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Jack tightens his grip on the mug in his hand, eyes burning under the sharp lights. He shifts restlessly in his seat; the dingy leather protests under his weight, the insistent creak setting the beat in the back of his mind. The television plays quietly in the background; the gentle ambiance it provides helps Jack clear his mind.
The diner is nearly empty; a single waitress sloppily wipes down the front counter. It’s clear she doesn’t want to be here, and Jack doesn’t blame her – who would want to be staffing a shithole like this at three in the morning? He’s only here because it was the only open place he could find; he’s forgotten the how brittle and cold the Midwestern winds are, and he’s sure he would’ve frozen half to death had he stayed outside.
He must look quite the picture; sitting in the corner booth, nursing a cup of coffee, arm encased in a sling and bandages peppered across his face. A true fighting man. He closes his eyes; the sensory overload is getting to him, the events of the past few days catching up as he slumps into the table.
Guilt eats at him, a worm gnawing through his brain, as he remembers regaining consciousness. He can still feel the panic flowing through him; he wishes he’d done something productive with it. Instead, he ran away, a coward in the face of destruction, fear and adrenaline powering him away from the base, out of the country, to a shitty diner in the middle of Indiana. How far he’s fallen.
He sips at his coffee; it burns his tongue going down. He can’t help but wonder about Gabe. The other man had been close to him before the initial shockwave, but he hadn’t seen any of Gabe’s clothing or the man himself as he picked his way through the rubble. Nevertheless, Gabe is probably still kicking; he’s survived worse, during the Crisis, and he especially wouldn’t let terrorists take him out.
He wonders if Gabe will notice his absence when he wakes up. They haven’t been as close in the past couple years, jobs tearing them away. Recently, Gabe’s hours have prevented them from sharing a bed most nights, and he misses the heated body pressed up against his back, cradling him in heavy arms. Gabe always did run hot.
The sound cascading from the television hit his ears, and he registers the words being spoken. Curiosity piqued, he turns to the screen; a dolled-up reporter is standing in front of a fence, guarding what looks like the spot where the Swiss HQ once stood. Jack listens in.
“…Thursday’s attack on the Overwatch headquarters in Zürich, Switzerland, which left more than 100 members of the influential peace-keeping organization, including Strike Commander Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes, who, according to information from an anonymous source, was the head of a secret covert ops wing labeled Blackwatch…”
He doesn’t hear any more of the report over the pounding in his ears. Their pictures flash onto the screen; Jack is in full Strike Commander gear, eyepiece secured snugly onto his forehead. He bears a neutral expression, but the creases on his forehead betray his frustration. He assumes the picture was taken recently; he can see the first gray streaks in his hair.
Gabriel is wearing traditional Blackwatch fatigues; how the media got the picture, he doesn’t know, assumes it came with the data leak. The ever-present beanie sits snugly on his head; Jack remembers pulling it off, running his hand through Gabe’s curls as they kissed languidly after returning from a mission. He can see the crow’s feet around Gabe’s eyes; he’s sure his will show up soon, but Gabe was worked to the bone in Blackwatch, demanded by the UN to perform more impossible missions without being killed or worse, revealed. His mouth forms a crook, displeasure evident at being forced to take a picture.
He looks just like the man Jack remembers. And he’s gone.
The bass drum in his ears gets louder, racketing through his brain; his vision blurs with unshed tears, and he turns back to his coffee cup. The pool of black ripples slightly when he picks it up and takes a sip; it’s gone cold, and he is reminded of early mornings, trudging out of bed to wrap his arms around Gabe’s neck and steal his coffee, however cold it was.
He hears the plunk, plunk, plunk of wet tears meeting coffee. The mug is shaking in his hands; cold liquid sloshes over the side.
He can’t go back, he decides. He doesn’t think he can handle seeing the ruins of the HQ and not thinking of him. Another sob wracks his body.
Another decision: he’s going to find the bastards that did this to him, to Gabe, and wipe them off the face of the earth. He’s going to make them pay.
He moves to rise from his seat, joints protesting at the sudden movement. As he gets up, his arm jostles in the sling; a stab of pain shoots through it. He’s not equipped to do any hunting down right now, he realizes. He has to wait for his arm to heal, for his wounds to scar; he needs to be as good as he can so he can do his job.
He shoulders the door open; the wind slaps him in the face, a cold reminder of the outside world. Dawn is breaking on the horizon; the sun sits, a dome of radiance, bordering the edge of the world. Light is tossed carelessly over the street, like a child’s painting, illuminating haphazard strips. He glances over his shoulder; a car rolls lazily down the street. The driver gives him a wave; once again, it strikes him how strange the situation is.
The commuter lot approaches; he reaches into his jacket pocket, fumbling for his keys, and the car’s lights flash. He opens the door, sliding into the driver’s seat, and presses the start button. The old machine clunks to life, dashboard lighting and engine turning over.
He slams the door and backs out of his parking space, hurtling out of the lot and onto the main street. Shops pass by, darkened blurs in his peripherals.
He clears the boundaries of the small town; fields of crops rush by, stretching endlessly over the plain. He rolls the window down; fresh air assaults his nose, and he inhales gratefully.
As he turns onto the hyperway, foot hammering down on the gas, he looks to the horizon, pondering a spot for his “vacation”. Suddenly, the thought strikes him; a cynical grin stretches over his visage, and he reaches down to program the destination into the GPS.
As he confirms his choice, brings his hand back to the wheel, a modulated voice rings out, music to his ears.
“Now guiding to Los Angeles, California.”