Author's Note: Greetings all! Chapter 4 is here, and with it, King's Row Uprising! Guess who'll be grinding that shit out this weekend? You guessed it. The wishlist is comprised of Tracer's skin, Blackwatch Genji, and Blackwatch McCree. Oh. Plus the new and Zenyatta highlights. :D Anyway, I wanted to publish this next chapter real quick, and wish you all luck for King's Row Uprising! Bell rang again, so I gotta go. Wish me luck, and I hope you enjoy the chapter. And I will cover King's Row Uprising when we reach it a long ways from now. :)

The First Symbol

Draconian sat at the table eating a scone and drinking milk, his movements calm and peaceful, eyes closed for once in his life. He sighed. "Wonderful." The sun shone brightly in the midst of summer, warming Draconian at the cafe he sat at in Stockholm. The fifth of his number he managed to schedule a meeting for, having intercepted a courier on his way to the fifth of the original Overwatch members. The courier was fine, if likely having a headache after Draconian's fist connected with his temple, and perhaps confused as to being in an alley he should not have been in. He would accomplish his mission, albeit in an indirect way.

He chuckled at the memory of his meeting with who the letter had been intended for. "Vem fan är du?!" The voice was angry, and Draconian saw nothing move in front of the peephole he wouldn't have seen had his vision been that of a regular human. The door itself was set in an alleyway, under a wooden door like that of a basement, down several cramped flight of stairs, and set in the stone beneath a tavern. The door itself was built like a vault, reinforced steel with levers and a wheel sealed tight. Draconian put his ear up to it, hearing muffled sounds of clanging and swearing inside.

He knocked. "Torbjörn Lindholm." Said Draconian, his voice calm and void of emotion. "I am John Marcosi, a representative of the United Nations, and here on their behalf. I have questions for you, as well as a proposition." Silence on the other side of the door. Draconian looked at the envelope in his hand, emblazoned with the symbol which the world would not forget. A circle with two points in the middle, the top segment of the circle disconnected from the rest, the two points creating a thin line in the center of the circle. The top segment was bright gold, and Draconian was aware of the fact he held one of the first pieces that Overwatch would begin as.

"Torbjörn Lindholm." Said Draconian again. More silence. "Torbjörn!" No response. Draconian growled softly. He knew the man was extremely short tempered. But his skill was unsurpassed in weapons manufacturing. The man also knew the Omnics inside and out. He had, after all, been responsible for their creation. And he was central to Overwatch weapon development and leadership. He'd go on to create Ana's biotic rifle and prototype the Heavy Pulse Rifle, which Jack would eventually steal. But not if he didn't get his ass out here and sign the damn paper.

Draconian, who prided himself on patience, reluctantly acknowledged that Torbjörn wouldn't sign without a forceful entry. Draconian would have to prove his mettle. So prove it he would. He breathed in deeply, ready to kick the door in. His foot lashed out, denting the steel plate. Draconian stopped, taking another breath, and kicked the door in again, his foot getting stuck in the metal. He pried it loose, assessing the damage.

The door was a whole foot caved in at its center, the levers bent like straws and the wheel snapped mostly off. Draconian nodded. "Third time's the charm." He savagely kicked it again, the door flying down a dark hallway, the clanging sound louder and more defined. He stepped inside the hallway, dark and unlit, and as far as he could tell, stone. His eyes picked out the details, or lack thereof, for the stone tunnel was smooth and flawless to his keen eyesight in the dark.

Impressed at how straight and uniform it was, he continued walking down, the metal growing louder and louder. Draconian smiled to himself. Fucking dwarves. He thought to himself. The Ironclad Guild was a bunch of dwarves. Not easy to find, granted, but still, working underground as world class blacksmiths likened them to dwarves.

He kept walking down, emerging into a huge open chamber that looked like the mother of all forges and foundries. Steel trolleys and lifts with levers deposited molten magma into huge forges a wide across as a trampoline, bellows and tongs and various other instruments such as gradients and hammers and anvils lying scattered. Draconian, whose world had never progressed past medieval times and progression in technological advancement, had spent many a time in a forge, seeing more swords of build and make than anyone.

Ringing the foundry were several levels of progressing technology, from more forges to prototyped telescopes to satellites, computers, Thompson submachine guns and HAM radios. Further up became what appeared to be prototyped cell phones, box TV's, and CD players. The levels progressed further, becoming more crystalline and glass until the only thing up on the floors was a mess of glass circles, squares, and wiring. In all, there were about seven levels of different eras of technology, all congregated around several massive forges. Below Draconian, seven levels down, several men of build and height worked on robotic chassis and circuitry.

"Hey!" A voice from behind Draconian shouted. He turned calmly to the voice, an angry looking man with flyaway blond hair and a rail thin figure glaring at him and holding some sort of gun device. He aimed it at Draconian, who looked at him calmly. "What do you think you're doing in here?!"

Draconian answered calmly. "I am looking for a one Torbjörn Lindholm. I am here on the behalf of the United Nations, and have a proposal for him."

"Torbjörn already has a place with the Ironclad Guild!" Snarled the man. "We don't need the likes of outsiders interfering! Our technology belongs to nobody but us!"

Draconian raised an eyebrow, outwardly calm but annoyed at this Swedish prick. "Ah. So you foist upon the world robotic slaves that decide they want freedom, go on a massive killing spree across the globe, and then don't decide to clean up your mess?"

The man's eyes bugged, a look of pure rage as he started to stammer, spittle flying from his mouth in rage. He raised his gun, Draconian's hand placed behind his back filling with an icy vapor.

"What is going on here?" Said another voice. They turned to see a handsome older gentleman walking forward calmly, holding a cane made of cedar (which Draconian could smell due to its pungent, sharp odor), with clear blue eyes and a salt and pepper beard. His head was bald, and he wore a lab coat on top of casual clothing composed of a simple gray T-shirt and jeans.

The man who confronted Draconian spoke first. "This man is an intruder, sir!" Snarled the Ironclad member. "He broke in through one of our entrances and is here to steal technology of ours!"

"Is that so, Sven?" He glanced at the Swede, looking fairly bored. He then turned his gaze on Draconian. "And what is your story, good sir? Thieves do not usually dress so well… Or so old fashioned." His eyes twinkled merrily at this.

Draconian bowed. "I am John Marcosi, a representative of the United Nations. I am here on their behalf to look for Torbjörn Lindholm." He carefully removed the dossier from his suit jacket, handing it to the man who had intervened.

The man nodded as he looked at the files. "I see." He put the papers back in the dossier, looking at Draconian. He turned back to Sven. "Sven, go fetch me Torbjörn and a few pastries please."

Sven's eyes nearly bugged out of his head again. "But sir-"

The man's clear eyed gaze shut down Sven's argument. "Now, Sven."

Sven glared at Draconian, moving off into the Ironclad Guild's base of operations. The solidly built man watched him walk away. "My apologies for that."

Draconian turned to him after watching Sven's figure recede. "Are all Swedes this grumpy?"

The man laughed. "Forgive them. Our senior members have been with us since they were young, impressionable youth. They take their craft seriously, and have been doing so since their early twenties." He smiled, holding out his hand. "I am Arleif Arnson, leader of the Ironclad Guild since the last leader passed ten years ago. Come with me, and I shall acquaint you and bring you Torbjörn."

…...

Draconian sat in his office, full of knick knacks ranging from simple things such as polished stones to weaponry, lever action rifles and Springfields, to a bronze astrolabe and mirrors, steadily progressing in technology until the strangest objects were squares and shards of glass and wiring. The office itself was bathed in a light blue light emitting from the floor. Arleif sat at the desk, carefully picking up a large stack of paper and laying it to the side. "Pray forgive the mess, sir." He said. "I am so rarely in here that I barely have time to clean up after myself."

"No worries." Said Draconian good naturedly. "My desk back home is also filled with many a worry and task to set to. This is simply done to get away from it all."

Arleif smiled. "Where are you from son?"

Draconian's gaze became glassy with memory. "A long way from here sir. A place much like this one, but a bit more old fashioned."

"Is it a good place?"

"The best. My family is expansive and often frustrating, but they took me in in time of duress and have given me hope when there was none. My home is old, almost archaic, and often mysterious, with many a river and forest and few humans about. But solitude is my preferred social life."

"No girl to boast about?" Chuckled Arleif.

Draconian shook his head. "I am too old and too nervous around women to even speak with them. And sometimes too busy." He wrenched his thoughts away from her, her smile fading from his mind.

"Too old? Lad, you barely look to be able to drink!"

"I am older than I look." Said Draconian.

Arleif shrugged and smiled wider. "Suit yourself. Ah, I digress, lad. Let's get down to business. So, old Torbie yes?" Draconian nodded. "Why so?"

"Torbjorn Lindholm is responsible for most, if not all, of the Omnics' creation and the programming behind the God Programs that have gone rogue. If anyone is able to discern precisely why the Omnics are revolting, and what can be done to stop it, it is he. He is also one of your best engineers and combatants for the Ironclad Guild, and so would have a place where he can apply his craft and join the fight. In Overwatch."

Arleif raised an eyebrow. "Overwatch?"

"An elite international task force so far comprised of four members. Ana Amari, Gabriel Reyes, Jack Morrison, and Reinhardt Wilhelm. After Torbjorn there is one more to add to the task force. Overwatch's mission is to combat the Omnic Crisis in the most desperate of places, and to establish peace in its wake."

Arleif sat back in his chair. "Sounds ambitious for just one task force."

"Many have said the same thing, though I have hope for Overwatch."

"Why so, son?" Asked Arleif.

"Call it a gut feeling." Said Draconian.

Arleif nodded, reaching out with his right hand. A button clicked on an announcer, and Arleif's voice echoed overhead. "Torbjörn Lindholm, please report to Guildmaster Arleif."

Arleif turned back to Draconian. "So, Mr. Marcosi, tell me more of yourself. You say you're older than you look, and I can believe it. Your body is that of an athlete, but your eyes are that of a sage. Full of wisdom, power… and sadness. What caused you to leave home?"

Draconian was silent. "Necessity." He replied curtly. "I did not leave because of my family, but because I had to accomplish something here. And also to do some soul searching."

Arleif raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

Draconian shrugged. "I myself am not sure. I do not desire earthly wants, and few emotional ones. Perhaps I'd just like to see something more of humanity before my time."

"You sound as if you're going to die, lad."

Draconian smiled. "No. I am old, yes, but I am not so old as to seek death yet. I have my family to return to, when my true task is complete."

Arleif opened his mouth to say something more, when a knock sounded on the oak door of Arleif's office. "Come in." He called.

Torbjörn Lindholm entered the office, a short, heavy browed man with four feet, seven inches of height and six feet of surly disposition. His blond beard went down to his barrel shaped chest, braided in a Viking fashion. Draconian was interested to see he still had his left arm attached, as opppsed to his prosthetic. His personal forge was also off, making him seem even more diminutive in stature. "What do ya want, Arleif? I'm busy working on my rivet gun and my new design of turret."

Arleif gestured to Draconian. "Torbjörn, this is John Marcosi, of the United Nations. He is here to ask you some questions."

Torbjörn glowered at him. "I already told ya! I can't find out why the damned machines are fighting! If I had, donchya think I would've stopped it by now? And don't even get me started on the God Programs! It'd be nothing short of suicide to get close to an omnium, much less the Program mainframe!"

Draconian blinked. "That's not what this is about, Torbjörn."

Torbjörn scooped at him. "No?! I suppose ya want my weapons then! Why? So ya can build more deadly machines to wreak havoc for ya? Well you can't have 'em!"

Arleif sighed. "Torbjörn…"

"I already told ya!" Yelled Torbjörn, throwing his hands up in exaggeration. "Not a damn thing!"

Draconian spoke up, his voice soft and etched in anger. "You were the one who programmed the Omnics. Do you not feel responsible for the destruction you helped cause?"

"OHO!" Shouted Torbjörn. "Looks like this one's got a tongue on him!"

"Answer the question Torbjorn." said Arleif softly.

Torbjorn lowered his fiery blue gaze, looking down. "You do feel guilty." Said Draconian. It was not poised as a question.

Torbjorn did not answer, instead glowering at the ground. "What do you want?" He said finally, glaring at Draconian.

Draconian turned to Arleif. "May we have some privacy?" He nodded, rising from his desk and walking out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. "Torbjorn Lindholm. You were a difficult one to find, you and your guild. I am John Marcosi, as you have heard, and I'm here to settle your score with the Omnics and do some good."

"Get to the point." Said Torbjorn irritably.

Draconian nodded, pulling out the sheets of paper upon which was emblazoned the Overwatch symbol. "In the wake of the Omnic Crisis and the shortsightedness of the world's military powers, the United Nations has decided to assemble a team of scientists and soldiers to combat the Omnics. You were one of the six on this list, along with bioenhanced soldiers Gabriel Reyes and Jack Morrison, world's greatest sniper Ana Amari, and former Crusader Reinhardt Wilhelm. Another is to be asked to join the ranks after you, a man known only to me so far as Liao. You are one of the greatest engineers in the Ironclad Guild, and one of its best combatants. It is for these reasons that you are chosen to join the world's most elite international task force." He slid the paper toward Torbjorn. "All you need do is sign." He handed him a pen.

Torbjorn gripped the pen so tightly his knuckles turned white, the slim metal bending under his tight fingered grasp. "And if I don't sign?"

Draconian smiled inwardly to himself. For all of Torbjorn's prickly manner, he had a soft spot. "Then you may live with the knowledge that the innocents you put in danger were saved as you sat around building turrets that collected dust. Or should Overwatch fail, which I strongly believe it will not, you can live with the knowledge you sat around while people were murdered by your programming."

Torbjorn glowered at Draconian even more fiercely under his bushy blond eyebrows. He then signed the signature, a small thrill singing through Draconian as he watched him sign. He then slid the paper back into the folder. Draconian stood abruptly. "Thank you Torbjorn. If you would be so kind, meet me at Cafe Pascal, where I will fill you in on the remaining details, including establishment, protocols, and where you will live. Pack what you need. It may be a while before you return."

Draconian walked out, nodding at Arleif and shaking his hand. "Thank you for your assistance with Sven. Torbjorn has agreed to join Overwatch. And now, I must leave to complete the rest of my task. Farewell, Arleif Arnson."

Arleif grasped his hand in a Roman handshake, pulling him close. "Whatever her name is, lad, I wish you the best of luck with her." Draconian, unnerved at how close his mark hit, only nodded tersely, leaving the base and its dim confines behind him.

…

Draconian watched as Torbjorn sidled up to the table, swearing and cursing in Swedish. "Thank you for meeting me here, Torbjorn. Scone?" He slid the plate toward him.

Torbjorn waved it away from him. "I'm not one of your fancy Brits! I came here for information, not small talk. Now, where am I going and what am I doing?"

Draconian brought out the envelope which held the dossier. He pulled out a plane ticket, pushing it towards Torbjorn. "As to what you are doing, I cannot say. That is for my superiors to decide. But as to where you are going, you are going to Washington D.C to be conducted into Overwatch for an oral confirmation. It is also where your base is for the time being. You will have all the necessary armaments and tools to keep creating weapons. Or so I'm told."

Torbjorn grunted. "Yeah, yeah. And the other people?"

"Gabriel Reyes, born in Los Angeles, large of build and dark of skin, humor, and attire. Likes his shotguns as much as he likes women. Except women don't complain. Moving on, Jack Morrison, born in Bloomington, Indiana, essentially Aryan race, as you people call it, true American, fighting for his country. Uses a standard assault rifle, plays by the book. Ana Amari, world's greatest sniper, real quiet. Hardly makes a sound and can hit squirrel in the eye from a mile away. Reinhardt Wilhelm, real jolly fellow. Like Santa Claus, except Santa could never be so buff. Or tall."

Torbjorn's lips twitched in smile. "Alright, you've made your point. So, go to Washington D.C and get sworn in. That it?"

"Essentially yes."

Torbjorn frowned. "Wait… that's it?" Draconian nodded. "Well then, what am I doing here?! Why didn't you just tell me back in the guild?"

"Because I have a message from me to Overwatch itself. All of Overwatch." Draconian blinked, his eyes going from brown to radiant gold. Torbjorn gasped, lurching backward in his chair. Draconian held out his hand as his cape flowed from his shoulders, its lines of liquid color bleeding from its seams. In his hand shimmered the deep purple sword, its image smoky and swirling in his grasp. The small audience in the cafe looked on in fear and awe.

Torbjorn's eyes almost bulged from his pockets. "You- you-"

"I am much more than I appear, Torbjorn Lindholm. And from me to Overwatch, I say to them and you that Dragons aid their effort. My wings and claws strike at your enemies. Make no mistake, however. I am your ally, not your father to constantly and always protect you. Keep that in mind, Overwatch, and you shall meet me, one day." Draconian stood up, the sword fading immediately. He walked out, leaving several Swedish Krona on the table.

Torbjorn, overcoming his shock and running outside after Draconian shouted at him. "Hey! You can't just-" His voice was lost in a rushing of wind as he watched the figure of Draconian recede, the glowing lines of color on his cape washed away as mist rushed in from the streets of Stockholm. As fast as that it dispersed, and the mysterious man was gone. Frustrated, Torbjorn returned to the cafe, stealing a scone from Draconian's plate, and grabbing the plane ticket.

The small, runty man walked down the cobblestone streets of Stockholm, his feet carrying him to the Stockholm Bromma Airport. An hour later, the clouds rushed under him as he watched the city recede.