A/N: In the end, I got a ton of requests for a sequel to the Demoted, and who am I to resist that? I am incredibly grateful for the overwhelming response and I hope you guys will like this story as well. However if the Demoted was not your cup of tea, this is not going to be either. Fair warnings :)
If you haven't, please read "The Demoted" first otherwise you're going to have no idea what's going on.
Enjoy!

3 AM.

A forgotten cup of coffee stood on the edge of the worn metal table, slowly going cold. The edges of the paper were stained, but Morrison didn't care as he continued reading, signing the bold edge at the bottom of the page with practiced ease. The stack of paper was meticulously packed together and then joined with the knee-high stack at his side.

He looked out of the square window, the edges of the old wood of the windowsill starting to crack. The paint was peeling, and on the wall one could see the vague shadow of graffiti that had been cleaned and only half-heartedly painted over. He called it his office, nowadays. When he squinted, he could see a few stars in the pitch-black, clear skies.

He should sleep. There would be another day tomorrow, with more endlessly tiring paperwork and government officials to deal with. As he ran his hand idly through what was left of his hair he realized how glad he was to be done with most of the legal bureaucracy that came with his attempt at reviving Overwatch.

Well, it had been an attempt, all right. Of course he'd preferred to just convict Lacroix without 37 casualties, of whom 4 ministers. Morrison sighed, rubbing his eyes, the calloused skin on his fingertips rough against his brow. Angela would not have condoned naming it Overwatch's 'revival', he thought sourly. If she had, she would have been here right now. Not ran off with the Amari kid to God-knows-where. But she had. All of them had. It was just him, in his rickety chair by his table with enough paperwork to have wasted a forest. Did none of these people know about digitalization?

You know why, he immediately chastised himself. Fear. People became paranoid, fearful of new Omnic attacks. Madmen preaching that everything and anything could be hacked, that no home with electricity was safe. While technically a bad development, right now it worked in his favor. It had been the only reason he'd been pardoned for the illegal Overwatch activity. Because right now, the government needed strong fighters against the Omnics. And so Overwatch was "revived", a one-man army in a tiny office at 3 AM.

'Still working?'

He turned around to see Ana smiling softly as she stood in the doorway.

'Just finishing up,' he replied, tucking a few random papers together and getting up. 'What brings you here so late?'

'You,' she replied unapologetically, 'after all, you always needed someone to take care of you.'

He wanted to argue, but she was right. She always was.

.

Once they reached their apartment - a tiny two bedroom studio, with a living room that doubled as a kitchen, on the outskirts of Vienna - Ana went straight to her room and closed the door behind her. A mumbled 'Goodnight' was all he got, and he didn't expect more. The summer heat was sweltering and he went to open the tall wooden windows. A cool breeze drew in from over the rooftops of the more luxurious housing below. Fraying white curtains drawn aside, he heard the familiar creaking of Ana's bed, and took a deep breath. As he turned back, he took off his shirt, and threw it in a corner. He'd clean it later. The other shirts, strewn about the same corner, he ignored.

There was a laptop on the kitchen counter, and the urge to finish just a couple of things overwhelming. The screen came to life as he folded it open, and he winced against the bright light. There were 487 unread emails in his inbox. Might as well work through some of them, he figured, as he pulled a stool closer.

He scrolled through the work mails, the endless requests for information and interviews, until his cursor stopped on a particular e-mail. The mail came from Angela's personal account, and had no subject line. Narrowing his eyes, he clicked the email to open it.

The email was completely empty, apart from an attachment. There was a sound file, with a generic file name, recorded with some sort of mobile device. Morrison couldn't imagine Angela being stupid enough to get hacked or to send him spam, but on the other hand, she'd never send an email without some form of properly formulated greeting.

A red dot flashed briefly over the screen before disappearing. Morrison rolled instinctively into cover behind the kitchen counter, gun drawn, whole body taut. He peered through the window, looking for the familiar metallic glitter of a sniper on a rooftop. Except there was no rooftop, just the clear sky. Unsettled, he lowered his gun.

Could it just have been a mirage? Something his brain made up out of sheer fatigue? Ana would tell him he was getting old. He'd always brush it off, but it gnawed at him. As he got up, he had to support himself on the kitchen counter with one hand. Pathetic.

He sat back down, checking the room over his shoulder twice. Suddenly the open window didn't seem pleasant anymore, he felt exposed, his back open. This building had withstood wars from before Omnics even existed, and the walls wouldn't stop an array of bullets anyway, so closing the window would make little difference if someone wanted him dead. Unfortunately, that list of people was steadily growing. He put his gun next to the laptop, close to his hand. It never hurt to keep it close.

He turned down the sound before opening the sound file Angela had sent. He leaned in to the computer, keeping it almost quiet, in order not to wake Ana. The file started with some static, but then Angela's quivering voice was clearly audible.

'Morrison, I'm not sure if I should send this,' she croaked, a rustling in the background and more static following, the sound as if she was brusquely walking through a very tall pile of leaves. 'But things have gone- well- you know. Bad. It's all very bad.' Angela took a deep breath and the static momentarily ceased. Her voice was fainter now, but he could hear her calling out, before moving the recording device closer to her mouth again.

'Anyhow, I wasn't planning to- to contact you. But, well, I think you should know. Fareeha? Fareeha, is that you?' Hasty footsteps and a crackling static followed. She sounded confused and upset, like she'd been rambling to herself and decided to record it anyway. 'We saw Lena. Right before we left. Well - she wasn't Lena. But she's after you, Morrison. She might be after us too.'

Angela's breathing was frantic, but her voice was steady. 'People don't just disappear like this. You've got to be around here somewhere, verdammt.' More muttering. 'Watch out for her, Jack. She's dangerous. Look for the red light. She looks, she, well, sort of like- Oh God, Fareeha! Oh danke Gott, oh liebe -' the sound file cut off abruptly, leaving Morrison increasingly uneasy.

He listened to the sound file twice more. The first time, he tried to hear every single detail. The second time, he just buried his face in his hands and wondered if this was worth it. Perhaps she'd panicked. Perhaps she hadn't meant to send this email at all.

Perhaps he didn't need Angela to send him mysterious soundfiles that raised more questions than they goddamn answered. Frankly, he could care less about what happened to her right now - even though a friend and colleague, she'd left him to rot twice now. At least she'd revived Gabriel.

Morrison allowed himself a momentary indulging in how terribly unfair it all was, instantly feeling better.

'Ana,' he yelled over his shoulder, not really caring if she was asleep or not, 'Ana, you should check on your daughter.'

'Jack, I swear to all that is holy,' Ana croaked from her room, 'if you don't go to bed right now I will get over there and dart you so bad you'll sleep for the rest of the week.'

'Roger that,' he replied, even though the prospect of being sleepdarted for elongated periods of time suddenly seemed rather attractive. He flipped the laptop shut - problems for another day - and turned to get ready for bed. In the corner of his eye, a red flash moved across the glass of the open window. Morrison froze.

This time, he was sure it hadn't been a mirage. He'd seen it. Carefully gripping his gun, he stalked towards the window. As he looked down, a blue car turned and rode around the corridor. The red taillights contrasting sharply against the dim streetlight. Slowly, Jack let out a sigh.

Paranoid, over exhausted. He was seeing things. Heightened senses were nice in battle, but right now they were destroying whatever sanity he had left. The corner by the kitchen counter, which he'd left only seconds ago, seemed more shadowed than before, but he ignored it. He resolutely set down his gun and closed the window, reassuring himself that he would not believe in ghosts more than twice a night.

Until the shadow wore a bone pale, skull-shaped mask and rasped, 'Hello, Jack.'

A shot rang out from behind that knocked his gun out of reach, and Jack whipped around to see Tracer, now bathed in red light, her gun aimed at where his weapon had been. 'Hiya,' she greeted, in the most monotone voice he'd ever heard her use. His gun lay in front of Ana's bedroom door. If only he could reach it.

'I think you know why we are here,' Reaper stepped forward, shotguns lazily in both hands. He circled Morrison once, chuckling quietly. 'Surprised?'

'I'd expected you for years, Gabe,' Morrison said, going through any escape plans in his head. Ana had her rifle in her room. If she woke, which she probably would soon, they'd be evenly matched. He just needed to stall until he could get back to his weapon. 'I just didn't expect you to bring a plus one. Can't kill me by yourself, can you?'

Reaper shuddered and leapt forward, bone mask only inches from his nose. If Jack looked down, he'd probably see those shotguns aimed at his chest. As expected. What was strange, was the strangled noise that came from Tracer.

'Back off, Reaper.' She said it with such determination, the contrast couldn't be stronger with her impassive face. When she continued, her voice matched her blank expression one more, flat and monotone. 'You'll get your chance. Once I'm done.'

With a growl, Reaper stepped back. Morrison couldn't help but raise a brow, which earned him another shotgun aimed at the face. He feigned shock, and sidestepped, inching closer to his gun. His chances of survival were slim, but he at least had to try. For Ana. For Overwatch.

'You'll die, but not before you suffer like I did.' Tracer said resolutely. She looked from his gun to his face and back, then raised her own weapon. 'Remember me, Jack. Every time you see me, your fate is just about to get worse.'

Jack did not reply. He ducked, rolled backwards and grabbed his gun. He shot two rounds at Reaper, who swirled around him like smoke and then vanished, then banged his fist on the door loudly. 'Ana!'

Tracer kept her guns trained on him, but only chuckled. 'Go on. Where is she?' Her outline started to fade from view, her image flickering like a dying light. Morrison backed up, blindly feeling for the door handle. As he threw the door open behind him, Tracer blinked, engulfed by red light, and disappeared. He rolled inside, ready to shoot if either of them reappeared, and felt his feet slip on a thick layer of dust.

Then he looked around. The room was unfurnished, dust and cobwebs everywhere, only an empty soda can in a corner, moldy around the edges. No bed. No clothes. No Ana.

Jack slowly straightened his back, chills running up and down his spine like thunderstorms. 'Ana?' he called out, quietly at first, and when no answer came, louder. He kicked the dust, panic setting in.

'Amari? Amari, answer me, damn it!'

People don't just disappear like this.

Angela. He needed Angela, right now. Clutching his weapon close, he ran over to the kitchen, and turned his backpack upside down over the counter. A myriad of belongings fell out, spilling out and clattering to the floor, but he didn't care. He found his phone in the heap and quick-dialed Ziegler's personal number. As he held the device to his ear, he sank to the ground, his back against the cold kitchen counter. As the phone rang, he muttered a single hope, trying to calm his racing heart.

'Please pick up. For the love of God, don't let me down again.'