Author's Note: This is my submission for the Reaper76 Week 2018 event. Rather than do something sane like write each prompt as a series of one-shots, I undertook the herculean task of incorporating each theme as individual chapters of a single story. Barring any unforeseen events, I'll be posting a new chapter each day of the week, so stay tuned!
I wanted to give a huge thank you to everyone who helped me out with this story, especially the R76 Week Discord and the ever-lovely r/fanfiction Discord server.
Chapter Summary: In which Gabriel Reyes attends a field demonstration at 0500 to learn about whatever the fuck Project: Slipstream is supposed to be. Somehow, he restrains himself from weaponizing inedible coffee against his (sometimes) estranged husband and (sometimes) commanding officer.
As he stifled a yawn into the rim of his coffee cup, Gabriel Reyes wondered who in their goddamn mind scheduled a field demonstration at 0500. He surveyed the room as lab coat-clad scientists scurried around with datapads in hand. While he could only pick out a few words in the polyglottal cacophony, Gabriel understood the universal language of swearing. If he'd been in charge of the department, the demonstration would have been ready the evening prior, but alas, he'd been relegated to cleaning up the United Nations' dirty business under the guise of covert operations. What a promotion. Thanks, Morrison.
The scrap of paper left on his desk requesting his presence at this God-awful hour had only mentioned a field test of classified technology related to Project: Slipstream, as if that name explained fuck-all. Whoever sent him the memo had clearly forgotten the revocation of his security clearance pending the final meeting between the Strike Commander and the Ad Hoc Working Group of the General Assembly on the Transparency and Follow-up of Overwatch Operations.
He hated walking in blind. It made his skin itch.
If Athena hadn't hard-locked the meeting to his schedule, Gabriel would still be in bed, catching up on sleep after a grueling four month-long mission. Eight weeks smoking out extremists in the mountains of Kurjikistan, six running glorified errands for the premier, and little time for rest. He was supposed to have the next few days off to write his AAR, debrief the Strike Commander, and catch up on sleep. Instead of snoring into a cocoon of blankets and pillows, Gabriel stood in the middle of a pristine laboratory clad in military fatigues, nursing a piss-poor excuse for coffee. The science division of Overwatch could create autonomous nanomachines capable of regenerating human tissue near-instantaneously and engineer weapons out of a '10s retro-futuristic first-person shooter, but it was apparently beyond their scientific knowledge to brew a passable cup of joe. If his invitation to this meeting was an apology from Strike Commander Morrison, he should have sent Gabriel a fruit basket instead.
At least that would have been edible.
Gabriel squinted at the frazzled intern flitting from machine to scientist to glowing holoscreen. She looked no calmer than when she had stammered out a greeting and handed him a mug of coffee the moment he'd stepped through the door. The young woman glanced at him out of the corner of her eye every few minutes as if gauging his response to... something.
Was he part of the experiment?
He considered the room once again. Despite the chaos of the laboratory, there was always at least one scientist near a tarp-covered bulk in the far corner. He was starting to get a headache from the noise, and on top of the aches and pains from O'Deorain's latest round of injections, it was difficult to focus. If the device at the back of the room did turn hostile, he needed a plan of action. Even if it did transform into an omnic-sized robot or started shooting lasers or some shit, how bad could it be? After all, he had to endure his husband's God-awful taste in music for over a decade.
Gabriel felt uneasy, he couldn't pinpoint why, and it fucking pissed him off.
Gabriel braced himself before taking another sip of his steaming beverage. He grimaced at the aftertaste. Maybe—like with cheap American beer—it would grow on him the more he drank. Drugs would explain why the coffee tasted like shit, though after the SEP, he'd thought his days of being a government guinea pig had ended. At least O'Deorain had gotten his consent first before shooting him up. Besides, if he had an adverse reaction to whatever the hell they'd slipped into his so-called coffee, maybe then he would get to actually fucking leave.
Of course, at the precise moment Gabriel determined faking an illness a necessary measure, the Strike Commander waltzed through the door wearing an ear-to-ear grin. Gabriel fought down the urge to chuck his coffee mug across the room, it would, after all, serve better as a weapon than a drink.
The last time they'd spoken behind closed doors, if the wing hadn't been cleared, half the base would know they'd argued about everything and nothing. They'd splintered most of the furniture in the room, the plaster webbed with fractures and fist-sized holes. While they hadn't hit each other anywhere it would show, Angie had reprimanded them for the cracked ribs and bruises, as if the super soldier serum wouldn't repair the damage within a few days. Apparently, that hadn't been the point. Gabriel had zoned out when she started listing off the long-term impact of repeated trauma—as if he hadn't heard the whole spiel dozens of times before.
Gabriel snorted when the intern offered the Strike Commander a cup of coffee. Her hands trembled enough to spill half of it on herself. If she started stammering out a star-struck introduction, Gabriel would retch across the laboratory's sleek polycarbonate flooring, decorum be damned. He watched her flush as the Strike Commander thanked her by name, as if it wasn't machine embroidered onto the lapel of her lab coat for everyone to see.
The girl probably thought the illustrious Strike Commander of Overwatch had the time and mental fortitude to remember the names of each one of the hundreds of staff members spread across the dozens of bases around the world—and that was on top of the politicians, military commanders, and reporters he interacted with on a day to day basis.
Gabriel squinted at his face, searching for the telltale dark circles under his eyes or the fine wrinkles threading across his forehead. The overhead lights threw his face into sharp relief, bleaching his pale skin to a sickly pallor. Had he spent the whole night reviewing reports again?
Before—when they'd lived together—Jack would spent hours each night matching names to faces and committing political agendas to memory. Long past midnight, he'd nibble on the temple tips of his glasses as he rehearsed talking points until they came as natural as field stripping a pulse rifle. Gabriel had quickly realized that unless he pulled the new Strike Commander away from his work and manhandled him into bed, he would have fallen asleep from exhaustion at his desk.
Last night, no one had tossed and turned, restless over whatever information they'd read in their reports. No one had kicked the blankets to the floor and forced him to latch onto them because they're a goddamn living space heater and he was freezing his balls off.
He didn't miss it. Not at all. And if he kept telling himself he didn't mind sleeping alone, maybe the lie would one day become the truth.
When he caught himself starting to care again, Gabriel swallowed down a mouthful of coffee. The lukewarm liquid settled sharp and sour in his gut; he should have eaten something earlier. Gabriel scowled down at the floor, wanting to be anywhere else. When he squinted and craned his neck to the side, the floor tiles gleamed with flecks of some material that no doubt had scientific properties he would only half understand. Fascinating.
The Strike Commander approached with heavy, measured footfalls. With each step closing the distance between them, the room shrank, claustrophobic and too warm. The air thinned, hard to breathe, and he swore to God, if drugging his coffee was the actual fucking demonstration of Project: Slipstream, he was going to blow up the whole goddamn base and become a goddamn domestic terrorist.
Gabriel watched the polished combat boots enter the edge of his vision and halt less than a foot in front of him. Well within punching range, he knew from experience. Gabriel half-considered swinging for his fucking perfect teeth. A fight would dispel the rage simmering low and warm in his veins.
In the end, curiosity won out.
"Morning, Gabe!" Gabriel could hear the smile in the Strike Commander's voice. He was one of the rare, disgusting breed of humans who actually enjoyed mornings. Even at five in the goddamn morning after three hours of sleep, Morrison would offer everyone he met warm smiles—all without a single drop of caffeine, too. Without looking up, he knew the other man's hand would be rifling through his hair in a nervous habit he'd never quite been able to break, thus wasting the half hour he'd no doubt spent styling it in front of a mirror.
It was still as fucking endearing as ever.
"Morrison," Gabriel replied as he raised his head and touched two fingers to his temple in a mocking salute. He bared his teeth in a smile, a wolf showing its fangs.
The Strike Commander's smile fell from his face, and while it felt like kicking a defenseless puppy, Gabriel revelled in the feeling. Morrison didn't deserve to address him by his given name, let alone a nickname he would kill anyone else for using.
When Gabriel raised the mug to his lips once more, Morrison's blue eyes widened, focusing on his left hand. Gabriel hid his smile behind the edge of white porcelain and took care to make the ring on his finger visible: a tasteful gunmetal grey silicone band engraved with a sappy inscription on the interior. Unless Morrison had thrown it away—doubtful, considering he was a sentimental fuck—the matching ring would be hanging from a chain around his neck beside his dog tags.
Before Morrison could open his mouth to ask why he was wearing his wedding band in public when they'd agreed to keep their secret-not-so-secret marriage a private affair, one of the scientists approached. He cleared his throat and offered them a nervous smile before he spoke.
"Strike Commander Morrison, Commander Reyes, good morning. My team and I would like to sincerely apologize for the delay, but if you'll follow me, I would be honored to begin the demonstration of Project: Slipstream." He turned on his heel and led them to the tarp-covered machine Gabriel had marked earlier.
Uncovered, the bulky metal contraption seemed too ordinary for cutting edge military technology. He'd expected it to have a sleek, streamlined design. Gabriel could hear the faint hum of machinery, an engine or fan of some sort, and really, it should have glowed when activated. Showmanship was truly dead. What a fucking pity.
"As you know," the scientist said, "Project: Slipstream, graciously continuing the research begun by my colleagues at DARPA, concerns the creation of a new prototype fighter jet we believe will revolutionize the field of modern aerial combat operations. Whereas conventional engines merely accelerate the speed of the craft, this spatial accelerator works by bending the space between two points. We have managed to separate the units of space and time along the finite curve to create—" He cut himself off mid-sentence.
Since he didn't have access to a mirror, Gabriel could only guess at the expression on his face, but he was not in the mood to be lectured at using words he could half-understand. He had no doubt Morrison's eyes had probably started to glaze over, too, and apparently the presenter noticed. Gabriel almost felt bad for him.
The scientist took a moment to gather his thoughts and cleared his throat before continuing. "Pardon me. In layman's terms—" Here, the man hesitated and bit his lower lip. "—a fighter jet outfitted with a Slipstream device will be able to teleport from one location to another within the blink of an eye. Thus, to the common observer, the device teleports. We have yet to determine the exact range, but pending your approval of our budget proposal, Strike Commander Morrison, we will begin testing its full capabilities." Sweat beaded at his temples.
"I look forward to seeing your work in person," Morrison said. Gabriel caught him subtly glancing at the scientist's lapel out of the corner of his eye and snorted. Subtle, Morrison. "Based on your last report, this project has great potential, Dr. Andrews." Cue the media-darling smile.
It worked like pure fucking magic. Gabriel reminded himself not to feel proud as the harried scientist relaxed. Morrison had always been good with people.
"While it undoubtedly has applications for military purposes, the Slipstream technology opens up an endless realm of possibilities for technological advances in numerous fields, including civilian applications," Dr. Andrews quickly added all in one breath. "Now, if you would so kindly step over here, we will begin the demonstration proper."
He motioned for them to stand to the side, and Gabriel resisted the urge to step back when Morrison closed the distance between them. Their shoulders brushed, and Gabriel stopped himself from leaning into the warmth at his side. He was still pissed at Morrison, touched-starved or not.
Rather than focus on the Strike Commander, Gabriel turned his attention to the scientists and interns scurrying around the laboratory. They confirmed his earlier suspicions as they worked at the console across the room. That, at least, glowed appropriately enough for a top-secret military device. The rhythmic clack of a hidden keyboard drowned out the whispered readout of numbers. Coordinates, from the sound of it. When the intern who'd given them their so-called coffee set down a wooden crate next to the prototype spatial accelerator, it took one quick survey of the room to find the square of tape marking where the box would presumably land. As if on cue, one of the scientists near the control panel announced they had finished the calibrations.
Gabriel settled back against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Time to see if Project: Slipstream had been worth halving the budget of the Overwatch division that did the real work. If the suits continued to slash their funding, he would have to find ways to fill the gaps, legal or not. No one would miss a few of the unstable prototype weapons the R&D rats had been cooking up, and Gabriel knew several interested parties that would pay twice the GDP of a low-income developing country to obtain just one.
"Gentlemen," Dr. Andrews called out, "if you'll direct your attention to the wooden container. Once my colleague flips the switch, it will appear at the marked landing pad across the testing area."
Now or never.
An audible click filled the air, and the spatial accelerator began to hum. With each second, the pitch grew shriller and shriller. Gabriel could feel the vibrations in his bones, and he leaned forward against his better judgment. His eyes flitted from the unassuming crate to the square of red tape on the far side of the room, back and forth. Back and forth. He tried not to blink in case he missed the teleportation in action, because dammit, he'd grown up watching those retro-antique space adventures, and seeing the technology brought to life before his very eyes was so fucking cool.
The spatial accelerator's buzzing reached an ear-splitting tone, and Gabriel watched the wooden box flicker. He smelled the acrid scent of burnt circuitry before he heard the scientists shout, including a creative stream of Mandarin he'd ask Liao about later. Dr. Andrews rushed over to the control panel, sparing them neither a second glance nor an apology, leaving him alone with the last person he wanted to be alone with.
What perfect fucking luck.
Gabriel had half-expected Morrison to confront him once they had a shred of privacy, but when he felt a hand grasp his biceps, he twisted and threw a punch on instinct. Morrison, thank God, caught his fist and redirected the blow downward with a smoothness that would please their former SEP CQC instructor, may the hard-ass bitch rest in peace. Morrison pinned his other arm to the wall, then the rest of his body, and really, they were close enough to kiss, the space between them warm and intimate. For a moment, Gabriel considered it.
"Gabe!" Morrison hissed. "What are you doing?"
Gabriel could have said with all smug bluster and bravado that he'd wanted proof his decade-long marriage hadn't been an elaborate hallucination, as he was once again spending an anniversary alone. Instead, "I slept like shit," blurted out of his mouth. He'd meant to say any-fucking-thing else. Once spoken, he couldn't take the words back, and his pathetic admission brought that look to Morrison's face: pity. Concern. Guilt. Fuck him and his pancake, freckle-covered ass.
...well. Maybe later.
"You know what I mean." Morrison held up his left hand to emphasize the wedding ring.
"Got lonely. Needed a reminder that I actually have a husband." Gabriel took great pleasure watching the hurt sweep across Morrison's face like a paper bag crumpling in a rainstorm.
"Gabe, I'm—"
The klaxon, sudden and deafening, swallowed the rest of his words. Probably had been an apology, too, which meant they would have been able to kiss and make up later that evening if Morrison had actually been able to finish his goddamn sentence.
Over the blaring sirens, Gabriel registered shouts from the scientists, but even if he hadn't seen every goddamn science fiction movie created in the past century, he knew nothing good was about to happen. He pulled Morrison forward, held him close, and squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself.
Gabriel could hear the roar of the machine as the world dissolved into a blinding flash of light. Static filled his ears, overwhelming and painful. Louder and louder it grew, until he wanted to cry out, anything to make it fucking stop. Just as he felt as if his ear drums would rupture, the noise faded away to oppressive, all-consuming silence.
Then, nothingness.
Consciousness returned with the feeling of the hard ground at his back. His ears rang, drowning out everything else except for the thundering of his heartbeat. The world shook with a violent crack and boom, and in the echo, Gabriel heard gunfire.
Without a second thought, he reached for his service rifle. When his fingers closed around empty air, his heart began to pound in his chest. His hands scrabbled down his body, searching for his pistol, a knife, anything. But all they met were the fabric of his combat fatigues, the ground around him, and in the back of his mind, he wondered where his armor and weapons had gone.
Gabriel opened his eyes to chaos.
Bright sunlight streamed through a ceiling more rebar and holes than concrete. To call the building a building would be generous. It had one standing wall, and even that had been torn apart by artillery fire.
Where was Jack?
He scanned the scene, focusing at the spaces half-hidden by shadow, searching for any signs of life, any signs of color aside from the grey-brown rubble and dark smears of blood. A flash of blue caught his eye, but when he squinted and focused, he saw the faded white lettering sprawled across what had to be a road sign. Where the fuck was he?
To his left, he heard a low groan, and to his relief, he found the origin of the sound: a bright blue jacket. He was never going to fucking complain about the hideous garment again, he silently promised.
Gabriel lurched to a crouch and cursed when the world spun on its axis. Fuck, he was going to be pissed if he'd gotten another concussion. He inhaled a long breath and exhaled. Just a few feet, Reyes.
Shards of glass and sharp stones dug into the flesh of his palm as he crawled over to Morrison, and when he finally reached him, he collapsed beside him. His shoulders shook, and this close, he could hear him retch onto the ground. Gabriel reached out a hand to thump his back in an attempt to soothe. He felt the blond tense.
"Just me," Gabriel croaked out, his throat caked with dust.
Jack heaved once again, his muscles quivering as he threw up between gasping bouts for air. He dry heaved, and Gabriel continued to rub soothing circles into his back until he slumped down, still at last.
"Where are we, Gabe?" Jack asked, his voice low and rough.
"Not sure." He remembered a klaxon, a flash of light, an overwhelming screech, then darkness and silence.
"Whatever happened, it's not five AM any longer." Jack forced himself upright with a groan.
The crash of an explosion filled the air, and this time, he heard human screams and the distinct cry of an omnic in distress. Goddamnit. How the fuck they managed to land in the midst of a battlefield, he had no fucking idea.
"You armed?" Jack asked.
Gabriel shook his head. "Against base policy, remember?"
Jack snorted. "As if that's ever stopped you before."
"Well, when I rolled out of bed today, all I really thought I'd be dealing with was a top-secret weapons demonstration. That usually involves admiring fancy new R&D, standing behind a blast wall, and clapping where appropriate."
"You forgot to add swallowing down that awful coffee," Jack added with a shudder. He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out his phone. Sunlight glinted off the sleek, mirror-slick screen, and Gabriel watched him glare down at it. "Electronics all fried." Bright blue eyes looked up and searched his face. "Yours, too?"
Gabriel fished in his vest and pulled out his own phone. The device could survive a drop from five stories, stop an admittedly low caliber bullet, and remain uncracked despite being thrown against the wall with super-soldier strength, but it, too, refused to turn on, even when he helpfully jammed the power button three times.
"You owe me dinner," Jack said. The confusion must have shown on his face because the blond rolled his eyes. "Back when you bought that thing, you told me it could survive a nuclear blast."
Gabriel groaned. "When we get back to base, Jack, I'll order you a pizza," he spat out. Rather than frown like Gabriel expected, the other man smiled. "Why the goddamn hell are you grinning like an idiot?"
"You haven't called me by my first name in months."
"Well, shit," Gabriel swore, swiping a hand across his face. "Fine then. Unspoken apology accepted. You're Jack again. Fewer syllables than Morrison, anyway. Now, come on. We need to get moving and gather intel."
Gabriel tucked his useless phone back into his pocket and rolled to his feet. Jack mirrored him, and as they set out, he tried not to feel sentimental. It was far too easy to fall in step with each other, and Gabriel knew that whatever the fuck would happen next, he'd have wanted no one else at his side.
It was probably why they'd married each other.
They stepped out into the wreckage of a battlefield: the hollow shells of destroyed buildings, craters marking heavy artillery fire, and the tell-tale scorch marks of pulse weaponry. Pieces of metal caught the glare of the noontime sun amidst the concrete and rebar smeared with dark brown. The cracked face plate of an OR-14 rested atop a pile of rubble, and he found the remains of its chassis beneath a cracked mortar shell.
Side by side, they cleared the surrounding area, quiet and efficient. As they passed what had once been a clothing boutique, caved through the roof, Gabriel heard an awful buzzing from within the cool, dark depths. Thousands of flies, he realized, and turned his head away, jaw clenched tight. Bile rose in his throat. Death never got easier to face.
Jack tapped him on the shoulder and pointed down at the ground. Blood. They followed the red-brown smears to the aftermath of a firefight in what appeared to have once been a town square. Human and omnic corpses littered the ground, and Gabriel's mouth twisted downward when he saw non-combat omnics alongside E54 Siege Automatons and OR14 units.
Gabriel moved toward the bodies of the human soldiers, spoiling in the heat. He found a rucksack and examined its contents: a bare-bones med kit, a few MREs, a canteen of water, and a change of clothes. Jack, a quick glance over his shoulder informed him, was inspecting the weapons. When Gabriel crouched down beside him, he jerked his thumb at the shotguns at his side.
"Careful. They're loaded. Flechette rounds and heavy-duty slugs—the kind designed to penetrate an omnic's armor, it looks like."
Gabriel picked up one and checked it over. Scarred and worn down, the shotgun felt right in his grip. A weapon—even a piss-poor excuse for one that looked like it would explode the moment he tried to fire it—was better than being unarmed.
Each of the human corpses wore an OTV, and Gabriel braced himself before he pulled one off with a wet squelch. His stomach roiled at the God-awful smell. He held the tactical vest at arm's length. Even if he had a way of cleaning it off, it would be a tight fit. He tossed it down to the ground with a sound of disgust and returned to Jack's side.
"Find anything else?" Gabriel asked.
Jack shook his head and gestured at their assorted pile of ammunition. "At least we're armed now." As always, Jack tried for optimism. Gabriel rolled his eyes and tried not to smile. "Let's keep looking."
They picked their way down the street, slow and careful. His skin itched, whether from the sweat, dirt, or lack of intel. Probably all three. Jack noticed the glint of metal at the far end of the avenue sooner than he did, but before the blond could shout a warning, he was already moving. The bullet whizzed above their heads, and they scrambled for cover as an omnic roared to life in the distance. From the heavy tread, Gabriel assumed E54s and OR14s. Overwatch had spent a fortune dismantling the damned Siege Automatons. How the fucking hell were they still operational?
Jack motioned for them to steal into the nearest building, and as Gabriel stepped through the threshold, he prayed the supermarket wouldn't cave in over them. There wasn't much they could use for cover. One of the fallen shelving units, tarnished and rickety with age, was better than nothing. He dragged the plywood fallen from the windows and propped it against the shelves as well. This way, they could funnel the omnics through the door, assuming one of those E54s didn't smash through the wall and bury them alive.
Gabriel held his breath as siege automaton stood in the doorway, its servos humming and chirping as it no doubt scanned the room. He glanced at Jack, and the blond's grim expression sent his heart racing. Fuck, if seeing Jack in the field wasn't inspiring. He'd tell Adawe that when they returned. Rather than shaking the hands with world leaders and posing with small children, the world needed to see the Strike Commander ready to fight tooth and nail for survival, just like during the Omnic Crisis.
Jack cursed beneath his breath as the Bastion opened fire, and Gabriel prayed their pathetic excuse for a barricade held up under the onslaught. The crack of splintering wood filled the air beneath the ear-splitting shriek of an omnic battle cry. In the split-second the omnic began to reload, Jack leaned over their cover and fired off a round. It went wide, and he swore.
"If you keep missing like that, it'll be Detroit all over again," Gabriel yelled as he reloaded. An OR14 burst through the wall adjacent to the street, the glowing light from its blade casting the dim interior into sharp relief. Gabriel marked its face plate, took aim, and fired, the sounds deafening in the claustrophobic space.
"You remember Detroit differently than I do!" Jack sounded casual, as if they were cracking jokes at the firing range, sipping beers and trying to beat their personal bests rather than fighting to stay alive. Another reload, another chance to unload a magazine into the omnic's skull. This time, Jack's aim held true.
More omnics appeared, crowding around the blown-out windows and the doorway. Gabriel could feel their barricade shudder as the bullets embedded themselves into the metal and wood. When the opportunity arose, he returned fire, and grimly, he wondered if they would end up sealing themselves inside the bombed-out store with omnic corpses. A fucking literal tomb of their enemies.
"Whose plan cracked open the omnium and allowed us to disable the security protocols of the God AI, huh, Morrison?"
"I still have the scar from that incident, Mr. Punch-An-Omnic-in-the-Face!" Jack yelled out in between shots.
"If I hadn't done that, you would have been run through by an OR14!"
"Still can't believe that worked. Wish I'd gotten a video or—" A shot from his gun drowned out the rest of his words, and Gabriel watched the second-to-last omnic fall. The last OR14 crashed to the ground, a bullet neatly put through its cortical shield.
In the silence after the battle, all they could hear was the sound of their own heartbeats and the rush of blood through their veins. They set their weapons down and leaned against one another.
"I almost want to kiss you," Gabriel panted out.
Jack laughed, so fucking warm and bright, Gabriel slid his eyes closed to better focus on how goddamn happy he sounded. "Later," he said.
Gabriel didn't know how long they sat there, but once the adrenaline began to fade, the aches and pains returned. The stinging on his cheek indicated shrapnel—or a bullet, more likely—had grazed him, and while Jack was pretending he was fine, his blue coat couldn't hide everything. He assured Gabriel the bullet had gone straight through, and while they both knew the super soldier healing would patch everything up after a few days, he insisted Jack stay behind while he went out to find supplies.
The supermarket had cans of food, and Jack could use his boy scout training to light a fire—even though they both knew Jack had never actually been a fucking boy scout. At least the military had trained them for something.
"I'll be back before sundown," Gabriel said. Jack handed him one of their few remaining magazines. Jack needed it more, since the goddamn idiot was actually injured.
"Keep it, Gabe. I hope you don't need to use it. I'll see you in a few hours, alright?" Jack had the audacity to smile.
Gabriel slipped out through the hole in the wall created by the OR14 and continued down the street. Without their electronics, it was difficult to pinpoint where they were. From the packaging in the store, it was clear they were still in America. It was too fucking boring to be anywhere else, but Jack had laughed him off.
He had loaded up his rucksack with medical supplies found in what he presumed had once been a pharmacy, though the pickings had been slim. Any of the valuables, it seemed, had been taken long ago, but bandages, gauze, and scissors were important. Alcohol, too.
Gabriel had been so caught up trying to read the near microscopic labels that he failed to notice the small, hovering sentry bot before it beeped at him once. Then, it began to screech.
He cursed and made a run for it.
Before he registered what had happened, pain lanced up his leg, the echo of a gunshot roaring down the street. Again and again, the sounds crashed into one another, and Gabriel was falling to the ground. He tasted dirt in his mouth, spat it out, and propped himself up on his elbows. Fuck.
He scrambled to his feet, and he managed to limp a few more feet away before his leg gave out. Again. This time, he managed to find some kind of cover, though he was all but useless, and from the crashing footsteps and grinding tread of the siege automatons, he knew they were going to find him.
Black spots danced across his vision, and really, he hated blood loss. Made everything thick and slow, like what he imagined swimming in molasses felt like.
In the distance, he heard gunfire and voices, indistinct and human. He didn't know if that was a good thing or bad.
Something small and round landed on the edge of his peripheral vision. Gabriel had time to glance down at the grenade at his feet and scramble away before the world grew dark and dim. The next thing he remembered, he was staring up at the sky. It was blue, very blue, like Jack's stupid eyes.
He'd be mad Gabriel got injured, lecture him with his Strike Commander voice. If Gabriel could manage, they'd end up bloodied and bruised, just to make a point that no, he wasn't going to listen to a reprimand like a disobedient child. His memory swam in and out, the world a black-tinged haze.
Someone blocked his view, their faces shadowed. "Make it quick," Gabriel slurred out. He didn't hear their response, if one came at all.
Before he passed out, he saw a blur of color that sharpened into a familiar insignia. Thank God for Overwatch—words he never thought he'd say again.
Jack peered up at the darkened sky once more with a frown. Still no sign of Gabriel.
Something had happened.
Maybe Gabriel had gotten lost. Maybe Gabriel had needed to find an alternative, longer way back to avoid omnics. A few patrols had rumbled by the grocery store, and Jack had kept himself quiet and hidden. If they had noticed their fallen brethren outside, they had paid the chassis no mind. Unusual, but he had never considered himself an expert on omnic neural patterns. Besides, they'd survived worse in the past. Arctic survival training with the 5th CRPG as part of their special forces training had been some of the worst. Even Gabriel would admit that, though Jack distinctly remembered watching his handsome, LA-native CO act like a child who had never seen snow before, even when the rest of them were freezing their asses off.
Jack sighed, leaned back against the barricade he had reinforced with sheets of corrugated metal he had found in a back room. The fire didn't need any more tending. He was already worried about the smoke drawing unwanted attention, but at this point, the warmth and the rhythmic crackle of burning wood reminded him of camping trips with his family and Gabriel. He'd even found a pack of dried sausages. They could roast them, even if the result would taste more like meat-flavored cardboard than anything else. Gabriel would bitch and moan, and Jack could tease him about being spoiled, just like old times.
Maybe, when this was all over, they could plan something. A trip to the middle of nowhere, just the two of them, far away from Overwatch, Blackwatch, and the United Nations. Sure, he'd thrown their camping gear into a storage facility, but it wasn't impossible to get it back. Gabriel could pick the location. It would make him happy, give him a sense of agency, since most of his missions as of late—including Kurjikistan—had been chosen for him. If Gabriel couldn't decide, Jack remembered he'd wanted to visit the Torres del Paine National Park the last time they'd spoken about leave time, or maybe Yosemite instead—something easy and familiar.
Jack had begun to doze off when he heard the heavy tread of footsteps. He reached for his gun and fought down the urge to check if it was Gabriel. Five sets of footsteps. He heard them turn over one of the omnics outside, and he peered over the edge of their barricade. Of course it would be a squad of Talon soldiers. Of course. The day could probably get worse, but he didn't want to jinx it.
Jack watched them gesture around at the damage, and he would have given anything to be able to listen into their conversation. The faceless helmets zeroed in on him, and he held his breath, as if that would solve anything.
He heard the footsteps behind him too late to react, and the blow to his head left him dazed. The world swam in and out of focus. He felt his limbs being bound together and then his world went black. They'd reopened his gunshot wound, too. He hadn't been able to do more than stem the bleeding with a clean shirt and bandage it. The Talon soldiers shoved a gag into his mouth, and he felt himself being dragged across the ground. Leather scraped against dirt and gravel, and his booted feet caught against debris, bouncing and jarring.
Jack tried to gauge how far they traveled, but time slid sideways. It could have been fifteen minutes or an hour. Based on the sound of heavy footsteps and the lack of any discernible engine or change in pace, he didn't think they had used any sort of vehicle. That limited their distance to a few miles at most.
When they released him from his bonds, the first thing he tried to do was swing. There was a soldier on his left, and his fist met body armor with a satisfying thud. His leg swept out, and Jack used the moment of freedom to rip the blindfold from his eyes. He squinted against the bright hallway, and he'd managed to tackle one of the Talon soldiers to the ground before he felt a sharp prick in his arm.
Jack slumped down, unable to move his suddenly heavy limbs. He watched them strip him of his gear, leaving him in only a pair of combat fatigues and an undershirt. If the super soldier serum was good for nothing else, it sped up his body's ability to metabolize drugs. Whatever they'd pumped into him had already begun to wear off by the time they patted him down for hidden weapons. When someone tried to remove his dog tags, he snarled and headbutted them. Another soldier tried again, and this time, he went for them with his teeth, biting down hard enough to taste blood.
Another blow to the head and an injection later, he found himself tied to a chair in an interrogation room. Restrained to near immobility, Jack had been bound with his arms behind his back and legs lashed to the chair legs. His head and neck, however, had been left free.
He tried to keep himself occupied, focusing on breathing and flexing his muscles.
In for a count of ten, flex the muscles of his right hand, hold for five heartbeats, exhale for a count of ten, then relax.
In, tense the muscles of his forearm, hold, exhale, relax.
The exercise traveled up his arm, across his body, all in a desperate attempt to keep his muscles warm, to prevent cramps, to give him something to focus on other than the panic that wanted to rise to the surface. It kept him ready, kept him engaged and ready to react to his captors, as if there was any hope of escaping from the situation he'd landed himself in.
Despite straining his ears and holding himself perfectly still, Jack could hear nothing outside of the room. He knew, somewhere within the sleek walls, there was at least one camera watching him, if not more. The locking mechanism on the lone entrance and exit in the room clicked open, and the door slid open without a sound. His interrogator stepped through the door, and it closed behind him.
The black-clad figure wore a hood, bone white mask, and a black duster of all the things. Gabriel would either be horrified, amused, jealous, or some combination of all three at the sight. He met the black hollows set into mask with defiance.
"I won't talk," Jack informed his interrogator.
Silence.
The seconds ticked by and the figure said nothing. In fact, they stood perfectly still as if frozen in place. If not for the subtle rise and fall of their chest, Jack would have thought he had gotten into a staring match with a statue.
"That's a shame," his interrogator said at last. "Do you know who I am?"
Out of all the questions Jack expected him to start with, that was not one of them.
"Should I?" Jack kept his face impassive, his tone of voice emotionless, even as his nails into the skin of his palm.
Rather than answer him, the other man crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his head to the side. Gabriel had once said the motion made him feel like a bird examining its prey. With the scars on his face dragging his mouth down into a perpetual scowl more often than not, Jack could see why so many found him intimidating. Jack half-expected him to begin circling him.
"Reaper," the black-clad man said at last, and some of the confusion on his face must have shown. "Call me Reaper, Jack Morrison, if you need a name to curse. Now, if you answer my questions, this won't hurt... much." He took two steps forward, the skull mask inches from his own face. "Tell me: why were you out there all alone?"
"Enjoying the view."
Jack heard the other man snort. "You were awfully low on supplies for a leisurely weekend trip." He tapped one clawed finger against the lower half of his mask. "The last time I saw you, you didn't look so young. Let's run through the possibilities, shall we?" Jack felt cool metal claws dig into his hair, and they jerked his head backward, exposing his neck. He hissed out a breath through his teeth. "Maybe you're just a look-alike. You wouldn't be the first obsessive fanboy to use facial reconstructive surgery in a misguided attempt to become the illustrious former Strike Commander of Overwatch." The claws dug into his scalp. "Maybe a long-lost son." Here, Reaper chuckled. His shoulders shook with barely suppressed laughter, and his free hand dug into his side the same way Gabriel did when he tried not to make too much noise when he laughed. "You could be a nephew or a cousin. The resemblance is uncanny. I wonder if..." Reaper trailed off and shook his head, dismissing the thought.
The pieces started to fit together, and Jack didn't want to believe in utterly impossible things, even when he lived in a world where it was possible to become a character straight out of an WWII comic book thanks to top-secret government experimentation. Intelligent, talking gorillas, super soldiers, killer robots led by human-hating artificial intelligence—fine. He drew the line at time travel.
"Gabe, what year is it?"
Instead of answering, Reaper dislodged his gauntlets, ripping more than a few strands of hair. Cold, sharp talons slid under the hem of his shirt and rucked it up to his armpits, exposing his stomach. Reaper peered down at his abdomen as if searching for something, and he closed his fist around the metal dog tags hanging around his neck, holding them up to the light. Despite being unable to see his face, Jack knew he focused on the dull, silicone ring dangling between the thin metal tags.
Reaper began to laugh and laugh as if he'd seen the funniest thing in a long time. It wasn't a pleasant sound. When the black-clad man got himself under control, he dropped the dog tags and tugged the shirt back down, as if giving Jack a semblance of privacy.
"2080," he answered at last. "Don't look so surprised. It must be... what? Thirty years into the future for you."
"Yes," Jack said, feeling numb. Not from poor circulation, no, but from the dread settling cold and heavy in the pit of his stomach. "Gabe, what happened? Why are you..." He trailed off, uncertain.
Reaper took a step back. With the slow, dramatic flair Jack expected, he removed his mask with a hiss of pressurized air. Dark brown eyes searched Jack's face, and really, he must have been expecting revulsion or fear. All Jack saw was Gabriel. Older, yes, and battle-scarred, but still the man he'd married. Nothing else mattered: not the shift of his skin as tendrils of black smoke wafted from cracks in his skin or the way multiple eyes blinked in the darkness of his cowl.
"Was that supposed to frighten me, Gabe?" Jack asked with a smile. Of course, even in his mid-fifties, his husband would still be surprised that yes, in fact, Jack loved him, even if he was a pain in the ass to live with sometimes.
"Yes," Reaper hissed out. "I'm not your Gabriel. You don't know even a fraction of the things I've done."
Jack shrugged his shoulders as best as he could while still bound to the chair. "Soldiers kill. War is hell." Once, Gabriel had told him something similar. "We've both done what was necessary to make the world a better place. Whatever you did, I'm sure you had your reasons."
Reaper lashed out with a snarl. Jack expected the punch and braced himself. Pinpricks of light danced across his vision as the first blow connected. The second one, too, which split his lip. The third caught him off-guard, and he felt the metal gauntlet catch against his skin. He stopped counting after five.
When Reaper finished, his breathing harsh and labored through his mask, Jack mustered up a smile. "Feel better, Gabe?"
The other man growled and raised his fist again in warning. His leather-clad knuckles wetly gleamed beneath the fluorescent lights. Jack licked his lips, tasting the salt and iron of his own blood.
Rather than dignify his question with a response, Reaper stormed out of the room with a growl of frustration, leaving Jack alone to celebrate his small victory.