Reaper stood in the center of the council room, his body illuminated by a sole beam of light. Darkness hung like a thick cloud. Before him lie a glass wall, separating the room in two. In the shadows behind the glass, he could just barely make out the silhouette of a long table. At the table sat the three dim outlines that made up Talon's High Council, noiselessly staring back at the masked mercenary, scrutinizing him as if from behind the lens of a microscope. They were the faceless voices that dealt out commands, organized strikes, and decided who on the long list of Talon enemies would meet a bloody end first. It was unlikely that being personally summoned by them would end well under any circumstance. He stood up a little straighter, his fingers nervously rubbing the grip of one of his shotguns. The voice of one of the council member abruptly ended the silence, causing his heart to skip a beat. "Reaper."

The voice was deep, manipulated to the point it undoubtedly bore no similarities to it owners real one. Reaper placed his hands behind his back to stop their nervous fiddling. "Yes?"

"It is well known that the council has, of lately, been doing intense research on the various members of Overwatch," the voice continued.

Reaper responded with a brief nod.

"And after Widowmaker's failed attempt to exterminate the operative 'Tracer'-"

A feeling of nausea swept over Reaper as the disgusting image of the perky Brit, (or at least he thought she was British, he quite frankly didn't give a fuck) and the mind-grating sound of her seemingly pre-pubescent voice filled his head. He unconsciously started to crack his knuckles.

"-we have taken a particular interest in the Overwatch agent's seemingly superhuman abilities."

Reaper made a quick attempt to put together the possible reasons why the Council would be telling him this. Perhaps they wanted him to do the honors of crushing the life out of the annoying brat? He would be more than happy.

"And what part do I play in this?" Reaper asked is his usual hostile growl. He could just barely see the center member lean forward and place their hands together.

"Through hacked Overwatch and government files, collected by our informant, we have managed to replicate the operatives enhanced movement and healing abilities."

Reaper stared at the three figures, his mask hiding the unimpressed look that now covered his face. "The shit the brat has been wearing was designed by an animal that should be locked in a zoo. Am I supposed to be impressed? How long did it take your scientists to bang their heads together and come up with this idea?" The idea of Talon trying to replicate anything was terrifying, let along something that most likely would destroy the flow of time.

"You fail to realize the complete circumstances of how the Operative gained her particular skill set."

Reaper could hear the growing frustration in the raspy, disembodied voice. It was true, he didn't understand how the brat had become the pest she was. But he had only made the remark as a direct stab at Talon's seemingly unlimited source of pride, and it seemed as though he had struck home. From behind the mask, he grinned. "Enlighten me, then."

The voice responded, annoyance becoming more and more apparent. "It is of little importance. There are much more important matters to attend to."

Reaper scoffed. "Is that so?"

"I don't particularly like your attitude, agent."

Reaper refrained from responding to the cliche line, the only things coming to mind being particularly toxic remarks. He had pushed his luck enough from one day. As if to prove the thought right, the voice seemed to wait for a second to see if the cloaked figure would voice any more quips before continuing. "You will be escorted to laboratory 24-D. Please try to work with the scientist. We don't need any more...incidents."

The glass wall slowly tinted, the material darkening from the edges to the center, like frost silently covering a window. Before long, the other half of the room became completely obscured. A large sliding door opened behind Reaper, the hydraulics hissing as they bore the load of the heavy, bulletproof metal. Two Talon soldiers marched into the room. The cloaked mercenary turned and exited the room, the soldiers trailing close behind him. He now had a concept of an idea of what was going on. If his guess was right, Talon would be trying to implement him with similar equipment as the little prick. He chuckled to himself as he imagined the look on the little shit's face as she suddenly zips away, thinking she is safe, only to have him appear in front of her. He savored the horrified look he imagined she would have the moment before her brain was smeared across the ground. A sadistic giddiness suddenly coursed through him. No, not her head, her guts, shoot her in the stomach and tear that fucking machine off her chest and watch as the life slowly faded from her terrified eyes. No longer would he have to hear her aggravating giggle as she disappeared, leaving him to miss what could have been a perfect kill shot. The soldiers beside him took no notice to his psychotic laughter. It was, quite frankly, commonplace. Talons clientele was never prized for its mental stability.

'Lab 24-D' wasn't much to speak of. In Reaper's experience, Talons facilities where sleek and high tech, vain in a certain sense, as if the architects were trying to hard to stress the organization's own importance. The room he now stood in reflected none of those qualities. In contrast, it looked as if it could very well fall apart at any given moment. The scent of chemicals overpowered the mercenary's lungs. He let out a rasping cough. The room felt a little too much like a hospital for his comfort, a business whose service went strictly against his own. The walls were lined with wooden cabinets opposed to the usual electric, steel lock-boxes and lockers. Strange, and in some cases, disturbing, instruments hung from various points in the ceiling like sadistic Christmas decorations. To finish the hospital-gone-torture dungeon motif, a large, swiveling metal seat stood riveted to the center of the floor, leather straps attract her every few inches, wires wrapping around and entering at various points. Reaper walked over to the chair for a closer look. Upon examination, he could see a series of small holes on the arm rests, each barely the size of a needle. He started to reach out his hand to inspect the chair further before being interrupted abruptly. "Don't touch, will you?"

Reaper glanced over his shoulder. The metal doors of the room had slid open without his notice, revealing a single, unimpressive man. He was not what the cloaked killer had expected. The man was short and stocky with thinning black hair, perhaps middle aged, the stereotypical scientist look finished off with a much too large white lab coat and a pair of thick round glasses. His mouth was curled in a seemingly impossible scowl. "And you are?..." Reaper questioned.

"It is of no importance who I am, in thirty minutes we will most likely never cross paths again."

"Yeah, things of no importance seem to be a trend today." Reaper replied, feeling a slight sense of irritation building deep inside of him, "Let's get one thing clear, my job is to be a highly efficient mercenary, and when people don't give me the full story, I find it...difficult to complete my job." One or two missions he had botched due to that very reason came to mind. Needless to say, the contractors didn't have much to complain about once he was done. Except being six feet underground, of course. The mercenary chuckled at that thought.

"Yes, anyway," The nameless scientist continued, flipping through a series of files he had inside a manila folder, "We mustn't waste any time. The Council had directed me to install the experimental used by the Operative code named 'Tracer.' They believe they can create a new 'super soldier,' a soldier that could utilize all the technology and enhanced abilities that the Overwatch operatives currently have." The scientist sat down in a chair near him. "Name?"

Reaper laughed harshly. "You're joking."

The balding man returned an irritated glare. Reaper cursed silently to himself, irrigation continuing to build. "Gabriel Reyes"

"Age?"

Reaper felt his hand reaching for one of his shotguns. "Look, can we skip this bullshit any get this over with?"

He received another patronizing look. "Fine," the scientist muttered to himself, "I don't get paid enough for dealing with asses like you anyways."

With a low growl, the cloaked killer's hands snapped instinctively to his shotguns. After a moment, however, he holstered them back to his sides. Killing Talon scientists would get him nowhere. Not that they didn't deserve it. He had found dozens of the scientists' files raving and ranting about how "Widowmaker was going to the 'miracle' weapon, a soldier to kill all soldiers" And what does she do? First time she was confronted by an actual Overwatch operative she fails. Reaper was surprised the Council didn't have the scientists herded together like cattle and slaughtered. The sound of someone clearing their throat brought The mercenary back into the present. The scientist quickly pulled a small laptop from one of the many cabinets, and plugging it into a series of cords haphazardly connected to the metal seat, finally looking back up at his 'patient'.

"Sit down," He paused, glancing at the dual shotguns at Reapers hips. "Please." The scientist added, somewhat reluctantly.

Reaper glanced at the seat before staring down at the man in front of him. "Doesn't exactly look up to Talon code," He remarked Doubtfully, "Seems a bit...rough."

The scientist impatiently smashed at the keyboard, entering data beyond Reapers comprehension. "This entire room was furnished quite quickly. The dissociator-" he waved his hand towards the unsightly tangle of chair and wire, "-is largely experimental, but vital in replicating Tracers time-space abilities. Tests have been done, of course, but it never seems to work the same way twice. However, the margin of error has been reduced to what is considered a 'safe' variable."

The scientist took a moment to stretch his hands out before continuing, "Look Reyes, I don't exactly enjoy my job, and it's mainly because of head strong jackasses that like to question everything before they do it," He swiveled around to face the cloaked Talon mercenary, "They seem to miss the vital point that if they simply work with me instead of against me, that things would go incredibly smoother. Not to mention faster, and generally a lot cleaner." The short man crossed his arms and tilted his round head back slightly, as if he were a teacher disciplining a misbehaving student. "So, will we cooperate and have this done quickly, or do this the long and painful way?"

Hidden by the battle-worn mask, Reaper's eyes slowly narrowed. "Fine," Reaper dropped himself into the rather disconcerting chair in question.

"Thank you," The short man gave him a slightly exasperated smile, "Now if you would kindly remove your gauntlets."

Reluctantly, Reaper shed the two pieces of armor. The balding scientist stood up from his aging chair, and walking over to The mercenary, started to do the straps over his arms and torso. After He was securely confined to the chair, the scientist sat back in his own chair and continued to type on his laptop. "I must warn you, this will hurt."

Reaper laughed. "I have felt pain you could not even imagine."

The scientist glanced at the now restricted killer, raising a single eyebrow. "Perhaps, but I ensure you, this will be something completely new."

The scientist tapped one last key, and opening one of the many wooden cabinets, pulled out what appeared to be a welding mask. "The process will initiate is a second."

When the scientist had said the feeling was something completely new, he had meant it.

The whole process only lasted about five minutes, but to Reaper, it felt like days. Somewhat unsurprisingly, from the pattern of holes on the chairs arm rests came actual needles, jabbing deep into the muscle of his arms. He could feel as fluids were forced into his flesh. Whatever it was that they filled him with, he may never know. He would probably never care. At the moment, for all intents and purposes, it was pure acid, burning through his veins. He felt as if he was dissolving in the very chair he sat in, slowly disappearing. With a sudden shock of horror, he realized how true the analogy was. His entire body faded in and out, but not like when he shifted into a mist, it was more erratic, more violent, as if his body were being systematically shredded torn away from him. He tried to escape, passing through his bonds as a dark cloud, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't move. He couldn't manage a single coherent thought, not even concentrate through the pain long enough to free himself. His mind scrambled to comprehend the pain his body was forced to endure. Images whirled around his head, images of things he recognized, people he knew, sounds, voices, scents, they all crushed in upon him, mixing and churning until it was all one incomprehensible wail of pain.

And suddenly, it stopped.

The agony, the noises, all gone. Not even an aching or ringing in his ears. The mercenary glanced down. A large, metal breastplate now lie fastened to his chest, deep red lights slowly pulsing like a menacing heartbeat. The balding scientist stood up, and dusting off his poor-fitting lab coat, walked over to the metal seat one last time to remove Reapers bonds. "This procedure, in theory, will have granted you the same time-space manipulation and healing abilities as Overwatch's operative Trace. Only one last thing remains, to test it." The scientist picked up the manila folder he had walked in with and a black ink pen, "If you kindly would walk to the door."

Reaper gently pushed himself up from the chair. Every join in his body seemed to pop or creak, as if he had been sitting there for an eternity. After stretching out his back and cracking his knuckles, he complied with the scientists orders, his boots clicking against the white metal floor with each step.

"Now here is the hard part," The short man scribbled some noted down while occasionally glancing at the cloaked mercenary, "Moving. With practice, this will become second nature, but until then, this will feel distinctly alien, like flexing a muscle you have never used."

"Sure doc, just tell me what to do." Reaper hissed, his voice condescending and sarcastic.

The scientist looked particularly irritated with his new given title, but continued anyway. "You need to focus on where you where a second ago. But not just imaging the area, the entire feeling of what it was like when you were there. Don't be alarmed it if does not work instantly, it takes significant practice. Try to focus on the moment I removed the straps"

Closing his eyes, Reaper tried to focus on the exact second that the doctor had loosened his bonds. For a second he though he felt something, his heart beating faster. Behind the mask, his eyes snapped open. Nothing. He still stood at the door, staring back at the haphazard metal chair. "Looks like it isn't going to work."

The scientist furiously scratched at his paper with his pen. "Perhaps try to think of when the process took place, in theory, the more emotion you felt in the moment, the easier it will be to visualize and move to."

Again, the mercenary closed his eyes, this time he envisioned the chaos of the procedure. He tried to feel the unadulterated agony, hear the deafening noise, see the flashing images. He felt his hands shiver, an annoying pain starting to build, slowly growing, growing until it was unbearable. But he did not yet open his eyes. Still the pain grew, and then the wailing, the colors swimming around him. With a cry of alarm, he collapsed to the ground. After a moment, he let his eyes open. He slowly propped himself up, leaning on the white, metal doors. Doors? Fuck, yet again it failed. "Alright 'doc', I've had just about enough of-"

The mercenary could feel his head swim. Something, something almost like terror filled him for a second. Before him, sitting in the chair, was him. He quickly darted his eyes to his body, patting himself down, making sure he was still there. His head snapped back up. The figure in the chair mirrored his every move. After a moment, something built up inside of him. Words could not describe it. Something primal, something animalistic, something...psychotic. A deep, rasping laugh escaped from his throat. And then another. The two howled with an unnerving cackle, and suddenly, they both became silent. The scientist stared with a look of total shock and absolute terror. And in a devious, cruel two part harmony, the creatures spoke.

"Intriguing."

Sorry for this long and somewhat ranting story. It probably isn't the greatest, most likely due to the fact it was written while I was dead tired. I have a lot of plans for places it could go, so if anyone is interested in more, I'd be more than happy to continue. If I do anything else, I promise it will be a bit shorter and more bite sized. I just really wanted to establish one of the main conflicts of the story before going any further. On a side note, I plan to incorporate some elements of romance in the later chapters, but probably not soon. I'll also try to refrain from dropping any other home made characters into the mix like the scientist or Council, as I know people generally just want to see the original characters, and not random filler characters. But seriously, for whoever makes it this far, thank you for sticking with me, and please be at least somewhat merciful, this is my first fanfiction, and my first thing I've written in a while.

Edit: I have now gone through and fixed all grammatical errors and typos. I'm very sorry for not doing this beforehand.