Chapter Text
Jack Morrison was an exceptional soldier. He was always well-received by his superiors; if his peers weren't admiring him they were covetous of him. 'If he was born a little earlier, if he had joined the SEP,' the higher-ups would say, 'he would've been the dream poster boy for Overwatch.' A golden aura of hair and an impressive physique, Jack was the angel that embellished Overwatch. His nickname in the ranks, and even to the public eye, was the 'Golden Child.' He wasn't much when he was drafted, a sawed-off farmer with a meagre muscle mass fit only from daily chores around his farmstead. He spoke with words fit for a clodhopper, albeit charismatic enough to charm the courier that spirited him away to the secret station of training for the Omnic crisis corps. 'I'm gonna fight the robots, 'ma. The mean ones, not like the one that helps with your groceries at the market.' He had explained to his weeping ma, the mother worried for her eldest son to experience the world in all its terror and greatness. 'My little hero, write every week!' He promised her he would.
Jack Morrison wasn't the most capable and able-bodied newbie in the ranks, but he surely showed enough determination and vigour, training tirelessly to better himself. Strength wasn't his forte, but his aim with the au courant pulse rifle was extraordinary. He quickly climbed to the top of his ranks, still a neophyte in the military. His quickly advancing skill caught the attention of Overwatch execs and one particular Strike Commander Reyes. Jack's heart was pounding as he personally met with the Strike Commander, each breath getting caught in the tightening channel of his dry throat. Tall, dark, and handsome were the perfect ways to describe Reyes. They hit it off easily enough, Jack admiring the sheer dominant strength radiating from Reyes, and Reyes covertly admiring the strong-willed cherub in return.
'I know you're sleeping with Strike Commander Reyes.' Genji Shimada had said to him whilst they were in the barracks. 'Do not think it will give you an advantage over the rest of us.' Jack Morrison hadn't been phased. He sat upright, brushed off his uniform and stated, 'I know you're sleeping with the doctor. I guess we both have secrets.' That had quieted the Japanese man, and they both continued on their own ways. Jesse McCree was an easier friend to make than the cyborg, being a farm-raised all-American himself. Yet, unlike Jack, Jesse had diverged from the path of ethicality in his youth. Nevertheless, Jesse was still a part of Overwatch, just like Jack. Both Genji and Jesse shared something in common that Jack would never be able to revel in- Blackwatch. They could be close to Strike Commander Reyes in a way Jack could not, seeing as to how the Strike Commander also lead the deadly operation in secrecy. Yet, they would never taste Reyes like Jack did.
Their affair wasn't lasting, a parable spoke before of momentary lovers trapped within a wartime tragedy. The Omnics had been defeated, Overwatch was praised worldwide. Jack Morrison was given a choice- he could stay in Overwatch and help the world regrow, help to build cordial relations with the Omnics that hadn't revolted. He would be put through the SEP, he would become stronger and better. He could become Strike Commander Morrison, a renowned hero for all of mankind. Or, he could return back to his lacklustre life on his family farmstead. His mother cried when she greeted him at the airport.
'Keep in contact, you hear?' Jesse McCree said to him before Jack left, swinging one massive arm around Jack's shoulders, the newly-built robotic arm ruffling up his blonde locks. He promised. Genji Shimada had disappeared some fateful night before, leaving many confused friends and one heartbroken lass. 'Where is Reyes?' Jack had asked McCree, trying his best to appear as nonchalant as he could. The Strike Commander was in a rather important meeting. Jack had to catch a plane. He couldn't say goodbye.
Jack Morrison was the star of his community, being recognized by everyone wherever he went. 'Thank you,' the Omnic that helped his mother with the groceries said one day. 'For putting a stop to those ne'er-do-wells. They gave Omnics everywhere a bad name.' Jack felt a sense of pride in that statement spoken to him by the Omnic, and he knew he had done the world right. There were still maleficent Omnics in the world, same as there were maleficent humans. The world would never truly be cleansed of all evil, but Jack could confidently say he had left Overwatch in a better world than he had entered in. He returned home, carrying all his grocery bags inside at once because two trips were for babies. He was greeted by his family, a 'ma and a 'pa and four sisters and two brothers and three dogs and a cat. Dinner was a terrific roast with a side of mashed potatoes and cooked carrots and asparagus. Homemade sticky toffee pudding was for dessert. Jack realized, as he wolfed down his servings, how much he had missed simple life like this. Being a war hero wasn't the right life for him, although it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience he was glad he took part in. He would inherit the farm and marry a pretty girl and have lots of babies. He would put the Omnic crisis behind him, no matter how often the nightmares startled him awake in a cold sweat. He would have a normal, happy life.
Nothing would've prepared him for the terrible news of the bombing of the main Overwatch facility. Gabriel Reyes, the famed Strike Commander of Overwatch, was dead. Jack cried himself to sleep when he heard that news, hiding his anguish from his family. There had been rumours before, naturally, but they only grew tenfold. Had the people forgotten who had saved them from an Omnic cataclysm, or were they just daft? In the same breath as he has reigned a hero in his town he became a villain, someone to gossip about in idle whispers and stared at in heavy silence as he walked by. 'He could be dangerous,' they said. 'Haven't you heard the rumours of Overwatch? What about Blackwatch?' Blackwatch. His chest tightened. A nameless face floated in his memories, dark skin and scraggly beard, kisses in the dark that tasted of cinnamon and copper. He pushed it away, forcing down the swell of emotions within him. He mourned over the gradual extinction of Overwatch, but he had put that part of his life behind him. It was time to move on.
--
Ten years had passed. The rumours eventually passed and the people forgot about him. Jack Morrison continued to work on the family farmstead. Most of his siblings moved away for college, yearning for a life outside of their boring town. One of his dogs died, and they got a new horse. He had met a girl, large-breasted and blonde-haired, the daughter to the owner of the local cattle ranch. His appearance had stayed remotely the same- still possessing dashing chiselled features, he had sprouted a few stress greys that weren't easily noticed in his golden locks. His life was secure, albeit insipid. He had heard no tales of Overwatch, of any fussy Omnics, of any war. Sometimes, as he sat alone, his mind would wander. Wander to days of glory long ago, days of glory he left behind for this simple life. What would he be doing now, if he had decided not to part with Overwatch after the main turmoil of the war? Would he be a lone mercenary, or worse, dead? Would he be laying in bed with Strike Commander Reyes, or would Jack himself be Strike Commander?
"Jack, the weeds aren't gonna pull themselves!" His mother calls, forcing Jack out of his castle in the air.
"Yes, 'ma!" Jack sits upright where he had been kneeling in the soil of their flower garden. "Sorry, I was lost in my own thoughts." While he had been working abroad he had lost his yokel slur.
Jack continues plucking at the dandelions, haphazardly tossing them into a steel bucket. He's wearing dirty old gloves and unfastened suspenders. There's a trail of dirt on his cheek. The sun is dipping into the horizon, casting visible waves of heat to dance on the vista. There's a warm orange glow on everything in the suns sights, and anything hidden is dark and cold. The day had been blistering, and Jack's becoming much too groggy in the fading sunlight. It's a dry heat, and it makes Jack's skin burn and his throat parch.
"What were you dreaming of, boy?" His mother questions, perching behind Jack in the way mothers do.
"I think I should start working out again." He responds.
His mother laughs. "Working on the farm not good enough for you?"
"No!" Jack whines childishly, showing an innocence he could only ever unfold in the presence of his mother. "Look at how squishy I'm becoming." Jack stands and pulls the short sleeve of his begrimed shirt up to his shoulder, flexing for his mother. It's true- he has grown quite soft since his days fighting robots. "You feed me too good, 'ma."
She laughs with a wave of her arm, easily brushing off his compliments. "Well if you are so eager to, then I won't stop you. Anyways, I think it is time to go inside. It's too hot and it's becoming dark. I've made fresh lemonade."
They enter the house together, and Jack has some of the lemonade. Delicious and refreshing. When the sun disappears wholly and leaves the house in a darkened state, Jack retreats to his bedroom. Second floor, the last door to the right. It's the same room he's had since he was a kid, but the aesthetics of the room have been altered greatly. As he is changing from his work clothes, a sudden noise erupts within his room. It is muffled, but loud enough to be immediately noticed by Jack. It is a familiar sound, and the idea frightens him. Shirtless and with his suspenders hanging off his hips, Jack stumbles to the general area in which the sound is coming from. He kneels beside his bed, pushing away stuffed animals and water bottles and other strange trinkets. The sound had become louder. Finally, he comes upon a box. He pulls out the box and removes the lid, staring down at the old Overwatch paraphernalia. He has no time to reminisce; he pulls out an Overwatch grade tablet of sorts. It was used for business kinds of stuff whilst Jack was still in Overwatch (most people under the rank of commander used it for entertainment), but now it was only used for recall.
Recall.
Jack silences the tablet and slams the lid onto the box, shoving it under his bed once more.
A week had passed since Jack found the tablet and he has forgotten about the item, his mind too preoccupied with his daily chores. It's barely morning, and Jack is lying awake in his bed, his mind dancing with too many thoughts that prevent him from sleeping. The sun has not yet graced the world of the living, instead the dark sky leaving an azure dusting over the land, the moon barely dipping to the horizon. The sky adjacent to the moon, opposite from Jack's own bedroom window, had started to tinge pink in foreshadowing to the coming dawn.
Jack rolls from his side onto his back, lazily slinging an arm over his sweaty forehead. The air in the room is muggy and tastes stale, typical conditions from a sleepless night. He stares at the ceiling above him, still frivolously adorned with glow-in-the-dark plastic stars. A dark pink tongue darts out behind thin lips, absentmindedly wetting them before retreating back into his mouth. His lips immediately become uncomfortably dry once more. Finally, unable to stand another minute in his lackadaisical fog, Jack unceremoniously kicks the light blanket off of his body and slumps out of bed.
Stepping out of his bedroom and into the dark hallway, a feeling of uncertainty spreads over Jack. He surely isn't afraid of the dark, not an adult man like himself, but something about the halls that seemed to go into a forever blackness unnerved him. 'I'm just tired, he thinks to himself, I just need coffee.' Jack goes downstairs into the kitchen, subconsciously stepping on light toes. Outside of his home, he can hear the screech of an owl still hunting in the comfort of the moon. The living room feels chilly as he walks through it, but it is a welcome contrast to the groggy heat he had felt previously in bed. It's refreshing, a nipping sting on his tongue whenever he takes a breath in. I forgot to close the window, he thinks. The linoleum floor of the kitchen is a startling sensation on his bare feet, but he carefully welcomes it. The setting moon glares into the dinette window, bestowing an icy light that only amplifies the chilling atmosphere of the morning. Being cold is an understatement, though, for Jack is still sweating through his tank top. He readies the coffee maker with a fresh brew of beans and relaxes against the kitchen table, waiting for the beverage to steep. The dull cockcrow silence is broken only by the hissing and spitting of the machine. Jack yawns widely and his head bobs.
"Stay awake, soldier."
Jack jumps with a start, twisting on his feet so suddenly he might've fallen over if he hadn't been steadied against the table. Standing on the opposite end of the table is a looming stygian figure, too tall and too wide, cloaked in a thick blackness. Where a face should've been, instead there was a mask. White like bone, chilling like frostbite, it reminded Jack of the Grim Reaper.
Jack acts quickly, sprinting to the side of the table closest to the doorway to the living room. He has a gun in his closet, just in case, and there are tools in the shed if he can't make it upstairs. He is surprisingly calm for the first attack in over a century. It was going to happen someday, what with Jack being a former formidable member of Overwatch. Having it be done by a clown was rather insulting, though.
The dark cloaked figure makes it to the door before Jack, moving all too quickly and too fluidly. The shadows cling to the form of the man, desperately crying for his return to their arms. Jack is too focused on fleeing to notice that his mental metaphors weren't that far from the truth, that shadows oozed from the figure like ink and danced like smoke.
"We have no time for games." A gravelly voice speaks out, strange and inhuman yet eerily familiar to Jack.
Before Jack is able to respond, to spin away and send a flying fist right into the throat of the man, the butt end of a shotgun cracks him right in the temple and he tumbles to the floor like a rag doll.