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“Oh, oh there he is!”
“Where?” Mercy asked, her eyes tracking Tracer’s pointed finger.
“See, right by the old silo- aw, there he goes. And before the sun is up, again.” Tracer complained as she reached for Mercy’s half-full coffee cup, not being very subtle.
Mercy batted her hand away. “No.” Tracer pouted at Mercy’s refusal to caffeinate the time-jumper. She slumped down in one of the kitchen’s hard chairs.
“Has 76 caught him yet, ya think?”
“No, he wakes up at dawn, every morning, on the dot.” Mercy replied. “Always has.”
“You could tell him.” Pharah added in blearily as she continued to type up her mission report.
Tracer laughed. “And ruin the surprise? Nah. He’s not causin’ any harm.”
“He wouldn’t harm M- 76.” She sipped her coffee. “Not without making a scene about it.”
“You think he’s that much of a drama queen?”
“The man calls himself Reaper .” Pharah grunted with slight laughter at Mercy’s words.
“Yeah, he is a right edgelord, that one.” Tracer states.
“Edge-lord?”
“Yeah, like someone who’s real edgy and seriously not over it.” Tracer continued.
Mercy raised an eyebrow. “I don’t understand the young people’s slang anymore.”
Tracer giggled unnaturally fast. Mercy regarded her with a careful eye before checking her coffee cup, only to find it empty. She sighed, resigned. Looking out the window, the sun was just beginning to turn the seaside sky pink. Her thoughts turned nostalgic for the days before Overwatch’s dissolution when she was briefly stationed at Gibraltar.
So much has changed. The world is in peril again, and we have nowhere near enough manpower to hold the line. She rubbed her temples as a fully dressed and masked Soldier: 76 came marching down the hall. She refilled her coffee to avoid glaring at the ex-Commander. Not everything has changed, though. Reyes is still sneaking into Jack’s room like a schoolboy every night. Soldier: 76 grabbed a few pieces of bread to toast, waiting for them to pop up. Even if he doesn’t know it now. The man stood tall with his arms crossed, red gloves wrapped around his torso.
Mercy bit her lip. Oh, Jack, I wish you wouldn’t have ended up this way, living as a secret from all your old friends. Mercy was sure she was the only one in the remaining Overwatch ranks that knew who was behind that glowing red visor. Besides Reyes, of course. I almost wish you would have stayed dead, so that your soul would have peace- She stopped, putting down the cup she was clenching so hard in her fist. But that is a dark thought for so early in the morning.
“Will you be around for the barbecue later today, Soldier: 76?” She asked, trying to act casual. He turned his head slightly to watch her over his shoulder.
“Yes.” He replied brusquely, buttering his toast quickly before retreating to his room.
Mercy sighed. Tracer’s foot tapped out an overly energetic tattoo on the linoleum.
“Strange one, isn’t he?” She asked.
“More than you know.”
--- --- ---
It had been easy to sneak into the old base at Gibraltar, winding through the water-stained halls in a cloud of shadows. He had stopped into the old weapons storage bunker first, examining their meager cache, and taking his time to break a few guns and steal some medical supplies.
He went back to prowling the halls, hoping to snag one of the new “Overwatch” operatives while they were alone.
Idiots, thinking they could change things. He thought. All they’ve done is made it easier for me to eliminate them.
The rooms were strangely empty, though. Even Winston was not as his customary tire perch.
There was a small pop followed by cheering coming from outside. Reaper ghosted his way across to a window. Outside all of the new “Overwatch” were gathered around an old gas grill, drinking and eating hot dogs. Lena- Tracer was zipping between various other operatives, obviously chatting their ears off.
Does she ever shut up. Reaper though tiredly, remembering the young pilot's motor mouth.
Mercy was situated at the grill with Torbjörn, laughing and flipping various meat products.
A smaller figure was sitting cross-legged with a floating Omnic, speaking quietly. Wilhelm Reinhardt’s booming laughter filled the air as a tall Russian woman sat down to challenge him to an arm wrestling challenge. As Reaper watched, a figure in familiar red-white-and-blue crept across the perimeter of the gathering, keeping watch.
Reaper snarled underneath his mask, black smoke wisping out from under his gauntlets in rage.
Morrison.
Mercy yelled something and Morrison turned, reluctantly coming over to her side. Reaper took the opportunity to teleport through the shadows to near where Ja- Morrison had been standing guard, waiting for him to return. After a few minutes, the ex-commander returned, holding a plate loaded with ribs, hamburgers, and hotdogs in a massive pile. He was struggling to balance it as he quietly scanned the area, on alert. Morrison’s eyes passed over Reaper as he went briefly incorporeal, blending into the shadows. He went to sit behind the blue building, near the cliff's edge. He was far out of sight of the others. A critical misstep. He reformed, hands reaching for his hellfire shotguns, but paused when he saw the ex-soldier pressing the sides of his mask, removing it with a groan. He could only see half of his face, but that was enough to realize how old the man looked. The years had worn him down, heavy bags under his eyes and large scars marring his perfect face. The face that won the war , we used to joke. Reaper thought harshly. Not such a pretty boy anymore.
Morrison leaned back against the building, shifting on the rusting equipment container he sat on. He looked troubled, but a small smile won through as he picked up a hot dog.
“Still playing mom to us all,” He said to the pile of food wistfully. He took a tired bite. Reaper must of stood there for ten minutes watching the white-haired man tiredly chow down before he realized why he was here in the first place. He removed his guns from their holsters, bracing himself, when the soldier jumped in his seat. Reaper smirked, but Jack- Morrison was not looking at him, but still at the plate. He carefully, with a trembling hand, picked through the various hamburgers and pulled out a piece of grilled corn. Looking over his shoulders, he tossed the corn off the cliffside, breathing a sigh of relief.
What the hell.
Morrison pawed through the rest of the meats, checking for more- corn? When he evidently found none, he relaxed a little. Small footsteps beat across the ground as Mercy crossed over to the soldier, who had quickly replaced his mask.
“Need seconds?” She asked, holding a large platter of food.
“No thank you, ma’am.” Morrison replied.
“Alright, if you’re sure. Reinhardt will probably polish this all off, them.”
The soldier chuckled. Mercy smiled at him, but Reaper saw the tension in her brow as she walked away. Morrison followed her after a moment, ruining Reaper’s chance for revenge. Mierda.
The sun was setting, though. Maybe there was a way to use this new knowledge to his advantage.
--- --- ---
Jack came into his single-bunk room in the barracks near two AM after keeping watch over the old compound. Winston had assured him that Athena was more than enough protection, but Jack trusted his eyes over any kind of AI. The night was blissfully silent, save for a couple owls hunting mice around the hangar. Jack still started a bit when he saw them, memories of him and Gab- Reyes sitting awake, both a little tipsy, Reyes telling Jack about old folk tales about owls. His fingers would slip over the condensation of the cheap beer bottles they passed back and forth, slipping into Spanish now and then, his California accent at it’s strongest-
Jack shook his head as he locked the door, unbuckling his boots and slipping off his gloves, sitting back onto his cot. The thin bed felt lumpy under his backside, and he turned to investigate. He drew back the blankets on the bed to find a single ear of corn lying against his pillow. He sprang backwards. Shit, shit, shit, no. No, no no no nope.
He grabbed his glove, slipping it back on to pick the corn up tenderly, trying to open the door, and panicking a bit when he found it locked. He fumbled with the latch as he rushed outside, using all of his football experience from high school to spiral the ear out of the hangar and over the cliff, breathing a little heavy. He turned to see Lena, in a tank top and boxers, arms full of leftover barbeque. She was frozen still, a hot dog sticking out of her mouth. They locked eyes (well, eyes and mask) and were silent for a long second.
“There was a bomb. A bomb. In the corn.” Jack blurted out, hoping his husky voice conveyed some sort of authority. Tracer just nodded slowly, backing away with a confused look in her eyes.
“Oh-bayyy…” She affirmed through the remnants of her hot dog. Jack blinked and she was gone. He waited a few moments before letting out a breath.
“Geezum crow,” he mumbled, rubbing his exposed forehead.
A barn owl swooped down past his shoulder to snag a skittering mouse, and Jack just about jumped out of the hangar. I swear I must be cursed. He thought, heading back to his hopefully corn-free room.