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Bright light burned Jack’s eyelids, dragging him back to consciousness. Someone pulled him upright by the hair sending tendrils of pain spiraling down from his scalp. He blinked, trying to clear the blood haze from his vision. The grip in his hair tightened, forcing his neck to bend backward. Tensed for a blow, Jack let out a soft gasp when cool water wiped across his cheek and brow. He winced as it tugged and pulled at cuts he didn’t remember receiving.
“Boss ain’t gonna be happy about that,” whispered a voice that sounded just a few days past puberty. “Didn’t want him roughed up.”
A man answered from the other side of the room. “Well, he put up a fucking fight. What did he expect?”
Jack tried to recall his memories, to figure out where he was here, but nothing surfaced from the probable concussion that left his right temple throbbing. Water sloshed through Jack’s hair, dripping from his ears onto a towel that the guard held ready. Unfamiliar fingers raked through the wet strands, and Jack coughed out a laugh. “Not sure getting my hair done counts as torture.” The words came out as a hoarse croak.
“Fuck off,” the older jailor answered. Jack turned to the sound and caught sight of the man. Arms and legs like tree trunks sheathed in black and grey armor. Jack didn’t need the insignia on the sleeve to recognize a Talon member. “When they’re done with you, I’ll show you what real torture is.”
Tipping his head to the side, Jack affected a grin that made his lips ache. “Your boss won’t let you,” he taunted. “You aren’t even allowed to make your own decisions. He wouldn’t let a lackey like you near—”
The man surged forward, fist cocked back to throw a punch, but the second guard stepped between them. “Don’t,” the boy squeaked, holding both arms up like a shield. “He’s been in a pissy mood lately. Don’t give him another reason to hate you.”
“What’s going on here,” growled a third voice. Black mist coalesced behind the pair, and the sudden silence accentuated the crack of knuckles.
The guards paled and scampered apart with excuses, but Jack didn’t hear them. He stared unbelievingly at the man in front of him, the man that he’d fought so hard to bring down. A snarl started in the back of his throat. “Reaper,” he spat.
The skull-like mask turned toward Jack with a tip of its head. “Strike Commander,” it taunted, and the modulated voice was almost familiar. “How nice of you to join us.”
Jack squared his shoulder and looked up at one of the most wanted men in the world. “You can’t break me. I’ve been through worse torture than you can imagine.”
Reaper waved his hand dismissively and the guards stepped back. “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood me. I’m not trying to break you.” The man leaned closer, voice dipping to a dangerous whisper. “You’re just a figurehead, a pretty face on the cancer that is Overwatch. So, you’re going to help me dismantle it.”
Laughter made Jack’s ribs ache beneath his uniform. “Why would I do that?”
Though the mask didn’t move, Jack could feel Reaper’s smile in the chill that filled the air. The man gestured toward one side of the room and a curtain was drawn away. “Because if you don’t,” Reaper hissed. “I’m going to kill him.”
Jack’s heart lurched, missing several beats then thundering to make up for them. A one way mirror peered into another torture room, but the sight made it hard to breath. Vincent stood in the middle, arms bound above his head. The brutal position had probably dislocated one, if not both of his shoulders by now. Welts and bruises covered the man’s bare torso, but his face had taken the brunt of the damage. His right eye was swollen shut, surrounded by angry red skin that would turn into one hell of a bruise by morning. Vincent’s lower lip stuck out in a cracked pout, streaks of dried blood flecking his chin.
“I’ll kill you,” Jack growled, jerking his arms hard enough that the chair groaned under the strain.
Reaper chuckled, a low sound on the edge of insanity. “No, you’ll start revealing all of Overwatch’s dirty little secrets, or I’ll cut off his fingers while you watch.”
Vincent’s head lolled forward on his neck, unaware that his fate hung in the balance. It had been years since Jack saw him, but the hollow place in the center of his chest felt the same. He tried to squash the sliver of hope that bloomed there. Reaper would never release such a valuable hostage. “And if I cooperate?”
“I’m not a monster. Talk, and I’ll let him go.” Reaper squeezed Jack’s shoulder with a familiarity that made Jacks’ skin crawl. Then, he nodded toward the older guard who was moving a video recorder around on a tripod. “Now, smile for the camera, and tell me what we need to know.”