"What do you mean, you can't fix it?" growled the hooded hired gun.
The lab tech cowered before him, hands trembling. "That's just it. We don't have the equipment or the - "
"Or the brains, clearly." One shotgun blast rang out. The tech slumped over, crimson splattered over the previously pristine floor. Somebody screamed. Reaper paid them no heed. "Useless." He holstered his weapon. He scanned the remaining techies and whitecoats. Shaking his head at the group, Reaper smartly turned and strode out of the lab. That visit was fruitless.
His communicator vibrated against his Kevlar vest. He ripped the device off and snarled into it, "What?"
Chatter spilled through the speaker. Reaper had his orders. Out of nowhere, his form shifted and the communicator slipped through his fingers, clattering at his feet. Reaper focused, eventually solidfying. There was a crunch as his boot stomped on the communicator, and he continued on his way.
Black robes fluttering and dark smoke swirling, he entered the hanger and climbed aboard one of the dropships about to be deployed.
Talon was sending him and a score of operatives, including Widowmaker, to a site which they were to bomb. Reaper took command of one unit, and Widowmaker the other.
"Stack up on me," he ordered. A shuffle of footsteps as the Talon agents obeyed. He nodded to the man opposite him. "Breach."
White noise took Reaper by surprise as his eyes were blinded by a flash. The door was blown off its hinges, and he morphed into a cloud of blackness, zipping into the room. One guard was fast on his feet, firing at Reaper boldly. A sheen of sweat rolling down the man's forehead really upset his stoic look.
Lead phased through the inky spectre, which chortled. Casings clinked to the floor with each bang. When the firing ceased, he replied, "My turn." Reaper assumed solid form, spinning round as he emptied his shotguns. The screams of death were music to his ears. Those that were smart enough hid behind cover instead of engaging Reaper, who let his compatriots finish them off.
The charges were set, but of course Overwatch had to swoop in and ruin everything.
Out on the street, Reaper heard a bold cry. "Justice rains from above!"
If 'justice' equalled missiles, then yes, it most certainly did. Most of the nameless operatives were reduced to paste by a hovering suit of armour. All around Reaper, Talon was battling Overwatch.
He saw a crackling blur race for Widowmaker, and detected shouts tinged with a familiar vexing accent. Tracer. He'd deal with her himself, however he had more pressing concerns.
Namely, the suit of armour staring him down. Reaper stiffened when he recognized the tattoo under the woman's eye. Then, relaxed. "Another Amari to kill," chuckled Reaper. "Join your mother in the Styx."
Amari gritted her teeth, levelling her launcher at the masked ghost. "You - !"
It was not a satisfying fight. The pup had nothing on him in terms of skill or experience. She was better at long range combat, keeping her distance. Fortunately, he could compensate for that by teleporting closer and spraying her with shotgun pellets.
His wraith form failed him, though. He meant to phase through Amari but he remorphed into his normal body too early and a gauntlet struck him across the face and knocked him flat. He shook off the surprise and jumped to his feet.
"Sir, we have to go. Orders are to evacuate," an agent cried to him right before he got peppered with lasers.
"Idiot," hissed Reaper.
"Want a hand, love?" Tracer asked Amari.
"Assistance would be welcomed."
And that was Tracer's starting gun. She whizzed towards Reaper and whirled her leg out in a pitiful attempt to disarm him. His frame became murky and her leg cut into his torso. Then, to their mutual horror, Reaper's body, against his will, shed its wraith form, and for all of two seconds he had to exist with Tracer's foot in his chest. She shrieked. The Brit was smart enough to reverse her own time, and she flashed out of sight, reappearing locked and loaded, blasting Reaper away.
His body was failing him. Reaper had become unable to control the wraith inside of him, and it showed.
If Tracer was here, it meant Widowmaker fled. He was alone, and surrounded by enemies. No matter. Reaper cricked his neck and discarded his shotguns, pulling out another pair.
They overwhelmed him. A demon under the guise of an angel descended upon him. He strained against the grasps of all those he vowed to slaughter, up until the point where the syringe was jabbed into his neck. The drug seeped into his blood, and Reaper's world turned as dark as his hood.
Overwatch had captured Reaper. The unthinkable had happened. He told them just one thing when they came down to question him. "I'll only talk to Angela Ziegler."
"You're in no position to set conditions."
"Go pass on the message, monkey." Winston bared his teeth at Reaper, clenching his fists and taking a step forward.
"Don't listen to him. He's only trying to rile you up, luv," said Tracer, holding her arm out to stop Winston.
That was how he found himself waiting for the monster responsible for what he'd become.
The blond medic halted in the doorway. "Afraid to see what you made of me?" he laughed. He kept the hood and mask on. Nobody could remove them unless he allowed it.
"You made yourself into what you are now," she replied.
"Lies! All lies! Because of you, I became this. And because you made this happen, you're going to fix it. In exchange for you making up for your screw-up, I'll share everything I've got on Talon with Overwatch."
"I can't control it," explained Reaper. "There's no rhyme or rhythm. It just randomly happens."
Mercy concluded, "That seems problematic."
"Yeah no shit. How can I kill people if I keep phasing in and out like Casper on acid?"
She appeared hesitant. "Think about it. The motherload of intel, right before you. You need it. I need the cure."
After ten hours of sitting around, Reaper got his answer. She took a blood sample from him, and also asked for - "You mean my spirit essence?" he offered in a deadpan tone.
"I couldn't think of a scientific name for it, but fine. We can call it that."
"There is no science behind it," said Reaper. "You were playing God. You took a gamble with a dying man and in the process fucked me up beyond recognition."
Reaper turned into mist for the doctor to obtain a sample of it for the procurement of a remedy. She trapped some of it in a jar for study.
"Once you cure me, I'll tell Overwatch everything."
"The fact that you're getting any help at all - no. We're not doing it like that. I work out a solution, you share information. Bit by bit."
"I'm not going to barter my life so that I can get screwed over again. I get what I want, you get what you want. That's the only this is gonna work."
"I can stop working on this any time I like," reminded Mercy with a scowl. "And work with patients that are more deserving of my attention. You really are that desperate if you want me to help you."
"I thought healthcare wasn't supposed to have favourites."
"There are special cases."
Reaper had no option but to comply. Days on end, he wasted away in his cell. His frame was cursed by that physician, and he was the one suffering for it. Reaper's suffering got worse when he saw who showed up at his door one day.
Tracer decided to check up on Reaper for the first time since they captured him. She'd been holding off not because she was frightened or intimidated by Reaper. He had that creepy factor, yeah, but it's nothing she couldn't handle.
Rather, the reason she didn't visit was that she had other stuff to do. There were missions and the like, so that's why.
He was flickering, alternating between solid and not. "Er - are you supposed to do that? Just," she scratched the back of her head, "it looks kinda dodgy, is all. Should I get Mercy?"
Reaper lapsed into his wraith form. "No." The doctor couldn't have distractions. Even if he had to suffer through this surreal trip. The faster a cure was made, the better.
Tracer blinked a few times at the shimmering Reaper. "That's... bloody hell, I'm getting a serious case of déjà vu."
He rotated away from her.
"Not in the mood for company, eh? That's alright. I'll pop by another time."
"I'd rather you didn't."
"Too late, love. Already made up my mind."
Mercy dropped by with a sample of her test drug. "Hopefully you don't ghost on me while I do the procedure," muttered the doctor.
"Just hurry it up. I'm sick and tired of all this shit."
"This may sting a bit." The syringe hissed as its contents were pushed into Reaper's bloodstream and he frowned under his mask.
He was told to wait it out a few more days, to see if the chemical formula was stable. He felt sickened by the realisation that he was, in some way, Overwatch's guinea pig. Reaper wanted the treatment, but his skin crawled and his stomach churned whenever Mercy was in the same room as him.
"Let's hope I don't turn full ghoul," he said humourlessly.
In a short while Tracer was back again. It was a break from the monotony of his imprisonment, but not exactly one that he craved. He still didn't like the girl, for one thing. She and the monkey foiled his theft of the Doomfist gauntlets. Add to that the fact that every time she opened her mouth his ears bled.
"You work with Widowmaker often?" she blurted after five minutes of blissful silence.
He merely looked up from his seat on the bunk, and stared at her.
"Just wondering. I mean, it's not like it's some big secret or anything."
"The intel comes after I get my cure."
"Yeah, yeah. This is just a friendly chat, alright?" She hunkered down on a bench opposite the iron bars of his cell. "So. Widowmaker. Y'know what any of her next missions are?"
"Why are you so interested?" He had a hunch. A verbal confession would seal the deal, though.
"Eh... she's a high-priority target, plus she assassinates people, and that's obviously bad, can't have that going on."
"Buy a mask. You've got a shit pokerface," advised Reaper callously. "You're not fooling anyone." He rose to his full height. "You think you're a hero. You just wanna get in bed with the Widowmaker."
Her ears reddened and she furiously began spouting excuses.
"It's that obvious. And no, I don't know about her future assignments. Talon are huge fans of last-minute scrambles. So much so that It's embarrassing."
Tracer sped out of the cell block without another word, still red in the face.
Reaper was getting impatient. Honestly, how long does it take to produce a cure?
"You're the only one working on this," he repeated what Mercy said.
"Yes."
"Overwatch is screwed."
She gave him a pointed look. "And who had a lot to do with that?"
"...Shut up."
"You look like you've seen a ghost," said Reaper, leaning against the wall.
Tracer gave a deadpan look, hands on her hips.
"How do you even - " she started. "Do you eat? 'Cause, it's not that I care much for the rumourmill, but it's being bandied around," she leaned in, one hand covering the side of her mouth, "that you feed off corpses."
"Yes. I harvest souls from bodies. That's how I'm sustained."
"I can't tell whether you're being serious or not." Squinting at him, she tapped her chin.
"What do you think."
"I can't - I can't actually tell."
"If you believe those sort of things..."
"It does fit with the whole Reaper image you've got going."
He buried his face in his hands. "Christ, you sound like you actually believe it. What are you even here for?"
"Oi, cheer up. I'm not gonna natter in your ear for hours on end. I've other stuff to do, too."
"But you want something."
"Just curious: do you ever take that mask off?"
His voice was a low rumble in his chest. "You know what they say about curiousity..."
"Heh. I got time-travel on my side, love. I don't need nine lives."
A groan. No harm in sharing that piece of trivia. At least she'd leave faster if he answered. "I don't, no. Take off the mask, that is."
"Why? Is it glued to your face or something?"
"Why do you wear goggles?"
"Not the same thing and you're avoiding the question."
"You're bothering me."
"Am I? I'd say I'm alleviating your boredom."
"You're really not. And tell them to stop bringing me rations. I won't eat them anyway."
"It's not the same thing. You volunteered. I never had a choice. I didn't ask to become this."
"But I get why you want Mercy to stabilise your condition. You don't wanna end up as a ghost. To be smoke and wind. That's - I get it, okay?"
"Don't compare yourself to me. You have no idea what it's like to be me. You think Mercy is kind? She did this to me for her own self-amusement."
Tracer hotly protested, "She saved your life."
"She turned me into one of her pet-projects. Now she gets to live with the knowledge that I send Overwatch agents to hell, when she could have prevented it all."
"This isn't the place for advice on how to date the Wido - "
"No, shut up. Not here about that." Tracer stopped in front of his cell. "You're Gabriel Reyes," she stated calmly out loud.
Reaper felt his hackles rise. He hadn't gone by that name in a long time. "Get out," whispered Reaper - Reyes - the ghost - couldn't decide -
"Why would you betray Overwatch? You were a hero to so many people. They believed in you. Even I believed in you."
"GET OUT!" he roared, changing state.
But she stayed there, rooted to the spot.
"You wouldn't understand."
"Then make me understand."
"Don't concern yourself with the past. You can't reverse time that far to change it."