the fact that Jack hasn’t thrown anything his way.
“Are you going to dance all afternoon?”
The taunt only receives an angry grunt. Something’s on Jack’s mind.
“What’s holding you back, 24?”
“Nothing.”
“Then throw a fist, goddamnit.” Jack lets that hit land straight on his jaw, and it catches Gabriel off guard for a split second. It’s enough for Jack.
The eyes that look back up at him are dark and frightening. Almost more dangerous than a Bastion’s red. It’s those cold, sharp blues that leave Gabriel stunned. He doesn’t register the pain of a well-placed facer until he’s on the ground, trying to recover.
What the hell was that?
That’s the look that everyone else had the pleasure of missing out on in a person. A few recognized it and feared it. The rest avoided it the second they find out about it. It’s the face of someone who imagined a blade in their hand when they try to land a blow. Someone who didn’t expect their opponents to get back up.
“24—”
“Twenty-one to 40, report to the medbay.”
The question catches in his throat. He didn’t think he could be stunned by a look after what he’s been through in the military. Omnics didn’t stare at you like that.
24 helps 76 up before leaving for the medbay, and Gabriel is left alone on the course with a burning question on his mind.
—
Gabriel stares at the stove and the eggs and the salt, pepper, butter, cream— This was a little more intimidating than he expected. There were no vegetables to cut nor pot to watch over when abuela walked away to answer the door. He’s seen 24 work around the eggs plenty of times these past few months.
Eggs in cold, butter dropped in… on and off the stove.
He has his own plate of overcooked eggs in a pile off to the side when he finally plates something that looks mildly similar to what Jack’s been feeding him most mornings. He would eat those with toast later, but for now, he’s navigating the barracks of his friend in search of the blonde. There are eyes burning holes into the back of his head, feeling like he’s infiltrated enemy territory. Finally, he finds 76, sweating bullets into the sheets of his bed and a monitor on his wrist. Another one was probably under the shirt.
He did notice the empty cots on the way here. As hard as it was to believe, Jack’s condition wasn’t the worst anyone’s gotten from this round of serums. He could here the yelling from the kitchen.
“Hey pollo. I think I nailed your eggs.”
The only answer he gets is a groan. His grip on the sheets was tight enough to tear. He’d barely be able to hold a spoon. There wasn’t a point to talking Jack into eating anything. Gabriel just waited by the bedside, ignoring the several pairs of eyes on him.
There he was, the mystery that’s been plaguing his mind for days now, and Gabriel couldn’t squeeze an answer out of him.
—
Jack was tense under the stare he got from beyond the kitchen counter. Even with his back turned, he could tell that the gears in Gabriel’s mind were at work again, trying to decipher the secrets he got a glimpse of earlier in the week.
He couldn’t say he was uncomfortable. He got that questioning look often in spaces he was new in.
“You don’t get perfect eggs like this overnight,” Jack started, eggs whisking away in practiced back and forth.
“I figured.”
The silence did feel thick this time.
“How many eggs did you have to break?”
Jack hesitated, dropping the eggs into the pot before he could think of whether he should actually be having this conversation. “Too many. Plenty of which didn’t end up so perfect.”
The words are tossed around in Gabriel’s head for a while. “Do you know how to make anything else?”
Jack just gives a grim shake of his head.
The rest of the half-hour goes by silently. Gabriel didn’t want to think of the implications of what that conversation meant. He had his answers. He didn’t want to get the answers to the questions that surfaced from them just yet.
The plate is slid towards Gabriel from across the counter, and they eat in relative silence.
—
Those eyes never left Jack, especially not on the battlefield. Gabriel could see them darken when he faces off with an omnic. If it had been him on the receiving end of that glare, he would have accepted his fate right there and then. For a while, Gabriel was thankful they were fighting a war against unfeeling machinery. He doesn’t want to know how many lives someone would have to take to break. Jack seemed on the verge of it when he stared down red optics and pulled the trigger without a second thought.
Gabriel never left Jack’s six. Not in the SEP and not in Overwatch. It felt… right, and Jack didn’t mind that Gabriel preferred his back against his own instead of meeting eye to eye. He can never admit it, but he enjoyed having his guard down around Gabriel, even by a little bit. The same could be said about the rest of the team. Amari understood death nearly the same as he did. Just through different distances. Lindholm watched the number of casualties climb as the omnics plowed through city after city, always up to date on the latest life lost to a Bastion unit. The desperation of Wilhelm to keep his teammates safe isn’t lost on him and neither is the backstory to it.
And Gabriel. Oh, Gabriel knew what could be lost during war, but could never accept that some lives couldn’t be saved. After every battle, he would have a survivor unconscious in his bleeding arms and limping onto the ship with a shit-eating grin. Told you it’d work.
At times, it reminded Jack that the blood he had on his hands after a battle was oil. Whatever blood he did have on them were from holding a wound closed or grabbing hold of a child under rubble. It would never convince him that it outweighed everything else he’s done, but-
“That kind of red looked good on you.”
Jack rolled his eyes. From anyone else, it would have left him tense. “Red should look good on anyone else but me.”
“I think it brings out your blues pretty well.”
Gabriel almost drops the egg when he bumps his shoulder against him.
“I’m serious!” Jack couldn’t help but mirror the grin on Gabriel’s face.
“Jack Morrison, hero of the Omnic Crisis. They should put up a statue of you.”
“Ten bucks says it’d get egged on the first day.”
“Twenty says you’d do it.”
Jack eggs Gabriel’s statue in front of him, Amari watching in disappointment when it turns into a competition of who could land an egg on top of the head.
—
There are still stains of egg white on the fallen head. Phantom can trace where the nose is chipped from a well-thrown egg. Wisps of smoke blanket the rest of the body as he moves his hand across the cheek. The cock of a shotgun doesn’t turn his attention away from it.
“Of all places.”
“Got lost on the way to the kitchen.”
When he finally turns to him, their eyes meet. Both tired. Both equally dark. The hostility is lost in the air and the smell of fire that never really left the area. Angel’s gun is lowered and with it, his guard. This dance was familiar. Death can wait.
“I’ll go back to forgetting tomorrow.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Casually, Angel sits next to Phantom and takes out two small metal containers. One is handed to Jack without hesitation. The clawed hand flexes open and closed in thought before reaching out to take it. Lid off, there’s no sweet-smelling steam of coffee or the dry smokey smell of jerky.
“Eggs?”
“Eggs.”
“Just eggs?”
“Cold eggs.”
Jack is thankful for the mask hiding his smile.