Notes: The best way for you to visualize my OC is to google "human senketsu" and go to images. I honestly did get rather inspired by the jacket the girl in Kill La Kill wore, however i did not know there was a human-ish version. I Visualized my oc way before i came across the fan art of human senketsu, and with a couple of small changes they were almost identical. So yeah, i got inspired by the jacket, however i did not in any way steal the human version of senketsu, as i thought of his design before i knew it existed.
He made it out, but he didn't make it out the same. He didn't make it out alive, nor safe. He felt dead, he was alive. The only reason he still had fire running through his veins was the girl he shared his cell with. She was so scared and innocent. He couldn't let her suffer a fate like him, buried up his neck in corpses, so he built his walls higher than the sky itself. So high, pain couldn't reach him. So high, despair over what he became was nothing but a little whisper compared to the screaming next hall. But everytime she smiled in this wreched hell of place, something so beautiful in contrast of the gray wall behind her, the walls cracked. And eventually they f-
His dream came to a halt as a deafening clang echoed in the halls. The appearance he donned was incredibly otherwordly. The skin around his hips and navel was a rather dark gray colour, giving it a look like as if he was wearing shorts, while the rest of the skin on his back and his legs was completely pitch black. However the frontal chest area was a dark red color, in a perfect pattern like a piece of clothing stitched to his body.
The red skin started from the middle of his pecks, and followed the abdominal muscles down to the V leading down his navel and stopping there, while the frontal ribs were only halfway covered in red, and the rest of his entire body was enveloped in black, with a single stripe of red skin around his neck, almost like a choker, with two horizontal lines following the tendons in the front of his neck, before the stripes abruptly turned towards his shoulders where they outlined his neck muscles and shoulders with a rich red outline.
His hair is facing his back, a bright red colour marred his hair till the midle of his skull's back side, where it faded into a smooth dark gray like a shining silk. His psysique was hard to forget to an extent, a height of 7"1, with an incredibly toned body sporting an 8-pack on his abdomen, muscles hard as diamond all over his body. Then came the most dangerous part of his body. His hands. Massive fingers that ended up in claws as pointy as a needle and as big as a small kitchen knife. They looked surprisingly nimble, like the claw could bend this way and that to assist the fingers in their task, as if it was alive enough to change its size, a disturbing sight for something like a claw that is meant to be simple bone.
The figure in the cell didn't move for a few seconds. Then it turned its head, a mechanical, trembling move. The prisoner was slumped against the wall, having no visible eyes to the guard. Even the warden of this horrible torture hall hated coming to him. He was scared. Something about his scent gave it away, and he grinned a deranged smile, more teeth in his mouth than a piano had keys.
The warden was twitching. Good. He remembers what happened last time he used his bare hands to drag him to the lab, that means. He could smell the prosthetic leg from his corner.
He squinted his only eye, the right one, the one the warden couldn't see from his angle, its gaze turning thoughtful as he scooted up a bit on the wall.
Was he evil? He thought about it all the time. Even at the worst and most random times, he thought about it, like now. Was he a monster? It felt wrong. He didn't feel like a monster. He felt like a supercharged generator of hate that was a hair's length from exploding. He felt pity towards the monstrosities in the cells opposite of him. Cause that mangled, writhing pile of flesh used to be a human being once.
But normal, human beings, did not tear off limbs. They didn't break bones like twigs and they didn't tear through flesh like paper with their bare hands. Like me.
He thought of all this while he stared at the 1 foot wide metal bars of his cell. Extra security.
The plated shoulders tensing even more, barely noticeable under the juggernaut suit of titanium, the warden called him.
"SCP H-4-C-K-5-4-W."
He lifted his head fully, staring straight ahead even if he knew what came next it was either 'Im taking you to the labs, do not resist for your own good.' maybe, 'Food.' And in rare occasions, he might say 'You are to be transferred to clean your cell. Do not resist.'
He braced himself for the wor- "You are to share your cell with #4596 until further notice, SCP H-4-C-K-5-A-W. Violence is n-"
His brain shut down, his eye widened and his heart stopped functioning for a few seconds till the words fully registered. His head snapped up with a glare harsh enough to make the titanium warden suit start sizzling.
…. What? ...
He was gonna fucking slaughter the thing before it even made it past the cell doors.
25 Years prior.
Rayes didn't like this. He did not like this at all.
As soon as he got dragged from the UN to a round table filled to the brim with shady scientists and people that looked more like they were sewn together rather than birthed, he knew he fucked up.
Im a fucking idiot. He always believed himself a leader, someone who would walk into the sizzling bloodbath without a second thought and scream at his soldiers to hurry the fuck up. So naturally he accepted the invitation. Leading an underground organization for worldwide protection seemed just his style. Dirty, violent, but only to the bastards who deserved it.
They never told him too many details and he wished he asked for them, mentally hitting himself. Blackwatch wasn't an independent organization no, they were just a less powerfull section of Overwatch, in both numbers and base expanse. He was pretty much a leader of a fucking taskforce almost half the size of his previous leadership numbers. Organization my ass. Its not like it would stay this small, but it was still frustrating cause now he would have to be constantly looking for individuals infamous enough to join up. Yet more paperwork.
But hell, the situation did have its positives. Barely any laws existed for Blackwatch, and even less control from the government then a recruit had on him. Commanding a smaller group meant he did not have to assign group leaders who would fuck up or disobey him cause some unlucky fella lost his leg and they wont leave him behind.
It meant they were free to operate as they pleased without drawing massive amounts of attention. Be it blackmail, assassination, bombings, gunfights, torture, rape. The U.N's only rules were to obey the high command when told to. He remembered a tall lanky man, like a walking scarecrow in the meeting saying, "We do not care how you achieve the goals we set, so long as it does not compromise Overwatch's and the UN's safety."
But what did that matter when he was ranked, essentially had a giant staple on his work file saying he was worth less that Jack? His fists clenched, his leather gloves straining.
How many times did he pull Jack out of a hail of Bastion artillery fire. How many times did they fight together till they ran out of ammunition, till their knives came dull and their knuckles broke. How many damn times did he save Jack's career by making sure he didn't get into some type of fistfight with an official telling him they can't go on rescue missions in the middle of a siege.
His scruffy beard twisted to the side along with his jaw, his teeth getting grinded into dust in his mouth. What a way to thank him. Take him off the fight, leave him to wait till the entire building process was over, and have him ranked lower then fucking Jacky boy who was already learning the ins and outs of the Overwatch facilities and ordering people around. Not that it mattered right now. What happened, happened.
His shoulder muscles forced into a relaxed state as he looked around the mess of a construction site. Dust flying everywhere from the heavy machines, covered in a thin layer of dirt and rust, spitting oil like a rabid dog, gigantic drills mounted on top of like some type of award. Grats, you're fucked till you can quit in 5 years, they told him. He didn't choose the site either, it was somewhere in a secluded mountain in Zurich, some German(?) town he had never even heard of. Or state. Hell if he knew, hell if he cared. It was currently in the construction phase of 'only two thousand meters of digging more'. His hand shot up to his head, trying to prevent his cap from flying away. "Why is it so damn windy up here?", he grumbled.
"Hell if I know, but I don't like this location."A buff man with a Russian accent replied, casually slipping next to him, squinting at the scene. His face had facial features sharper then Rayes's damn eyesight, with high cheekbones, big ears and pointy, slanted eyes. He looked like he belonged more in the Italian mafia then a Russian construction company.
Rayes grunted. Maybe he was paranoid, but something about this place and its people creeped him out too. "Glad to see im not the only one."
The buildings looked like they came straight out of a zombie apocalypse movie, the metal doors had claw marks on them or were missing, the wooden ones were missing large chunks of them, like someone was trying to kick them down only for his foot to go through the door, anything and everything metal on the buildings was rusted to the point of looking like dirt, and the curtains were ripped apart and full of holes, barely covering any of the building's charred interior. The worst was the people. It was not uncommon for villagers to sometimes just stand there for hours and watch as still as a statue. Maybe the waste fucked their brains up, he though.
He chuckled dryly, doing a complete 180 turn and pointing at one of the small factories surrounding them accusingly. "Look at that. It looks like the whole thing is about to collapse. And why the hell are there so many pipes in this place? And why are we making our base in a such a shithole anyway?" He scowled, his voice gritty, "Fucking UN."
"I think the reason were building it here is because it's a shit hole. Who would expect Blackwatch's base of operations being in an industrial wasteland with population more laughable than my paycheck?", he answered.
He looked at the man in surprise, eyebrows shot up high, "Wait so the UN told you what you're here to build?"
Jahov shrugged, "They usually do, were basically their pocket company for everything. Why do you think we have such powerfull drills?" the man's brow lowered in irritation, "The company is swimming in UN money.", he explained, pulling out a cigarette from his front pocket.
He turned and casually asked, voice light. "Got any light, Mister Edgelord?".
Rayes pulled out a shotgun with a roll of his eyes. "Give me the cig."
"Wow, threatening me over a cigar, that's low Rayes.", he replied, grinning, trying to lighten the mood. Regardless, he handed it over, thinking he wanted a cig for himself. "Aight here's your payment of one shitty cigarette, light them now.", he said impatiently, pulling out another cigar, drawing his eyes to his pocket.
A gunshot, loud enough to break glass echoed on the abandoned buildings around them.
Jahov started, his hand flying to his pistol on his back pocket, cigarettes flying everywhere, forgotten. He aimed down the sights on his C-9, doing 180s, eyes wide and panicked, before his eyes fell on Rayes. Lighting the cigar with the scorching hot barrel of his shotgun, looking at him trying to refrain his laughter so hard his face turned red, as his shoulders shook in mirth, a shit eating grin on his face.
He stared at him for a second in astonishment. "What kind of fucking nutjob lights a cig with a shotgun?!" And that did it.
Jahov barely managed to grab the cig before Rayes exploded in barely contained laughter, his knees feeling weak. The laughter faded into little snickers, and Rayes straightened up with that shit eating grin still sitting on his face, "That was a nice break from the dullness of this damn ghost town."
The man was still looking at him like was on drugs, but eventually he turned away.
Jahov could hardly give enough of a shit to talk till his cig ran out. So he didn't.
He looked to the site. His workers were looking at them in a mixture of puzzlement and wariness. It made sense he supposed, not every day do you see your employer shoot a cigar then nearly double over in laughter. Guess his cig couldn't stop him from yelling at them in the end.
Face turning deadly, he mustered all his lung power, and took the cig out of his mouth. "GET BACK TO WORK YOU OVERPAYED SLUGS!"
Motion exploded everywhere as the workers snapped out of their stupor and returned to their duties, the mechanical whirring of drills resuming.
Hell, I should yell more often, they're working even faster than before, he noted with amusement.
Putting his shotgun back into its holster to avoid any accidents, Rayes jerked his chin towards the middle of the construction side, suddenly serious.
"Let's go, Jahov, I want a tour of this place. How far is the construction besides the drilling?"
A/N:
The nature of this story rather dark and will have an incredible amount of gore, blood, depression, mental illness, general insanity and so on.
However depending on how i decide to take this fiction on from here on out, it will also have a lot of hero development and fluff.
I simply wanted to craft my own story in the overwatch universe, and fear not almost every single overwatch hero will be in this story and will play a rather important part, but none of them will ever be main characters. Just my OC and IA who is inspired by a vocaloid.
I will continue to upload depending on the interest of the story, and considering this is my first story ever i really feel like i need to improve and i'd love some constructive critisism. This fic should be a very long one, might even breach 120k words, even though i just started it i have a lenghty plan for thise one.