Disclaimer: I only own the original characters and plotlines in this fanfiction. Everything else belongs to Blizzard Entertainment or.

Author's Note: Hey everyone, Kryptonian here. So, a few months ago YouTube decided to recommend some old Overwatch animation shorts on my feed, and I've been hooked back into the lore ever since. I've never really been an avid Overwatch player, but I've always absolutely loved the lore and storylines that Blizzard developed over the years. And after diving back into the crazy world that is Overwatch fanfiction, I've decided to try my hands at making one. And so here we are.

Some other things I want to be clear about before you guys start reading. Firstly, this is mostly an OC fic, the timeline will be a little muddled at times, but I'll try to keep to the events and timeline of the cinematics and comics. Secondly, the OC will be a little OP for someone without powers, so if you don't like that then I apologize in advance. Finally, and most importantly, this does not mean that I'll stop writing Of Wizards and Kryptonians. It just means that there'll be more time between updates, but I'll try to maintain a good schedule for you guys.

For now, though, enjoy.

Chapter 1

Who is Jason Garrett?

To the system, he's a legend at Phoenix, a clandestine, privately funded UN black-ops replacement for Blackwatch after the PETRAS act was passed, operating under the cover of the CIA, MI7, KGB, and pretty much any other government agency from any UN member, until mid-2076, when they were disbanded for classified reasons, their resources and personnel dissolved and split between countries. Three years ago, Jason became the youngest member to made Strike Commander, only 22 at the time, and maintained a near-perfect record, with only one failure after over 200 missions. He specialized in raids and infiltration, with a talent for stealth and assassination, so much so that they had to change his callsign after a while. They started calling him Ghost, because if he wanted to, no one, not even his teammates, ever saw him coming.

To the tabloids, however, he's the reformed playboy and only child of late American multibillionaire Martin Garrett, the man behind the hover tech that is now in pretty much every car, train, and jet in the world, along with the energy pulse ammunition design that is currently being standardized by militaries around the globe. Jason had been born into the spotlight, and he kept on being in it through his teen years, but not for any reason he's proud of. Even though father and son had a great, closely knitted relationship and bonded well with each other, Martin had always been indulgent of his son, believing that Jason needed to be free to find his own way in life. So, Jason became a wild child. Booze, drugs, fights, strip clubs, excessive traveling and partying all over the world in supercars and private jets and mile-long yachts, he's done it all before his 19th birthday. Being 6ft2, with a muscular build, spiky short brown hair, light tan, and a handsome-looking face with bright green eyes, coupled with his astronomically large trust fund, means that he was quite the catch to a lot of women, a fair share of which had gotten very comfortable with his king-size bed over the years, all with hopes of one day having his last name, and more importantly his bank account, and all leaving with wobbly legs and not a cent richer than they were the night before.

Despite appearances and popular beliefs, however, he wasn't just a stupid, careless playboy, not by a long shot. No, his mind was sharp, just like his father's, and he knew exactly who to befriend, who to avoid, who to keep an eye out for, who to asked or give out favors for, who and where to look for particular things, etc. He had a place, and a role, for everyone. It was how he never got into too much trouble. People just couldn't see it. Something else people couldn't see was how he'd used the money and influence his father have to obtained and practiced with state-of-the-art weaponry, showing a prowess for a range of weapons, especially energy katanas, pulse rifles, and sniper rifles, all of which were practiced on old cans, tennis balls, abandoned crates, and nearby trees at the abandoned dockyard late at night. When he wasn't partying, that is. He was very diversely skilled but, for reasons unknown, chose not to use them for anything useful, instead keeping with his luxurious playboy lifestyle.

However, after his father was killed during a robbery shootout by a London gang at the Alderworth Hotel in King's Row, mere days before his 19th birthday, Jason was shocked out of the carefree lifestyle he'd been living in. Tracer had arrived at the scene, of course, but even she was just an inch too slow, literally, to stop the bullet from piercing his father's heart. With his mother already dead after childbirth, he was forced to grieve alone, locking himself up in his room and shooting things to splinters. Somewhere along the way, his grief turned into anger, and that in turn became a hunger for revenge. After doing the paperwork and receiving full control of his inheritance, Jason utilized everything he could get his hands on to track down exactly who had killed his father, going through favors and contacts, both legal and illegal, to get police reports, CCTV footage, and even underground chatter and gossip, which were the same contacts he used to get the weapons that hung on the extra shelves behind his walk-in closet, activated by a built-in fingerprint scanner hidden in a full-length mirror, in a three-floor penthouse eighty stories above the streets of New York. He had bought the place right after the funeral, needing to get away from his childhood home.

Jason had taken a sniper rifle, a pulse rifle, a set of handguns and knives, his dual katanas, along with spare ammo and put them into lead-lined bags, took his private jet to Paris, then a train to Lille, then from there snuck through to London by ferry with a fake passport, courtesy of the Los Muertos gang when he'd taken a trip down to Mexico. This roundabout trip made it more difficult to track him down, and all the way he was hellbent on exacting revenge. If anyone were to dig deep enough now, they would have seen the carnage and bloodshed that he'd left behind that week, under layers of red tape and even more redactions, to the point where the documents were almost completely black. They would have seen that the entire local gang responsible for the shootout was killed, with over fifty bodies being brought into the morgue in different states of mutilation, ripped-out nails and teeth, blown-off limbs, stabbed eyeballs, and some were even circumcised by an energy blade, as indicated by the burnt marks on the crotch. All before the killing hit. And that was only the gang members themselves. There were also corrupted government officials who knew about the robbery beforehand and stood to profit from it, all found dead in their homes or offices, each with a bullet through their brain and an excessive amount of evidence at each crime scene tying them to a string of corruption and a range of criminal activities.

Jason was on his way to making a clean, relatively clean anyway, escape from the last crime scene when he was caught. He climbed out of the window and down the fire escape into the alleyway, only for two dozen SWAT trucks and Scotland Yard cruisers appearing out of nowhere, blocking both ends, guns trained on him, along with snipers on the roof, lasers aiming at his head. Jason lifted his hands slowly over his head, growling in frustration. Fuck! He had forgotten to cut the power to the silent alarm system at the entrance, and now he's been caught on the last stretch. There was nowhere left to go, nowhere to run or hide, no room to negotiate, and he sure as hell wasn't gonna make it worse for himself by trying to fight his way out. So, very slowly, Jason took out his rifle and threw it on the ground, then undid the strap on his chest, and the katanas fell off, along with his backup guns. "I surrender!", he shouted, holding his hands up high. "Don't shoot". He then stepped towards the SWAT car waiting for him, where they cuffed his arms and legs together and took him into the station for questioning. Jason had then been identified, to the shock of some of the more seasoned officers, who have had him detained overnight before for underaged drinking and public indecency during one of his famous party trips around the world. After spending around twenty minutes in a cell, he was led to the questioning room. That was where he met a tall, muscular man in a black suit, a few specks of grey hair on his blond head, exhaustion in his blue eyes, with a briefcase by his feet, already sitting comfortably in the questioning room.

"So, are you some sort of lawyer or something. If so, thanks, but no thanks, I have my own", Jason asked as he was pushed into the room.

"I have no doubt you do, Mr. Garrett, but I'm not a lawyer. My name is Victor Morrison, United States Secretary of Defense. I'm here as a representative of the United Nations, to extradite you back into US custody for the duration of your trial at the International Court of Justice for charges in multiple countries".

Jason slumped into the chair. If they felt the need to send the fucking Secretary of Defense for his extradition, then he was screwed. Add the World Court to that and he's basically a dead man walking. As a way to lighten the air, for his own sake, he joked. "I don't know if I should be honored or worried that the UN felt the need to send a big shot like you for little old me, Mr. Secretary".

"Oh, you should be worried, Mr. Garrett, very much so. In fact, from what I've heard, you're looking at twenty to forty in supermax, without parole, for mass murder, illegal dealing and possession of high-powered military-grade weaponry, falsified identification, and vigilantism. These charges span throughout various countries in the UN", Victor said, a whisper of enjoyment in his voice that just pissed Jason off.

But before he could say anything, Victor dropped the other shoe on his ass. "However, it doesn't have to come to that, because the real reason I'm here, Jason, may I call you Jason? The real reason I'm here is to give you a choice. I currently operate what you might call a black-ops team, with international clearance, called Phoenix. We were established by the UN as a means to replace Overwatch, or, more precisely, its covert right arm, Blackwatch. I've read your file. The skills and the tactics I saw from footages of you impressed a lot of people in high places, so I've been cleared to give you an offer. The way I see it, you've got two options. You can either stand trial and rot away in a supermax in the middle of nowhere. Or, and this is my only offer, you can join Phoenix, serve for thirty years or so. We can judge your merits, and when we're satisfied, you can go. This entire slaughter will be covered up by the UN, and you'll be clear of all charges and back in control of your assets". He then took a folder out of the briefcase and handed it to Jason. There was a big red "Classified" stamp on the cover "This is the deal we're offering. If you accept, just sign on the dotted line. Wheel's up at ten am tomorrow, so I would suggest you decide by then. Sleep on it. Good night, Jason".

Victor put a pen on the table, then snap his briefcase shut and proceed to walk out, already sure what response he was gonna get. It wasn't a choice, not really. It was a lifejacket. He had to suppress a smirk when the answer came before he can even open the door.

"No need", Jason said, picking up the pen and signing his name on the line. He turned to Victor, fire in his eyes. Whether it was hatred, determination, or something else entirely, Victor couldn't tell. And, truth be told, he didn't care much. Kid's got fire, just like Victor's brother used to, and they can use that. That's all that mattered.

"When do I start?"

That was the beginning of his time at Phoenix, six years riddled with glory, respect, and instilling fear in the hearts of his enemies. He had done every task, every infiltration, every raid, every assassination thrown his way. He had turned the disdain and hostility from his teammates into respect for him as a teammate, and eventually a leader. And he had also impressed the UN representatives every time they were sent to observe on him. He was so good at what he does, the criminal world started whispering about him, about the Ghost that takes you in the night, so quick and silent that you don't even realize you're dead until you're halfway down to hell. Criminals were terrified of him, gangs and crime families such as the Shimada clan and the Deadlock gang dread the day when he would decide to come for them. Even Talon was wary of him to an extent. But, beneath all of that, those six years were also filled with loss, grief, his fair share of scars and injuries, and an enormous body count, humans and Omnics alike.

That was why when Jason was given the green light to leave, at least two decades earlier than even the most optimistic predictions, he took it. The early discharge option just went to show how much he had achieved in his time there, how much he was respected and appreciated. He came back to New York, at 25 years old, with an honorable discharge, even considering his crimes, with all files and evidence against him destroyed and a little too much field experience for his liking.

"That was nearly a year ago", Jason thought as he snapped out of his reminiscing. He was driving through Europe these days, and maybe for the first time ever in his life, truly enjoying the beauty it has to offer. His silver Aston Martin DB51 was currently parked at the edge of the old town of Eichenwalde in Germany, its shiny new hover engine humming softly, while Jason walked through the snow-covered streets, wearing dark blue jeans with a black button-up Valentino shirt, black combat boots, and a brown John Varvatos leather jacket, a platinum Rolex snug on his left wrist, his father's signet ring on his right middle finger and a duffle bag slung across one shoulder, enjoying the fresh air and the tranquility of this abandoned town that used to be the base of operations of the legendary Crusaders, back before Overwatch was born. But fresh air and silence aren't the only reasons he'd gone out of his way to come here today. This was the site of his last mission for Phoenix, his one and only failure.

This was where Ghost died.

Author's Note: So, what do you guys think? Good? This is my first OC fic, so I took the liberty to go crazy with his character. I actually wrote over 6000 words for this, but I thought I should split it into two parts. This way I can get reviews and fix up the next part before I finish and post it, and in my typical fashion, I ended this with a cliffhanger. You can probably already guess what the pairing will be (if I haven't put it in the description already), so let me know if you like it.

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