The Overwatch team races to stop Talon activities.

Author's note: this includes swearing and firefights, since it's from Soldier: 76's perspective and, well, that's what his character is.


All in all, it was another mission gone to hell.

At least it started well, Soldier 76 mused. A simple sweep and clear operation, local police tried to bust a weapon smuggling ring, called in for backup when they discovered automatic weapons fire goes both ways. Intel suggested Talon activity, a strike team was scrambled, and then the other shoe dropped.

Nerve Gas.

Shit.

Soldier 76 remembered his training, years ago in the Army. He remembered a grizzled combat veteran with fear in his eyes, describing bodies wracked by spasming convulsions as they choked on their own tongues, the surreal feeling of a city where everyone simply died, no guns, no bullets, no explosions, just a silent, creeping death.

They had antidotes, of course. As he pounded down a deserted street towards his objective, his hands absentmindedly brushed against the bright red pouch by his right thigh, where an automatic injector was the only thing standing between him and death if Talon should set off their weapons. But even the newest antidotes were likely to leave you in a coma when used.

100 meters. Two blocks from the target. Pulse Rifle shouldered and sweeping for threats, Soldier 76 heard the noises of battle as the rest of the team hit their separate targets. There'd been too many targets, too little time to stick together, too much at risk to neglect any of them. He was on his own. Catching sight of a shuttered café with Talon operatives surrounding it, he ducked behind a van and keyed in to the team's frequency.

"76 here. I see my target. Moving in."

Spitting out a burst of Helix Rockets, he dashed from the van, his Pulse Rifle up and tracking.

A Talon operative rolled away from the rockets, bringing a machine gun to bear. 76's weapon spat, and he fell. Another came from the door, stopped in his tracks as a burst ripped out his chest. Pausing to reload, 76 saw that the outside was clear, before a staccato string of fire from the windows ripped overhead. Cursing the near miss, he threw himself behind a low wall. Clicking on his visor, he rose from cover.

A ripple of fire, and the near miss was lethally repaid. Another, and an RPG clattered to the ground, unfired. A third, and the café fell silent.

"76 here, on the objective. Clearing the building now." He keyed in again, setting breaching charges on the door.

Door breached.

Weapon up, in the door, through the door. Door clear.

Hostile, pistol – fire, fire, fire, down. Entry clear.

Opposite corner, far corner, near corner. Corners clear.

Object, far side wall. Downed hostile, moving. Reaching, fire, reaching, detonator – shit.

Shit.


Soldier 76's last sensation was the antidote stabbing into his thigh as his world shrunk to nothing.