Category: Overwatch
Rating: T
Couples: None
Warnings: Disturbing Imagery
Chapter:OneShot
Copyright: Characters & places © By Blizzard, Plot © by me
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He was getting old. And no, he wasn't... only getting old in terms of 'he was born so long ago his hair had started turning grey', but also in 'drained dry'. He had used his powers with little regard to any kind of limit they might have. He should not have done that.
He-who-had-once-been-Reyes looked at the nearest reflective surface he could find, which was a window, incidentally. He had not had a mirror for what felt like ages, though perhaps one could even call it a lifetime. The scars of the Switzerland-blast had never healed.
He didn't want them to heal. They were a reminder, to him and to the world, of what had been done. He didn't expect them to heal. It had quickly become clear that his cells' hyper-active decay-and-revive only healed damage he had taken after it had first started. Scars from his time in the army and in Blackwatch still adorned his skin. Each was a reminder of a different person, a different man he no longer identified with short of seeing him as a birthing-ground and steppingstone to something new.
A nail traced a scar.
His powers were fading, slowing. Wounds that would not have fazed him shortly after Switzerland now took longer to heal. They now fazed him. Nothing should faze the Reaper, should faze Death. And yet, they were. He had noticed it before, but it had become obvious at Volskaya Industries: his healing could not longer keep up with his damage.
The mech had slowed him, had delayed him... had hurt him. What would have been a small nuisance years ago had proved a hurdle. There had been targets that escaped – curse Ana for always involving herself – but it had become a habit. There should not be a habit of people escaping the Reaper. Yet it was so.
He only briefly followed the trail of his finger on glass when he turned into the room. There had been changes in himself he was not happy with. He shadow-walked to the other side of the room, regarding the darkness around him with only mild distaste.
He exactly knew when things had gone wrong. After Winston had electrocuted him in the Moonbase with that Tesla Cannon. Regenerating from such damage had always been... uncomfortable enough that even know it was more of a curse than a blessing, but after the Moon...? It had become straining. His body was straining to undo what damage had happened on a given day. There should be no strain, no damage that lasted for far longer than a mere moment's notice. There should only be death.
His guns are on the table, crossed like the bones of a pirate's flag. Briefly, ever so briefly when he had put them down, a part of him – a part of Reyes-before-everything – had thought about putting his mask above them to make the flag complete. He had put it down on the other end of the table, far from where his guns were.
One of his gloves joined it as he studied his hand. It was pale, far paler than what it could ever have been in life. He knew exactly why this was too: his... healing did not bother with regenerating his lost melanin whenever it replaced his cells. Probably, if he were ever to reveal this to Sombra, she'd say he was stuffing it in his shadows.
It does not matter to him at the moment though, far more important matters being on his mind. The nail of the glove he was still wearing broke his skin easily. He suspected for a while know that it was weaker than normal because of the high overturn-rate of cells, but what can he do? He counts.
He reached four by the time the small wound has closed. It used to be two. It's slowing, curse it all. He was getting old.