Months had passed since Nathaniel Hawkins had been officially integrated into Overwatch. His physical therapy had finally ended, and he was fully cleared for active duty.
The transition from patient to operative had been both smooth and jarring at the same time.
There had been no formal ceremony, no grand induction. No one pinned a new set of wings on his chest. He had simply woken up one morning, donned the blue-gray fatigues Overwatch had provided him, and stepped into the training halls as one of them.
If there was an adjustment period, it had been short-lived.
Overwatch was a well-oiled machine, filled with people who had come from all walks of life—soldiers, engineers, intelligence operatives, scientists. It thrived on adaptability, and in an organization that often blurred the lines between military precision and civilian ingenuity, Hawkins found himself caught somewhere in the middle.
Despite Overwatch's lack of strict military formalities, discipline was still expected. Missions were undertaken with deadly seriousness, and everyone here—whether they were a scientist, a strategist, or a frontline soldier—had a role to play. It was both structured and fluid, a contradiction Hawkins was still adjusting to.
He had expected some resistance—expected that his sudden appearance, his unusual circumstances, might breed some level of mistrust.
But, if anything, most people had simply accepted his presence at face value.
Overwatch needed people who could contribute. And Hawkins, despite everything, had proven himself more than capable.
Even so, his transition into the organization wasn't entirely without friction.
Overwatch wasn't the U.S. Air Force, and no matter how many briefings he attended or how many training sessions he endured, there were moments when the difference felt palpable. The chain of command, while present, was far more informal than what he was used to. Morrison held absolute authority, but interactions with the team weren't dictated by rank. Everyone had a voice, and sometimes, orders came more as suggestions—a stark contrast to the rigid military hierarchy Hawkins had spent his life operating under.
At first, he wasn't sure how to take it. But then he realized something.
These people weren't just following orders.
They were here because they believed in what they were doing.
That changed the way he saw things.
Hawkins had never been a stranger to training. The Air Force had drilled into him a perfectionist's mindset—an unyielding demand for discipline and efficiency.
But Overwatch's training wasn't about perfection.
It was about flexibility and survival.
It wasn't about following rigid formations or running carefully structured combat drills. It was about knowing how to react when everything went to hell.
And it was brutal.
Hawkins had thought he was in decent shape before. The Air Force required its pilots to meet combat fitness standards. But there was a difference between the fitness of a fighter pilot and the kind of relentless conditioning that Overwatch agents endured.
His first few days of combat training had been eye-opening.
"You're decent, I'll give you that," Reyes had told him after a particularly brutal session in the training hall. "But skill doesn't mean shit if you don't know when to pick your fights."
Hawkins had gritted his teeth as Reyes threw him flat on his back—again.
At first, he had assumed his hand-to-hand skills were decent. After all, the Air Force didn't let its pilots slack on combat readiness. He had gone through survival training, learned how to hold his own in a fight if he ever went down behind enemy lines.
Then he had met Gabriel Reyes in the sparring ring.
The Blackwatch commander had moved with an efficiency and speed that was almost frighteningly inhuman, dismantling Hawkins's stance like it was nothing.
The first time Reyes had taken him down, Hawkins had thought it was a fluke.
The second time, he had tried to adjust, anticipate the attack.
The third time, he had barely seen it coming.
"Lesson number one," Reyes had said, standing over him, his dark eyes sharp. "There's always someone better."
Hawkins had learned quickly.
By the second week, he wasn't hitting the mat quite as often. By the third, he was starting to anticipate Reyes's movements, reading his intentions.
That was when Reyes changed tactics entirely, forcing him to adapt all over again.
But it wasn't just hand-to-hand combat.
When he wasn't in combat training, he was in weapons drills, learning Overwatch's advanced armaments.
Their arsenal was far more advanced than the standard-issue weapons he had trained with in the Air Force. Their firearms were more modular, designed for rapid adaptability in the field. And some—like Winston's Tesla weapons—were unlike anything he had ever seen before.
Learning to handle them effectively took time, but Hawkins threw himself into it.
Then there were the tactical exercises—simulations designed to test everything from urban combat scenarios to counter-omnic engagements.
These weren't scripted drills. They were unpredictable, forcing him to think on his feet, to respond in real time rather than by the book.
If he had to sum up Overwatch's philosophy in one word, it was adaptation.
If you couldn't adapt, you wouldn't survive.
It was a far cry from the rigid, strategic air combat he was used to, where every maneuver was calculated down to the second.
But there was one thing Overwatch didn't have to teach him.
Flying.
As much as he was adjusting to Overwatch's ground operations, he had spent nearly his entire military career in the air. His instincts as a pilot were ingrained into his very being, and despite Overwatch's unconventional nature, he quickly realized they had plenty of use for a skilled aviator.
Winston and Torbjörn had been fascinated by his experience with modern fighter jets, and more than once, he had been dragged into conversations about potential flight integrations for Overwatch's operations.
Morrison had even personally overseen his aerial combat refresher, ensuring he could still operate at peak performance. Overwatch's fleet wasn't as extensive as a full-fledged military force, but they had access to high-tech dropships, personal flight units, and even prototype combat aircraft that far outpaced anything he had flown in the Air Force.
The first time he had taken one of Overwatch's experimental aerial vehicles for a test flight, he had felt that same familiar rush he had known in his Air Force days—the pure exhilaration of being in the sky, where gravity was just a suggestion and the world below felt small.
If there was one thing Overwatch didn't need to teach him, it was how to dominate the air.
Still, integrating his flight expertise with Overwatch's unconventional combat doctrine was another challenge altogether. Here, missions weren't just built around air superiority—they required seamless coordination between ground and aerial forces, something far different from what he was used to.
But Hawkins had spent his life adapting to different battlefields and circumstances.
This was just another one.
And, for the first time since the crash, he felt capable again.
Felt like he had purpose.
He wasn't just recovering anymore.
He was becoming something more.
And he was finally ready to prove it.
The Overwatch briefing room was a hive of quiet tension, filled with operatives from across the organization. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and metal, the hum of the holographic projector casting a sterile blue glow across the room. The rotating map in the center of the display showed the dense jungles of northern Laos, deep within the Annamite Mountains—a remote, inhospitable region where the land was as much of an enemy as anything mechanical.
Jack Morrison stood at the front, his hands resting firmly on the table. His sharp gaze passed over the assembled agents, settling for a moment on Hawkins before addressing the room.
"This is Site Delta-3," Morrison began, activating the holographic display with a wave of his hand. A massive, rusted Omnium facility appeared, half-buried in thick jungle canopy, its skeletal remains now pulsing with new life. "For decades, this place has been nothing but abandoned ruins. After the war, it was left inoperative, its production lines gutted and its systems shut down. That should have been the end of it."
The map zoomed in, revealing clusters of red markers, indicating movement within the facility. Morrison's voice remained measured, but there was no mistaking the gravity of the situation.
"Intel suggested that even if remnants of the Omnium's AI attempted a reactivation, it would take at least five years before anything became a real threat," he continued. "Two weeks ago, something changed."
The red markers multiplied, spreading through the facility like a virus. Energy signatures spiked. New construction began accelerating at an alarming rate.
"Whatever's fueling this resurgence, it's moving fast. If left unchecked, Delta-3 will be operational in less than a month. And when that happens, we're looking at a fully functional omnium, capable of producing hundreds of war machines every day."
A heavy silence settled over the room.
Hawkins exhaled slowly, arms crossed. A fully operational omnium wasn't just a problem—it was a catastrophic threat. One that could reignite a war the world had barely survived.
Morrison adjusted the holographic view, switching to a topographic map of the region. The terrain was harsh and unforgiving—dense jungle to the south, sheer cliffs on the north, a wide river delta to the west, and steep ridges to the east, creating a natural bottleneck. The omnium itself was buried deep in the mountainside, making any direct assault impossible without heavy losses.
"Given the terrain," Morrison continued, "we need to hit them hard, fast, and without warning. This will be a multi-phase operation, codenamed Noble Tempest, working in coordination with EU military forces under a UN-sanctioned intervention. Their role will be diversionary, keeping the enemy preoccupied while Overwatch teams move in undetected."
The display shifted, breaking the mission down into three key phases.
Morrison gestured toward the southern perimeter of the Omnium, where task force markers blinked into place.
"EU special operations forces will launch a high-profile assault on the southern defenses."
He tapped the map again, highlighting strategic points.
"They'll begin with heavy airstrikes and artillery barrages, targeting outer defensive emplacements. Additional ground units will move in fast, simulating a full-scale invasion designed to force the omnics to commit their reserves."
His expression hardened.
"We want them to believe the attack is coming from the south, so they reinforce their defenses there. That gives us an opening."
Morrison shifted the display, zooming in on the northern and western sectors.
"This is where we move in," he said. "Two Overwatch teams, two primary objectives."
He turned to Reinhardt.
"Team Alpha will lead the assault on the Command Nexus, located deep within the central facility. This is the brain of the operation—shut it down, and the Omnium dies with it. You'll insert via fast-rope deployment from a dropship onto the northern ridge."
Hawkins blinked, his brow furrowing slightly. Fast-roping? With Reinhardt? He tried—tried really hard—not to picture the six-and-a-half-foot-tall German juggernaut descending via rope from a hovering aircraft while encased in nearly half a ton of powered armor.
How the hell was that going to work?
He imagined the sheer force of it—Reinhardt's armored bulk snapping the rope like thread, or worse, hitting the ground like a meteor. Wouldn't it just be easier to drop him from the plane and let gravity do its job?
Reinhardt, oblivious to Hawkins' bemusement, simply nodded, his expression full of the usual unshakable confidence.
Winston, standing beside him, adjusted his glasses, clearly thinking the same thing.
Morrison continued, unfazed.
"Winston, your team will handle power grid sabotage. Team Bravo will move in via a low-altitude infiltration along the river, using the swamp as cover to avoid detection. Your job is to disable their energy production before they can bring it fully online."
Winston rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Disrupting their power systems should slow them down significantly. But if they have backup generators…"
"Then we take those out too," Morrison said firmly.
Hawkins watched the exchange carefully, his mind already mapping out the variables. The diversionary strike would force the enemy to commit forces south, leaving the other approaches vulnerable. If everything went according to plan, the strike teams could get inside before the omnics realized what was happening.
Morrison turned to Hawkins.
"And that brings us to you, Lieutenant."
Hawkins straightened slightly, attentive.
The display changed, highlighting the airspace over the jungle battlefield.
"You'll be running combat air patrol and strike support," Morrison stated. "Your job is to keep our dropships, ground teams, and extraction craft safe. If the enemy has any remaining air power, they'll throw everything they have at you."
Hawkins nodded as he took a slow breath. "Any additional air support?"
Morrison's silence stretched a beat too long.
Hawkins narrowed his eyes. "You're telling me I'm going up there alone?"
"You won't be alone," Morrison corrected. "You'll have ground-based SAM coverage from our forward staging area, but as for additional fighters?"
He shook his head.
"We don't have any."
Hawkins' jaw tightened.
"You're kidding."
Morrison met his gaze evenly.
"You think I'd joke about this?"
Hawkins gritted his teeth.
"So, no wingmen. No backup. Just me in the air against God-knows-how-many automated interceptors?"
Morrison exhaled through his nose. "We don't have the luxury of conventional air power, Hawkins. The aircraft we could get our hands on aren't equipped to handle Overwatch's mission profile—not without suffering massive losses. You know what omnics do to standard fighters."
Any arguments Hawkins had died in his throat. He knew exactly what Morrison meant.
The last time he and conventional USAF planes went up against omnic aerial units, they got butchered. Modern aircraft weren't designed to dogfight enemies with instantaneous reaction times and zero fear of self-preservation. They were good—but not good enough.
But he wasn't flying a standard fighter, not anymore at least.
His FFR-31MR D Super Sylph—or what was left of its original design—was far from standard.
Originally a high-speed recon craft, it had been modified beyond recognition by Overwatch's R&D division. The frame had been reinforced, the sensor suite upgraded, and its weapons payload expanded far beyond anything fielded by conventional air forces. It had stealth capabilities that didn't officially exist and a performance ceiling that defied aerospace norms.
Hawkins had taken it up for a few test flights since arriving.
It handled like a dream.
It also handled like it wanted to kill him every time he pushed it too far.
If this mission was going to work, he'd have to master it in real combat.
His grip tightened on the edge of the table.
"Alright," Hawkins said finally. "I'll make it work."
Morrison gave a firm nod.
"You always do."
And with that, the briefing was over. Morrison let his gaze sweep across the room.
"We deploy in six hours. Check your gear. Go over your assignments. Be ready."
Hawkins stood up, rolling his shoulders, glancing back at the holographic map.
This was it.
His first mission as an Overwatch operative.
No wingmen. No backup. Just him, his plane, and a war machine that couldn't afford to come online.
He clenched his fist.
If they wanted him alone up there, so be it.
He'd make sure none of those bastards made it out of the sky alive.
The Overwatch forward hangar was a place of controlled chaos—engineers, technicians, and mechanics all working with a level of precision that spoke of experience, not just orders. It was different from the hangars Hawkins had been in before. Here, there was no rank structure, no rigid military routine, yet the efficiency was undeniable.
And at the center of it all sat his new aircraft, the FFR-31MR D Super Sylph—a marvel of Overwatch engineering and a Frankenstein's monster of cutting-edge modifications.
Hawkins had seen advanced fighters before, flown some of the best jets the United States Air Force had to offer. But this?
This was something else entirely.
Its sleek, predatory frame was a step beyond anything mass-produced, the reinforced fuselage barely resembling its original design after countless Overwatch modifications. It was built for speed, survivability, and information dominance, equipped with a Tactical Airborne Reconnaissance Pod System (TARPS) that could be configured for a variety of sensors. Its hardpoints supported air-to-air missiles, an addition that had turned it from a mere recon craft into a high-speed tactical asset with teeth.
Hawkins ran a hand along the aircraft's smooth fuselage, his fingers trailing over the reinforced composite plating.
"Admiring the new ride, Lieutenant?"
Hawkins turned, his gaze landing on a short, wiry man in a grease-stained Overwatch jumpsuit. The man's uniform bore a patch for Overwatch Flight Ops, and the name Mendez was stenciled across his chest. He had the calm, assessing gaze of a man who had spent a lifetime working around aircraft.
"You must be my crew chief," Hawkins guessed, offering a hand.
Mendez took it in a firm, confident grip. "Damn right. Chief Master Sergeant Mendez—retired. U.S. Air Force. Three decades of keeping pilots like you from killing themselves in expensive jets."
Hawkins raised an eyebrow. "Retired? Could've fooled me."
Mendez let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Yeah, well… retirement was boring. Thought I'd take up golf. Hated it. Wife told me to find something else before I drove her insane. Next thing I knew, Overwatch was looking for people who actually knew how to keep these things running." He clapped a hand against the fighter's side. "Figured it'd be a step up from dealing with officers who think checklist discipline is optional."
Hawkins smirked. "You ever deal with a pilot like me before?"
Mendez snorted. "Son, I've dealt with pilots who thought they could outmaneuver physics. You're all the same—you think because you've got a fancy flight suit and some hours in the cockpit, you're invincible. Let me tell you something—this bird doesn't care about your ego."
Hawkins chuckled, crossing his arms. "Fair enough."
Mendez nodded toward the aircraft. "Now, you planning on just looking at it, or are you actually going to do a real pre-flight?"
Hawkins grinned. "Wouldn't dream of skipping it."
Hawkins circled the aircraft methodically, his hands brushing over every surface, every panel, every connection point. There was something reassuring about the ritual of it—the tactile confirmation that everything was as it should be.
He started with the nose section, running his fingers along the seam lines, checking for any inconsistencies. The Super Sylph's forward fuselage housed one of the most advanced sensor suites ever developed, and while the internal diagnostics said it was functioning fine, Hawkins always trusted his own eyes first.
Moving along the wings, he checked the leading edges, making sure there was no excessive wear or microfractures in the composite materials. He ran a hand along the control surfaces, testing for smooth articulation and zero resistance.
Mendez followed a few steps behind, arms crossed. "You're thorough," he remarked.
Hawkins glanced at him. "Always. I had a guy in my squadron who skipped pre-flights. Got lazy. Lost an aileron in the middle of a maneuvering drill."
Mendez grunted. "And what happened to him?"
Hawkins didn't break stride. "Spent six months in a hospital. Never flew again."
Mendez nodded approvingly. "Glad to see you actually give a damn."
Hawkins crouched under the aircraft, inspecting the engine pods. Overwatch's modifications had altered the aerodynamics, adding enhanced heat shielding and reinforced structural bracing—probably to compensate for the insane speeds this thing was built for.
He tapped a knuckle against one of the ramjet boosters, listening to the dull, solid sound. "You sure these won't shake loose at high-G turns?"
Mendez smirked. "Not unless you're planning to break the sound barrier inside the atmosphere."
Hawkins chuckled. "Guess we'll find out."
As he moved toward the weapons hardpoints, he took note of the air-to-air missile mounts—a modification Overwatch had insisted on. This was supposed to be a recon plane, but after the Omnic Crisis, doctrine had changed. If you're flying alone, you need a way to shoot back.
He checked the TARPS pod, ensuring the modular sensor array was locked in place.
"All your sensor calibrations are set," Mendez said, watching him work. "That pod is one of a kind—Overwatch custom-built it. Better range, better multi-spectral imaging, and a customized electronic warfare suite. You get painted by a missile, this thing'll fry their targeting systems before they can blink."
Hawkins grinned. "So you're telling me I've got my own personal ghost mode?"
Mendez smirked. "Something like that. Just don't get cocky."
Hawkins finished the walk-around, straightening up and letting out a slow breath. Everything checked out.
"You ready for this, Lieutenant?" Mendez asked, watching him closely.
Hawkins met his gaze. "I've flown plenty of missions before."
"Not with Overwatch," Mendez countered. "Not in a jet like this."
Hawkins exhaled. "Yeah. But a mission's a mission."
Mendez studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Then let's make sure you come back from it."
Hawkins nodded, stepping back to take in the full view of his aircraft one last time.
This was it.
Tomorrow, he'd be flying it into combat.
And no amount of pre-flight checks could prepare him for what came next.
After a final walkaround of his aircraft, Hawkins headed toward the locker bay, where his flight gear awaited him.
This wasn't like anything he had worn in the Air Force.
The Overwatch-engineered flight suit he was issued was more than just a pressurized jumpsuit—it was a fully integrated combat system, designed to seal hermetically from the outside world, protecting against high-G forces, hypoxia, and environmental threats.
It clung to his form like a second skin, reinforced with lightweight armor plating over vital areas. Unlike standard flight suits, which prioritized mobility over protection, this one had an actual armor rating—not enough to tank a direct hit, but more than enough to keep him alive in a worst-case scenario.
Then there was the helmet.
Hawkins picked it up, turning it over in his hands.
The full-face design offered 360-degree situational awareness, feeding real-time HUD data directly into his visor. The built-in oxygen filtration system ensured he could operate in hostile atmospheres, and its reinforced impact resistance meant it could take a hit without shattering.
He took a slow breath before slipping it on, the internal systems booting up with a soft hum.
HUD Online.
Oxygen Flow: Nominal.
Flight Suit Seal: Engaged.
The visor adjusted to his eye movements, displaying targeting data, comms channels, and sensor feeds. He could already tell it would take some getting used to.
He rolled his shoulders, testing the flexibility of the armor plating. It wasn't as restrictive as he expected—Overwatch had put serious work into keeping it functional without sacrificing movement.
I could get used to this.
Finally, Hawkins turned to the last piece of his kit.
A compact PDW, smaller than an SMG but boasting a ridiculous fire rate.
He picked it up, feeling the lightweight polymer frame, the smooth, ergonomic grip. The weapon was designed for high-speed engagements—its compact profile meant he could carry it even in the cramped cockpit, and its foldable stock and retractable suppressor allowed for quick transitions between stealth and full-auto chaos.
He thumbed the mag release, inspecting the rounds.
High-velocity caseless ammunition—optimized for armor penetration.
Hawkins let out a low whistle.
"Alright, Overwatch," he muttered. "Maybe you do know how to make good gear."
He holstered the weapon, taking one final moment to mentally run through his loadout.
Sealed flight suit with integrated HUD. Check.
High-speed tactical recon fighter. Check.
Ultra-compact PDW for close encounters. Check.
Everything was ready.
As he stood in the locker bay, feeling the weight of the gear settling around him, he exhaled slowly.
This was happening.
His first operation with Overwatch.
No more simulations. No more test flights.
Tomorrow, he'd be flying into a warzone.
And he wouldn't be coming back until the job was done.