Chapter Text
To say that Sigma was an eccentric man would be an understatement. Reaper rarely ever interacted with him outside of missions, actually, but the dutchman always made his presence known even when he was off in his own little world. Rhythmic humming in tune with his relaxed hovering, and an incredible stature that would normally denote him as intimidating if he wasn’t so quaint. Music seemed to be the one thing that strung all the pieces of the curious man together, but since Reaper was definitely one who preferred the visual arts over the auditory, he had never considered any common ground they may share. They were just colleagues at the end of the day. Or perhaps just two pieces of Talon’s diabolical puzzle, in all honesty.
Reaper always questioned if Sigma was aware of his place in the organization, as he recognized, (and even related to) the way that Talon manipulated him. But while Reaper continued to brood in existential angst, that old man always seemed pretty content with his situation. Why? Lost in that same melody that nobody else seemed to pay attention to or even acknowledge. Odd, imagine being even more mysterious than the elusive mercenary himself.
This was one of the rare slow days of the year for Talon, and that made this one particular encounter all the more surprising for Reaper.
The July sunshine still managed to escape past the tightly shut window blinds, much to Reaper’s annoyance. Seriously? How dare his perfectly grim aesthetic ( NOT vibe ) be ruined by the most obnoxious aspect of summer afternoons? Especially when all of these mission reports were demanding to be taken care of by tomorrow night at the latest. The man was just too damn old to tolerate distractions. He should be able to brood and grimace and groan and mope and focus in peace without the coy mocking of the sun. It reminded him of a regretful time in his existence when that flowing hood was just a sweaty beanie, but this is what the desperate wraith signed up for. Seems that nights of bloodshed are inevitably coupled with days of needy Word documents in the tragic drama known as “Reaper’s Life” .
The mercenary was a mass of darkness sitting in the otherwise beige-colored office; how fitting. A jet black, baggy hooded jumpsuit hugged his bulky frame as his clunky metal boots were placed firmly on the carpet next to his desk, leaving him in just starchy black socks. Yes, it was 95 degrees that day. No, that never stopped the Reaper from wearing the only color that truly ever spoke to him.
All of it served as the admittedly drab backdrop for his newly acquired metallic mask, the one that he was (internally) jumping for joy to now be hiding behind. He noticed it in the reflection of his computer screen and hummed. So sleek. So menacing. The maintenance required to keep it looking as intimidating as ever was worth it to admire that razor-sharp shine. It reassured him of the fear such a mask would invoke inside any poor soul unfortunate enough to be his next victim. Heheheh…
“Um… Mr. Reaper? ”
Reaper’s immersion in his work (and his sick thoughts) was interrupted by the baritone of an older male voice, shattering the silent air in which he was working: “Excuse me if I am interrupting, but is it ok if I ask you a question?”
A low groan creaked from under Reaper’s mask. What could that old man want now? He would be much better off pondering the secrets of the universe like any other average summer day. Or eyeing an ant scampering across the ceiling. Essentially doing anything that didn’t involve intruding upon Reaper and his 12’ x 12’ lair of pure malice and paperwork.
He slowly looked over his shoulder to see a towering dutchman bending down slightly to see under the doorframe. Those wild eyebrows and that awkward, yet well-intentioned smile confirmed that it was Dr. de Kuiper.
The scientist’s wrinkled face scrunched up with glee as he noticed Reaper acknowledge his presence. Small, peculiar strips of paper seemed to be clutched in his hands. They looked like tickets?
“What, Sigma?” Reaper moaned begrudgingly.
“Oh, um, I was just wondering if- just a moment, may I enter the office?” Siebren requested, stumbling over his sentence. The extreme amount of caution and respectability lacing his words was almost overwhelming. You don’t get much of that where Reaper's from.
The mercenary responded with an irritated hand gesturing to him to come in, “Fine.”
“Excellent,” Siebren beamed, “Thank you!”
The man steadily hovered towards Reaper’s desk, ducking under the door frame and being careful as to not bump into anything. This was more difficult than expected considering how giant he was.
“This is a wonderful office, Reaper, with such a marvelously sophisticated vibe . And even more spacious than the one in my laboratory, too!” Siebren grinned as he observed his surroundings. He was clearly just trying to be affable in his small talk as Reaper’s office was kept as objectively plain as humanly possible. And he absolutely hated that word the scientist just used. “ Vibe” …ugh. If this is what being friendly meant, Reaper wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.
“Such an intriguing…lack of personal photos,” Siebren began to blither, “but so marvelously organized, I must say! I must make sure to-”
“Just get on with it, old man,” Reaper interrupted sharply. “What are you here for?”
“Ah, yes. My apologies.” Siebren stopped in front of a sitting Reaper and cleared his throat. Whatever he had in his hand was now hidden behind his back.
“Well, a few days ago, I was having a conversation with Sombra and she gave me reason to believe that you have a fairly strong interest in theater,” Siebren responded with a laugh. “She seemed quite enthused to reveal this to me.”
Reaper’s ears perked up from Siebren’s unexpected comment. Sombra? What was she up to now?
“What could she have possibly said for you to believe that?” Reaper groaned, keeping his intrigue hidden under a lock and key as per usual.
“Well, she showed me a draft of an unfinished script of a drama you were working on, ‘Down of the Owl’ , I believe it was called?” Siebren explained, pondering as he tried to recall. Reaper’s expression dropped instantly.
“...as well as various sketches of theater costumes you seem to have been planning to create. Such whimsical cloaks and vibrant colors… I didn’t know you were such a thoughtful designer as well, Reaper!”
The frigid, dead rock inside Reaper’s chest skipped a beat after hearing that. Was this embarrassment? Yes, it probably was.
He placed his face into the palms of his clawed hands in annoyance, “Whatever she showed you, wasn’t mine.” he replied flatly.
“Hmm…” Siebren began, “she also showed me some pictures of you attending a viewing of the Nutcracker many years ago, by yourself. I’m actually not sure how she obtained those, you didn’t even seem to notice the photos being taken...”
Fucking hell. Once again, Sombra had just won a game that Reaper didn’t even know he was playing. It was now even more clear to Reaper that creating or indulging in anything at all in secret was pointless when working with Señorita Colomar. Why did he ever join Talon again?
“Ok, fine, Sigma. Did you just come in here to tell me that my privacy was invaded, then?” Reaper accused. It wasn’t a shock, but one of his only private outlets and sources of joy being revealed just plastered a bad taste in his mouth, even if Siebren was presenting it out of innocence. He felt exposed. And judged.
“Oh no, no, Reaper. I wanted to let you know that this is all fantastic news!” Siebren celebrated. “I actually have just received two tickets to a Phantom of the Opera performance on Broadway taking place next weekend, and I figured that you may be interested in attending with me. I’ve always gone to musicals for the absolutely stunning score,” Siebren explained brightly, “But I believe you may find the drama and costumes just as intriguing, if what Sombra suggested was correct.”
“Phantom of the Opera? ” Reaper scoffed. “Never heard of it.” The mercenary was obviously lying through his teeth, but a little deception was necessary when it came to protecting the more intimate aspects of himself. That included basically anything that brought him joy.
“Curious,” Siebren raised an eyebrow, “didn’t you insist on wearing a Red Death costume for the infiltration mission in Monaco last year?” Ugh, clocked three times in a row.
Reaper glanced back down at the desk, fortunately his contemplation was concealed by the metal of his mask. It really has been a lifetime since he’s seen theater. Good theater. Since he’s been fully immersed in the pure definition of talent and artistry. Exceptional acting, captivating lighting, an orchestra to die for, and best of all, a wardrobe that left him leaving the building in complete and utter awe. He truly felt at home when watching a performance on Broadway, but was it in his nature to admit that?
Reaper crumpled all of his thoughts into a grunt, “Ugh, fine. Sure, I’ll think about it,” he hissed as he swatted the man away. “Now, please let me finish this. Thanks.”
“That’s nice to hear. Honestly, I was expecting a hard ‘no’ from the terrifying Reaper himself.” Siebren chuckled.
Nobody could tell, obviously, but Reaper rolled his eyes.
“Make sure to let me know when you make your decision, I’m sure Widowmaker would enjoy attending if you prefer not to,” he looked down and contemplated in a low tone, “However, she declined my offer to go to Luna’s Cabaret so I’m not entirely-”
“Ok, ok, ok…I’ll let you know, Sigma.” Reaper groaned in response.
“Well then, good luck on your mission report, Mr. Reaper!” Siebren exclaimed as he made his way out the door. Before the mercenary knew it, he was alone in the room again, and the humid air settled along with his conflicted thoughts.
Yes, being acknowledged in regards to something other than Talon’s dirty work beget a tiny bit of flattery in his ‘heart’, but he was so used to being left alone and feared that he had eventually begun to find solace in that isolation. It was expected. It was predictable. And his instinct was to push out any gesture that went against it.
Still, he hadn’t been invited to anything at all in years, and a piece of his conscience was beating him up to just accept the offer. But at the end of the day, the familiar voice in his head always told him it was safe to just lay low and mind his own business. A ‘fun’ outing to a musical? Why would the horrifying, ghastly, bloodthirsty, stick-in-the-mud Reaper do something that’s such a waste of time?
The mercenary gazed at the sun kissed evening atmosphere creeping through the blinds, clutching a pen in his claws:
But would it really be a waste of time?