The wind howled against the hull of the dropship as it banked hard over the jungle, its engines screaming in protest as it hugged the terrain to avoid detection. Inside the cramped hold, Reinhardt adjusted the straps of his harness, his massive frame barely contained within the reinforced seating. His armor hummed around him, servos flexing as he tested the mobility of his limbs, his hammer resting against his boots like a sleeping giant.
Across from him, his squad was silent, each soldier locked in their own pre-mission rituals. The rhythmic clatter of gear checks filled the space—the metallic slide of magazines loading, the soft beeps of final diagnostic checks on HUD visors. They were professionals, every single one of them, and yet Reinhardt could feel the weight pressing on them.
They knew what awaited them below.
The omnium agonizingly close to being reawakened, yet its defenses stirring after years of dormancy, and it was their job to drive a spear straight into its heart before it could fully rise again. Failure was not an option.
The intercom crackled.
"One minute to drop!"
Reinhardt exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around the harness. His heart thundered—not with fear, but with the familiar anticipation of battle, the fire that had burned in him since the Crusaders first called him brother.
A deep mechanical thud echoed through the hold as the ramp began to lower. A rush of hot, humid air swept inside, carrying the scent of burning metal and scorched jungle. Below them, fire bloomed in the distance—the EU diversionary forces had begun their assault. Artillery shells streaked through the night, their impacts lighting up the treetops as they hammered omnic positions.
The enemy was distracted. Now was their time to strike.
"Go! Go! Go!"
Reinhardt tore free from his restraints and charged forward, his boots hitting the ramp just as the dropship tilted. Then—gravity vanished.
The rush of air screamed past his ears as he plummeted, his body twisting through the darkness. The HUD in his visor flickered to life, marking the landing zone below—a crumbling industrial sector overgrown with jungle, half-swallowed by the earth. The skeletal remains of abandoned structures loomed in the night, their shadows twisting under the flickering glow of distant fires.
Twenty meters… ten… five…
Impact.
His boots slammed into the ground, servos compensating as his knees bent to absorb the shock. Around him, ropes unfurled from the hovering dropship as his squad descended in rapid succession. Boots hit concrete, bodies moving swiftly, weapons raised in a practiced sweep of their surroundings. Muffled commands passed through the squad's comms as each operative took their position. Within moments, their formation was set—a disciplined semi-circle covering all angles.
"Clear left," one soldier called.
"Clear right," another confirmed.
The dropship peeled away, its engines roaring as it vanished into the night, leaving them behind in the war-torn ruins.
Reinhardt exhaled, rising to his full height. They were in.
He moved at the head of the formation, his armored bulk making him a natural vanguard. Despite his size, he advanced with practiced precision—each step careful, measured. They weren't storming a battlefield just yet. Speed and stealth were their allies now.
"Clear left," one of his operatives muttered once more, sweeping his rifle over the debris-strewn corridor of a collapsed factory.
"Clear right," came the expected reply.
The ruins were eerily silent, save for the distant thud of explosions from the diversionary assault. The omnics weren't reacting to them yet, but that wouldn't last. They were deep in enemy territory. The moment they were detected, hell would come for them.
The team advanced through the crumbling infrastructure, navigating between rusted pipelines and shattered glass. Intelligence had mapped the area before insertion, marking several potential routes to the command center. The most direct path was through the central refinery, but that was also the most exposed. Alternatively, they could skirt around the abandoned worker housing district, using the collapsed buildings for cover, but it would take longer.
Reinhardt stopped at an intersection, raising a fist to halt the squad. His HUD flickered, overlaying tactical readouts onto the darkened ruins.
"We are deciding between speed and caution," he muttered over comms. "I prefer a hammer's strike, but we are not here to play the hero." He turned to his second-in-command. "Thoughts?"
One operative hesitated. "If we push through the refinery, we risk an ambush, but we'll reach the objective faster. If we take the long way—"
A distant mechanical hum cut through the air.
Reinhardt turned sharply, his visor auto-enhancing the darkness beyond the ruins. A faint glow—omnic patrol units. Not close enough to engage, but searching.
Time was slipping away.
Reinhardt clenched his jaw. The mission depended on them reaching the command center before the omnium fully mobilized its immense production capabilties.
"We go through the refinery," he decided. "Fast and hard. No hesitation."
The squad nodded, tightening their grips on their weapons.
They moved.
The ruins of the industrial sector loomed ahead, a skeletal graveyard of crumbling steel and fractured concrete. Nature had begun reclaiming the land, vines strangling rusted pipelines, moss creeping through shattered walkways. The air smelled of damp earth and old oil, the scent of decay mingling with the sharp tang of ozone from distant weapons fire.
Reinhardt moved at the head of the formation, his every step measured despite his size. They weren't charging into battle—not yet. This was the silent approach, a hunt in enemy territory where the slightest mistake could set off a chain reaction of death.
The refinery lay just under a kilometer ahead. Too far to sprint, too close to risk detection. Their path wove through the remnants of a long-abandoned industrial grid—collapsed catwalks, skeletal gantries rusting under years of neglect, and machinery frozen mid-function, half-swallowed by the jungle.
Despite the stillness, Reinhardt felt it—the weight of unseen eyes.
They weren't alone.
His earpiece crackled softly, a whisper among ghosts.
"Hammer Two to Europa Actual—enemy armor sighted, at grid seven-seven-three-one-five-nine! Requesting additional fire support!"
Reinhardt did not slow his pace, but he listened. The European forces were pressing the attack southward, keeping the Omnics occupied. Another explosion rumbled in the distance, the sky briefly flashing with fire.
"Europa Actual copies, Hammer Two. Saber Flight en route for CAS, at grid…"
The real battle was unfolding all around them, unseen but felt.
They reached a partially collapsed walkway, its steel support beams jutting like broken ribs. The squad moved in near silence, their boots pressing against damp concrete, the occasional clatter of loose debris quickly silenced.
Then, another transmission.
"Overwatch Team Bravo, we've breached the outer security node. Setting charges now. ETA three minutes."
A voice from someone he knew was on Winston's team. Good. Three minutes until they'd start their run on the power grid. But Reinhardt knew that three minutes was an eternity in a war zone.
He gave the hand signal—move.
His squad advanced into the darkness of a gutted storage depot, stepping over the brittle remains of scattered datapads, rusted casings, and an omnic exoshell long since deactivated. The walls bore the scars of the old war—bullet holes riddling reinforced plating, blast marks from high-impact energy weapons.
But there was something off about it.
The damage was old, yes—but something had disturbed it recently. Dust had been shifted. Metal scraped against metal.
Something had moved through here.
And not long ago.
The radio crackled again.
"Strike One to Strike Actual, I am engaged—I say again, I am engaged! Hostiles are adapting, requesting—"
A sharp burst of interference. Then, silence.
Reinhardt's grip tightened on his hammer. Hawkins.
No time to check in. He had to trust the pilot to hold the skies. Their mission depended on it.
He pressed forward.
The first sight of the refinery came into view, its towers clawing at the sky, wrapped in thick coils of pipework and tangled scaffolding. Flickering hazard lights painted the structures in eerie, pulsing red. Some sections were still operational, automated systems whirring to life as the omnics accelerated their progress.
They were moving fast—far faster than anticipated.
The enemy wasn't just reviving a dead factory.
They were on their to rebuilding an army, the likes of which the world was not ready to experience once more.
They passed the first security checkpoint—an automated barrier long since rusted over. Omnic insignia still adorned the weathered bulkheads, their symbols faded but not forgotten.
A low mechanical hum drifted through the air.
He raised an armored fist—stop.
His visor adjusted, enhancing the low light. Shapes moved in the distance—sleek, metallic, silent.
Omnic sentries.
Three of them, gliding in a synchronized formation, their head units swiveling with precision, scanning. Their optical lenses pulsed with cold blue light, methodically sweeping the area.
They weren't the slow, lumbering infantry models of the war. These were new.
Refined. Predatory.
They moved without wasted motion, their footfalls eerily quiet, like ghosts on steel.
Reinhardt's fingers flexed around his hammer. He could destroy them—but that wasn't the mission. If they were detected before reaching the command center, the omnium would react before Winston's sabotage was complete.
His second-in-command leaned in. "Call?"
Reinhardt exhaled. "We go quiet."
The squad adjusted, lowering their stances, hugging the shadows. Weapons stayed close, safeties flicked off, fingers near triggers but steady. The faint glow of optics and HUDs dimmed as they switched to low-light mode.
The sentries drifted closer, their scanning beams slicing through the dark.
Reinhardt barely moved, muscles coiled beneath armor plating, his entire being focused on stillness. The team followed suit, pressing into cover, disappearing into the wreckage.
One of the sentries stopped.
Turned its head slightly.
Reinhardt's pulse slowed. He didn't breathe.
The machine lingered. Its optics pulsed once.
Then—it moved on.
Not yet.
The sentries passed. Their mechanical hum faded into the night.
Reinhardt waited a full five seconds before he moved. A silent hand signal.
The squad pressed forward, weaving through the dead machinery.
The refinery entrance yawned ahead—a dark maw of twisting corridors and unseen dangers.
The real test was about to begin.
The refinery swallowed them whole.
Reinhardt ducked beneath a rusted pipeline, his massive frame shifting carefully to avoid scraping against the corroded metal. The air was thick with the scent of oil and something acrid—burnt coolant mixed with decay. Overhead, the structure groaned under the weight of neglect, support beams sagging beneath the burden of time.
The squad moved in silence.
A single flickering overhead light buzzed, struggling to stay alive, its dim glow casting broken shadows along the towering machinery and tangled catwalks. Steam hissed from fractured vents, curling like phantoms through the air. The only sound was the quiet shuffling of boots against the dust-covered floor as Reinhardt's team pressed forward.
Their destination: the refinery's control access point. It would provide them a backdoor into the command center. If they were lucky, they could reach it undetected.
But luck rarely lasted in war.
Up ahead, he briefly heard movement. Another raised first went up, and then he sought cover.
The squad reacted accordingly, sinking once more into the shadows. His visor adjusted to the low light, scanning ahead. A patrol.
Two Omnic sentries stood in the corridor beyond, their sleek exoskeletons barely reflecting the dim glow of dying emergency lights. They weren't drones—they were combat models. Their chassis were reinforced, their movements precise. One of them had a plasma rifle magnetically locked to its back, while the other's arms pulsed with faint energy—a shock weapon of some kind.
They were stationed near a security door. Their objective lay just beyond them.
Reinhardt's grip tightened around his hammer. He could crush them in seconds—but if they alerted the rest of the refinery, the entire operation would spiral out of control.
His second-in-command, a seasoned soldier named Krüger, moved in close, voice barely above a breath.
"We take them clean. No alarms."
Reinhardt nodded. He tapped his helmet twice—silent takedown.
The squad shifted into position, spreading out like wolves circling prey.
Two operatives, specializing in close-quarters combat, moved first, slipping between rusted machinery and wreckage. Their approach was precise, measured.
Reinhardt held back for now, his presence too large to remain unnoticed in confined quarters. His job wasn't to strike first—it was to ensure no one escaped.
The first soldier moved like a shadow, knife drawn. He slid behind the nearest omnic, grabbed the base of its cranial unit, and plunged the blade into a weak joint beneath its optical sensor. A sharp, metallic crack filled the air as the machine seized, its servos twitching, before going limp.
The second soldier lunged for the second omnic. But as his knife flashed, the machine reacted—faster than expected.
Its optics pulsed, its shock weapon activating.
Damn.
Reinhardt moved instantly.
Before the Omnic could strike, Reinhardt closed the gap in a single step and drove his massive gauntlet into its torso. Metal crumpled under his sheer force, servos snapping as the machine buckled against the impact.
Before it could recover, Reinhardt grabbed its head in both hands and twisted.
A sharp snap.
The sentry collapsed, its optics flickering before going dark.
Silence.
The team held position, listening—waiting for the refinery to react.
But nothing came.
The omnics had fallen before they could alert their systems.
Krüger exhaled. "That was close."
Reinhardt said nothing. His gaze lingered on the remains of the omnics. They had reacted too fast—almost as if they had been expecting intruders.
The enemy was adapting.
And they weren't done yet.
The squad regrouped at the security checkpoint, weapons ready. Krüger moved to the control panel, his gloved fingers moving swiftly over the aged interface.
A soft chime.
The door hissed open.
Beyond it lay a long corridor, its depths engulfed in shadow. Distantly, the low hum of machinery rumbled, echoing through the metal framework of the refinery.
Reinhardt stepped forward.
The passage beyond the security checkpoint narrowed, its walls lined with rusted pipelines, coolant vents, and flickering status displays. Some screens still glowed with faded diagnostic readings, their omnic script scrolling endlessly. Others had gone dark, their circuits dead or hijacked by time.
He led the squad forward, his massive frame barely clearing the low beams overhead. The further they moved in, the more the refinery felt alive.
The hum of machinery was no longer distant. It pulsed beneath their feet, a deep mechanical heartbeat, signaling that something—somewhere—was coming back online.
The squad advanced in tight formation, sweeping each junction before moving. The omnics weren't blind—they knew something was wrong.
A shift in patrols.
The omnic sentries that had once followed predictable routes were now doubling back, scanning areas they had already passed. Their movements had changed—faster, more methodical.
They weren't responding to an alarm.
They were hunting.
"They know something's off." Krüger whispered over comms.
Reinhardt nodded, keeping his pace steady. "Then we stay unseen."
The team pressed on, navigating through the industrial labyrinth. They slipped between rows of decommissioned omnic frames, some half-assembled, others gutted for parts. The machines stood like silent sentinels, their eyeless visors staring into the dark.
A vent hissed suddenly, releasing a blast of steam. Everyone froze.
The sound bounced off the metal walls, warping into an unnatural groan. A moment later, an omnic patrol rounded the corner—three sentries, moving in unison.
The squad pressed into cover, vanishing into the machinery.
Reinhardt's breathing slowed. The omnics drifted past, their optics pulsing as they scanned. They paused. Turned. Waited.
Seconds dragged into eternity.
Then, with a synchronized pulse of their optics, the sentries moved on.
Another close call, way too many.
They pushed forward, slipping into an auxiliary maintenance tunnel. The temperature dropped.
Reinhardt barely noticed the cold. He noticed the sound.
A low, mechanical murmur echoed ahead. It wasn't speech—it was data transfer, an omnic system communicating.
They reached an overlook—an access hatch that opened into a larger chamber below.
Reinhardt peered down.
And his stomach clenched.
Rows of omnic drones—lined up, motionless, waiting. Their bodies were sleek, angular, reinforced with newer plating.
They weren't activated. Not yet.
Krüger exhaled. "Damn it. If they actually bring this online…"
Reinhardt said nothing. There was no turning back now.
He tapped his comm. "Strike Actual, be advised—we are proceeding."
A brief pause. Then Morrison's voice, sharp and measured: "Understood. Stay on mission."
Reinhardt tightened his grip on his hammer. They had to move.
The next checkpoint was close.
And it would not be undefended.
The team reached the junction leading to the control hub, pausing just before the last turn. Dim amber light pooled from overhead fixtures, casting long, broken shadows against the metal grating.
Krüger peeked around the edge of the corridor, visor dimming to avoid reflection. A slow inhale. Then, a quiet exhale.
He turned back to Reinhardt. "Four hostiles. Guard detail."
Reinhardt leaned in. The enemy was ready this time.
A squad of omnic defenders stood in a semi-circle around the access terminal, their angular frames gleaming under the low lights. Unlike the sentries they had avoided earlier, these models were heavily armored, standing taller, bulkier, their exoskeletons reinforced with tactical plating.
And they weren't just standing there.
They were waiting.
Krüger whispered, "No patrol routes. No idling. They know someone's coming."
One of the omnics shifted, fingers flexing with mechanical precision as it scanned the darkness ahead. It could feel the disturbance.
They were intelligent enough to know something was wrong—but they weren't reacting blindly. No alarms. No reckless searching.
They were patient.
They were hunting the hunters.
Reinhardt clenched his jaw. That changed things.
A standard ambush wouldn't work. If they moved too slow, the omnics would detect them first. If they rushed, they'd be cut down before reaching the access point.
They needed overwhelming force—executed perfectly.
He turned to the squad, voice low over comms.
"Fast. Precise. No mistakes."
Krüger gave a tight nod. The signal was given.
And then—they struck.
The first omnic turned—too late.
A suppressor-muzzled rifle coughed, a round slamming through the closest sentry's cranial casing. It seized, its optics flickering before it collapsed.
By the time the others registered the attack, Reinhardt was already in motion.
His shield burst to life—a brilliant blue barrier expanding just as the omnics spun and fired.
Plasma rounds slammed into the energy field, sparking violently.
Too slow.
Reinhardt surged forward, crossing the distance in seconds. His hammer came up—then down.
Metal met metal.
The impact was devastating. The nearest omnic caved inward, crumpling like tinfoil, sparks bursting from its broken chassis.
The remaining two scrambled, repositioning with alarming speed.
One activated a wrist-mounted energy blade, the weapon humming as it deployed in a flash of light. The other lifted a pulse carbine, adjusting its stance—these weren't mindless machines.
They were reacting, calculating, adapting.
Krüger and another operative opened fire, controlled bursts hammering the carbine-wielding omnic.
It pivoted, shifting its armor plating mid-motion, shielding vital components.
Reinhardt lunged at the blade-wielding defender. It swung fast—too fast for something that large.
The omnic aimed for his exposed flank.
Reinhardt twisted, deflecting the strike with his bracer. The blade shrieked against his armor, leaving a molten scar across the plating.
Before the machine could recover, he slammed his forearm into its chest—hard. The omnic stumbled, its servos struggling to compensate.
That was all he needed.
He gripped his hammer with both hands and drove it upward in a brutal arc. The omnic's torso split apart on impact, its core sparking violently before it dropped lifeless to the ground.
The last enemy—the carbine wielder—realized it was alone.
It moved to retreat.
Too late.
Another burst from one of the operatives accurately nailed the back of the omnic's cranial processor.
It didn't get back up.
Silence.
The entire fight had lasted less than six seconds.
Reinhardt turned, scanning the battlefield. The squad was intact. The enemy was down.
But something still felt off.
He exhaled and stepped toward the terminal. The access point was theirs.
For now.
The hum of the terminal pulsed softly as data flickered across the interface, lines of Omnic script scrolling endlessly. Krüger worked quickly, his gloved fingers ghosting over the console, pulling schematics, internal logs, and status reports from the refinery's control node.
Reinhardt stood nearby, hammer resting against the floor, his visor scanning the chamber beyond. The silence was unnatural. They had executed their ambush cleanly, no alarms, no immediate retaliation.
And yet…
Krüger's voice cut through the quiet. "We're in."
Reinhardt turned as Krüger brought up a map of the refinery, highlighting critical systems, power flow, and—most importantly—the omnics' production progress.
Krüger's voice was tight. "They're ahead of schedule. Way ahead."
Reinhardt exhaled slowly. So Morrison was right to worry.
"How much time do we have?"
Krüger tapped a sequence. The data wasn't clear. But one thing was: Overwatch's window to shut this place down was closing.
"Not long," Krüger muttered. "We need to send this to the big man now."
Another soldier—Thorne—patched into Overwatch's secure relay, transmitting the intel back to Morrison. A short confirmation beep. The data was sent.
"Transmission complete."
Reinhardt gave a curt nod. "Then we move."
But the moment he stepped back from the terminal, the refinery responded.
A low, warning klaxon rumbled through the walls, deep and mechanical. Lights shifted from amber to deep crimson, flashing in synchronized pulses.
The entire refinery groaned.
Then—a hiss.
Heavy security doors slammed down in unison. The exits leading back the way they came sealed shut, thick barriers of reinforced plating cutting them off.
The squad snapped into action instantly, weapons raised, scanning their flanks. No enemy movement yet.
Krüger cursed. "What just happened?!"
Thorne checked the relay, his voice edged with tension. "Failsafe. The system detected an intrusion and locked down all non-omnic personnel routes."
Reinhardt's jaw clenched. "Options?"
Krüger ran another diagnostic, his visor flickering with data streams.
"Main exits are sealed. Secondary routes… mostly collapsed. There's one path still open—" he paused, looking at Reinhardt.
"But it leads deeper in."
A beat of silence.
Reinhardt turned, staring down the dimly lit corridor ahead, its metal walls closing in like the throat of some great mechanical beast.
They weren't escaping.
Not yet.
"Then we go forward," he said simply.
Krüger exhaled. "Figures."
Reinhardt activated his comm. "Strike Actual, this is Team Alpha. We have a problem."
A brief static pause. Then, Morrison's voice cut in, sharp and controlled.
"We're receiving your feed. Talk to me."
"We're locked in. Primary exits are sealed. The only path available takes us deeper into the facility. Please advise."
Morrison didn't hesitate. "Stand by. We're analyzing your position now."
Krüger muttered under his breath.
The squad tightened formation, adjusting their approach. Their mission hadn't changed—but now, survival was just as important as success.
Behind them, the red warning lights continued to pulse, painting the halls in ominous crimson.
Ahead, the darkness waited.