The ache never fully left him. Not the searing, unbearable agony he vaguely remembered from the moment of his crash, but a dull, persistent weight that settled deep into his bones. It followed him with every movement—a lingering reminder of the war his body was still fighting to recover.
Weeks had passed since he first woke up in the pristine, high-tech infirmary of an Overwatch facility. In that time, the sharp edges of his injuries had dulled, and function had begun returning to his limbs. Walking was no longer impossible, but it took effort—measured, deliberate. Every step reminded him that he wasn't at full strength yet.
Despite the progress, he was still being watched. Whether out of concern for his health or wariness of his status as an outsider, he wasn't sure.
Most of his time had been spent confined to this room, forced into a cycle of rest and recovery under the watchful eye of Dr. Angela Ziegler. She had become an unavoidable presence, checking his vitals, adjusting his treatment, ensuring he didn't do anything stupid, as she had so delicately put it.
He had learned to tolerate her persistence—maybe even appreciate it, though he would never admit that out loud. Their interactions had shifted over the last few weeks, the rigid formality gradually easing into something more familiar.
And she called him Nate now.
It had happened after that last conversation—the one where he had sought her out, where he had finally let the walls down just enough to acknowledge that she had been there. That she had pushed him, guided him, and, in a way, kept him from spiraling into the kind of frustration that might have consumed him.
He hadn't corrected her.
And for some reason, she hadn't gone back.
For as long as he could remember, his body had always obeyed his commands—quick, strong, precise. Now, even lifting an arm too fast sent sharp spikes of pain through his ribs. The frustration gnawed at him, mixing with the lingering disorientation of everything that had happened since he'd last been in the cockpit of his FA-1X fighter.
Still, progress had come, slow but undeniable.
By the second week, he could walk the length of the infirmary without collapsing.
By the third, he could manage short exercises without feeling like his body was made of lead.
By now, he could move well enough to remind himself what independence felt like—but the ever-present stiffness in his muscles ensured he never forgot just how far he still had to go.
And then there was the other issue.
The thought had gnawed at him ever since he realized where he was.
Overwatch—United Nations Combined Joint Task Force-76, officially speaking, though no one seemed to use that name—had pulled him from the wreckage of his aircraft, patched him up, and now… what?
He was still a United States Air Force pilot.
Wasn't he?
Hawkins frowned, staring down at his hands—calloused, but healing. His uniform had been replaced with simple hospital attire, and while the Overwatch personnel were friendly enough, there was a noticeable absence of any direct military authority.
No debrief. No orders. No familiar chain of command.
That unnerved him.
He had been shot down in a war zone. That much was clear. But by now, surely someone from his unit, from Seventh Air Force, should have come looking for him.
Had he been written off as KIA?
The thought sent a strange chill through him. He hadn't considered it before now.
He swallowed, setting his jaw. He needed answers.
Hawkins slowly pushed himself upright, ignoring the slight protest from his muscles. He had spent enough time lying around, lost in his own thoughts.
It was time to start figuring things out.
The hallways of the Overwatch facility were pristine, sterile, eerily quiet—the kind of quiet that made Hawkins feel like he had stumbled into something far larger than himself.
And maybe he had.
Each step was deliberate, controlled. His legs still ached from disuse, but he was moving under his own power. That was a victory in itself. It had taken weeks to get here, to feel human again.
But his mind? That was another story.
Where the hell did he stand in all of this?
A pilot without a mission.
A soldier without orders.
He had been flying sorties for the 25th Tactical Fighter Squadron, 51st Fighter Wing, Seventh Air Force just weeks ago. Then he was shot out of the sky, and now…
Nothing.
No messages.
No visitors from his command.
No debrief.
Just silence.
His dog tags, still hanging around his neck, were the only tangible proof he had that he was still in the U.S. military.
But...had Uncle Sam already written him off?
He turned the corner and nearly collided with a solid mass of armor.
A deep chuckle rumbled in front of him.
"Ah! Lieutenant Hawkins! Good to see you on your feet."
Reinhardt.
The towering German was unmistakable, even without the imposing presence of his powered armor. Though not fully suited up, he still carried the aura of a warrior—one who had seen countless battles but still found joy in the simple things. His grin was broad, his voice full of energy, as if every conversation was a celebration in itself.
"Reinhardt," Hawkins greeted, steadying himself. "Didn't think I'd run into you."
Reinhardt let out another hearty laugh. "Neither did I! But it is good to see you walking with strength. I heard from some of the medics—you are a stubborn one."
"So I've been told."
The older man studied him for a moment, then his expression softened. "Something troubles you."
Hawkins exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "I need answers, Reinhardt. I don't know where I stand in all of this. My command hasn't reached out. I don't even know if I still have a unit."
Reinhardt's expression grew serious. "Ah. I see. This is not an easy question to answer, my friend. But I know someone who can help."
Hawkins raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
Reinhardt grinned, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Come with me! Commander Morrison will want to speak with you."
Hawkins blinked.
Wait.
Commander Morrison?
As in… the Jack Morrison?
And just like that, everything shifted.
The walk to Morrison's office was silent.
Reinhardt led the way, his usual boisterous energy subdued as they moved deeper into the facility. Hawkins followed, every movement slow but steady as he ignored the lingering ache in his body. His mind, however, was racing far faster than his recovering limbs could manage.
This wasn't just a debrief.
This was something bigger.
Jack Morrison.
The name alone carried weight.
For years, it had been spoken with a reverence normally reserved for war heroes from another era. Even within military circles, where Overwatch's operations weren't always officially acknowledged, everyone knew who Jack Morrison was.
But Hawkins? He knew more than most.
Before he became Overwatch's first and only Strike Commander, Morrison was already a name etched into military history.
A United States Army infantryman at just eighteen, a farm boy from Indiana who had risen through the ranks with an almost unnatural pace.
But raw talent wasn't what made him a legend.
It was the path he took.
Morrison had done what most could only dream of—he had passed Special Forces Assessment and Selection (SFAS), earning his place among the elite Green Berets.
But he hadn't stopped there.
When the first whispers of the Soldier Enhancement Program had circulated through the upper echelons of the military, Morrison had volunteered.
It had been experimental. Risky.
And most of those who had signed up hadn't survived.
But Morrison had.
He had come out stronger. Faster. Sharpened into something more than human.
It was what made him the perfect candidate for Overwatch when the Omnic Crisis began.
And now, after everything—the war, the rise of Overwatch, the peacekeeping operations that followed—he was still here.
Still commanding.
Still leading.
Hawkins had always respected military men who led from the front.
And Jack Morrison had led from the very tip of the spear.
As they walked, Hawkins noticed subtle shifts in the architecture.
The hallways became more secure, the presence of armed personnel more deliberate. The walls weren't just reinforced; they were fortified. There was no idle chatter, no unnecessary movement.
They weren't just approaching an office.
They were approaching a highly restricted area.
Finally, they arrived.
Reinhardt stopped before a reinforced door, pressing a hand against the biometric panel. A faint glow flickered across the screen as it registered his identity.
A pause.
Then, with a smooth, mechanical hiss, the door slid open.
"Go in," Reinhardt said simply.
Hawkins hesitated.
Just for a moment.
Then, with a slow breath, he stepped forward—venturing alone into the office of the man who had helped shape the modern battlefield.
The room was stark. Utilitarian.
It wasn't the grand war room Hawkins had half-expected. No dramatic lighting, no tactical holoprojectors casting a map of the world in shifting blue lines.
Just a desk, a few mission reports, and the man sitting behind them.
Jack Morrison looked exactly as Hawkins had seen in countless archived images and mission recordings.
Broad-shouldered. Weathered. Sharp-eyed.
The kind of man who had seen too many battles to count—but still stood like he was ready for another.
He didn't look up right away.
He was reading something on a tablet, brow furrowed in deep concentration.
Then—finally—he glanced up.
"Lieutenant Nathaniel Hawkins."
Not a question.
A statement.
Hawkins stiffened instinctively, years of military training snapping him into rigid posture.
"Sir."
Morrison set the tablet down and gestured to the chair in front of his desk.
"Sit."
Hawkins hesitated—then moved to sit, still watching Morrison closely.
"I imagine you have questions."
"More than a few," Hawkins admitted.
Morrison nodded.
"Good. Let's get to it."
"Your unit isn't quite sure what to do with you, Lieutenant."
The words landed like a dull thud in Hawkins' mind.
For weeks, he had been left with more questions than answers.
Ever since he had woken up in an Overwatch medical facility—miraculously alive despite every logical reason why he shouldn't be—he had been running through a thousand different possibilities in his head.
But this?
This was not one of them.
Hawkins sat forward slightly, his brow furrowing. "What do you mean, sir?"
Morrison leaned back, arms crossing over his chest. "Your mission, as far as your command was concerned, ended the moment your plane was shot down. After that, things got… complicated."
He picked up a data pad, scrolling through it.
His expression didn't change.
But Hawkins had the distinct feeling that he wasn't going to like what came next.
"Because you were temporarily assigned to our operation, and because Reinhardt personally informed your commander that you were being taken to Overwatch HQ for medical treatment, there was no formal debrief. No follow-up. No chain-of-command inquiries. Once you left the combat zone, your name stopped moving through the system."
Hawkins blinked.
"So what, I just… disappeared?"
Morrison set the data pad down.
"Not officially. You're not listed as KIA or MIA. But you're also not actively in your unit's roster anymore. You're in a bureaucratic no-man's land, Lieutenant. The kind that no one notices unless they go looking."
Hawkins' fingers curled slightly on the chair's armrests.
"And no one thought to sort this out?"
Morrison shrugged. "Your commanders have had bigger priorities. Korea was a disaster, and your unit took heavy losses. The immediate focus was on stabilizing the region and preventing another incursion. Your situation—while unfortunate—wasn't an operational necessity."
Hawkins exhaled slowly.
It was the most military answer he could have expected.
People slipped through the cracks all the time.
In the middle of a crisis, with command structures stretched thin, a lone fighter pilot getting shuffled into Overwatch's recovery efforts wasn't something that would raise alarms.
No missing gear.
No operational losses tied to his absence.
Just a name that no one had the time to chase down.
"So where does that leave me now?"
Morrison studied him for a long moment before answering.
"That depends."
Hawkins' stomach tightened.
"Depends on what, sir?"
Morrison's gaze, sharp and calculating, locked onto him like he was weighing something.
"On whether you want to go back."
A beat of silence.
A slow, creeping realization settled over Hawkins.
"Go back…?"
"To the Air Force. To your unit. To your old life." Morrison said simply. "Your status is in limbo, but that can be changed. If you want to return to active duty, we can make that happen. It will take time—bureaucracy will need to be sorted, and you'll likely have to go through a reassignment process—but it's possible."
Hawkins had assumed that was the only option.
That once he was well enough, he would be sent back through official channels.
But now Morrison was telling him there was another path.
"And if I don't?"
Morrison let out a slow breath.
"Then you stay."
Hawkins' fingers tightened slightly.
"With Overwatch?"
Morrison nodded.
A silence stretched between them.
The weight of the choice settled in Hawkins' chest.
For the first time since his crash, he had to truly decide:
Was he still a pilot and officer of the United States Air Force?
Or was he about to become something else entirely?
Hawkins sat in silence, the weight of Morrison's words pressing down on him. The air in the room felt heavier than before, as if it was trying to squeeze a decision out of him. He had expected orders, expected someone else to tell him where to go and what to do.
Instead, Morrison had handed him the one thing that had been absent from his life for as long as he could remember: a choice.
The silence stretched. Morrison didn't push him. He simply watched, waiting, letting Hawkins process everything at his own pace.
Finally, Hawkins exhaled. "If I leave… where do I even go?"
Morrison didn't answer immediately. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "That's up to you. Bureaucratically speaking, you're still in the system. You're not listed as dead or missing. But your unit has moved on. Command isn't expecting you back. You'd be a wildcard."
A wildcard.
Hawkins scoffed under his breath. "So I'd be a problem."
Morrison gave a small, almost amused shrug. "You'd be a question that no one wants to answer. A liability at worst, an administrative nightmare at best. The military doesn't like loose ends, and right now, you're a damn big one."
Hawkins clenched his jaw. He had spent his entire life belonging to something—to the Air Force, to a squadron, to a mission. The idea of going back only to be sidelined, buried under red tape and bureaucratic indifference, made his stomach turn.
"And if I stay?" he asked, finally voicing the question that had been gnawing at him.
Morrison held his gaze. "Then you fight."
The word landed like a hammer against stone.
"You've already seen what Overwatch does," Morrison continued. "You were there in Korea. You saw what the omnics did—what they're still capable of. And you saw what we had to do to stop them. We're not just some U.N. peacekeeping force. We don't just hold the line. We strike back. We go where no one else can. We stop the threats before they escalate into something worse."
He let that sit for a moment before adding, "If you stay, you won't be wasting away in some office, waiting for a clearance review. You'll be in the field. Active. Making a difference."
Hawkins swallowed.
It was a tempting offer.
He had been a combat pilot for years, trained to engage, to neutralize threats before they became disasters. That was all he knew. He had never been the type to sit back and watch things unfold from a distance.
But Overwatch was different.
It wasn't the Air Force. It wasn't the chain of command he was used to. It was an independent force, one that operated outside the traditional rules of engagement. He had been raised in military discipline, taught the value of rank structure, mission protocols, and strict operational guidelines.
This was something else entirely.
"You're asking me to fight without a flag," Hawkins said, his voice even.
Morrison's lips pressed into a thin line. "I'm asking you to fight for something bigger than a flag."
The words echoed in his head.
Hawkins ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. His body still ached from his injuries, his mind still clouded by everything he had been through since his crash. It was too much. Too fast.
He needed time.
"I don't have an answer for you," Hawkins admitted.
Morrison nodded. "I didn't expect one. Not today." He leaned back, crossing his arms. "Take the time you need, Lieutenant. But don't take too long. The world doesn't stop moving just because you're still figuring things out."
Hawkins smirked faintly at that. "Understood, sir."
Morrison studied him for a moment longer, then stood up. "Get some rest, Hawkins. And when you're ready…" He gestured toward the door. "Come find me."
Hawkins nodded, pushing himself up from the chair, his movements still slightly stiff but controlled. As he turned toward the door, Morrison's voice called out one last time.
"Oh, and Lieutenant?"
Hawkins glanced back.
Morrison gave him a knowing look. "You already made up your mind. You just haven't admitted it yet."
Hawkins didn't respond. He just turned and walked out.
The hallways of Overwatch HQ were quieter than usual.
Hawkins moved through them on autopilot, his mind a battlefield of conflicting thoughts.
Go back to the Air Force?
Go back to what, exactly?
His unit was gone. His commanders had moved on. The best-case scenario was a drawn-out administrative limbo, a career stalled indefinitely as they figured out what to do with a pilot who technically shouldn't even be alive.
And even if he did get reinstated, he knew how the Air Force worked.
He wouldn't be put back into a combat cockpit anytime soon. No way in hell.
Not after this.
They would bury him in paperwork, hearings, security clearances—they would pick apart every detail of what happened in Korea, how he ended up in Overwatch's care, why he wasn't returned sooner.
And if he stayed?
His fingers curled into a fist at his side.
Morrison's words echoed in his head.
Then you fight.
Was he ready for that?
Could he let go of the life he had built? The one he had spent years fighting for?
Could he trade one war for another?
Hawkins exhaled sharply, his pace slowing as he neared the medical bay. His body was still adjusting, still regaining its full strength. His mind, though… his mind was at war with itself.
And yet, there was a pull.
A part of him that already knew the answer.
He wasn't ready to say it out loud.
But he knew.
And that was enough.
For now.
The medical bay was dimly lit, the soft glow of diagnostic screens casting faint shadows against the sterile walls.
Hawkins sat on the edge of the therapy bench, rolling his shoulders, testing the limits of his recovering body. The soreness was still there, but it was a manageable ache now.
Progress.
Across from him, Ziegler watched him with that same patient gaze she always had.
"You're thinking about something," she observed.
Hawkins huffed a quiet chuckle. "More like everything."
Ziegler tilted her head. "Would you like to talk about it?"
He hesitated, then let out a slow breath.
"If I leave… where do I go?"
Ziegler remained quiet, listening.
"I mean, even if I somehow walked back onto base tomorrow, what would I be walking back to? My unit is gone, reassigned. My mom's gone. My dad's gone. No other family left. Just a bureaucratic nightmare waiting to happen." He scoffed, shaking his head. "Hell, they'd probably lock me in some classified hole so no one asks too many questions."
Ziegler's expression didn't change, but she gave a small nod, acknowledging the truth in his words.
"And if I stay?" Hawkins exhaled, glancing around the med bay. "Overwatch isn't exactly what I signed up for, but… I don't know. Maybe it's what I need."
He hadn't planned to say it—hadn't even fully thought it through—but once the words were out, something in his chest settled.
Maybe it really was what he needed.
Ziegler's smile was small but genuine. "You wouldn't be the first soldier to feel lost after war, Nate."
He let out a dry chuckle. "Is that what this is? Some kind of existential crisis?"
She chuckled softly in return. "Perhaps. Or maybe you're simply realizing that home isn't a place—it's the people you choose to stand beside."
Hawkins stared at her, the words sinking in deeper than he wanted them to.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe home wasn't something he had lost.
Maybe it was something he was still looking for.
And maybe, just maybe, he had already found it.
Hawkins remained in the dimly lit medical bay long after Ziegler left, staring at nothing in particular. Her words lingered in his mind, intertwining with Morrison's. Home isn't a place—it's the people you choose to stand beside.
That notion was unsettling.
For most of his life, home had been a simple concept—his family, the Air Force, his squadron. The rigid structure of military life had provided him purpose, had shaped his identity. Now, all of that had unraveled, leaving behind nothing but questions.
But here, in this unfamiliar place, among these strangers, he was still standing. Still breathing. And the people around him—Reinhardt, Ziegler, even Morrison—had given him a reason to keep moving.
His thoughts churned as he swung his legs over the edge of the bench, testing his weight. The soreness was still there, but he was getting stronger.
A deep breath.
He had been given a second chance.
It was time to figure out what to do with it.
Two days later, Hawkins found himself standing at the edge of a landing platform, watching the sunrise cast long golden streaks across the horizon. The Overwatch facility was perched high above a sprawling coastline, its architecture blending military efficiency with an almost futuristic elegance.
He had spent the past forty-eight hours locked in his own head, analyzing every possibility, weighing every outcome.
Go back? Stay?
No one had pressured him for an answer. Morrison had given him space, and even Ziegler—who always seemed to have an intuitive read on him—hadn't pushed. But the weight of the decision loomed over him, a presence that refused to be ignored.
The rhythmic whoosh of an aircraft descending pulled him from his thoughts. He turned to see a sleek Overwatch transport coming in for a landing, its engines humming as it set down smoothly on the pad.
It was a reminder that Overwatch wasn't just some abstract concept—it was real, alive, a force that never stopped moving.
And maybe… maybe that was the point.
He had spent his life in service—to his country, to his mission, to the belief that his skills had a purpose. Overwatch was offering him the same thing, but with freedom. No bureaucracy, no chain of command that treated soldiers like numbers in a system.
Here, he could fight with purpose.
His fingers curled into fists at his sides.
He already knew his decision.
It wasn't about choosing between the past and the future.
It was about choosing where he belonged.
And for the first time since the crash, he knew.
He turned away from the landing pad and headed back inside.
To find Morrison.
To make it official.
To begin again.
The door to Morrison's office slid open with a mechanical hiss. The commander was at his desk, reviewing something on a data pad. He didn't look up immediately, but Hawkins knew the moment he had been noticed.
"Lieutenant," Morrison said without preamble. "You've made a decision."
Hawkins nodded. "I'm staying."
The words felt final, resolute. A commitment.
Morrison studied him for a moment before setting the data pad aside. "Good."
No speech, no grand welcome. Just acknowledgment.
That suited Hawkins just fine.
Morrison gestured to a chair. "Then let's talk about what comes next."
Hawkins exhaled, taking a seat.
This wasn't the path he had envisioned for himself.
But maybe—just maybe—it was the one he was always meant to take.