READY ! FIGHT

“A pleasure.” He mirrors Genji’s bow, save the added detail of a fist pressed against a flat palm.

Humans are no stranger to this place. In the aftermath of the Omnic Crisis, they sought answers as much as his kind. He wonders what answers this Genji seeks, and if this place has brought him any closer to an answer. “Mondatta had answers, and for a time, they satisfied.” To the late omnic’s credit, his answers do not curdle in Solas’ mind. They are not the same poison that had fueled him in the crisis, merely– a divergent path.

“I had heard of Zenyatta’s parting.” A more surprising turn than his own. He had been closer with their spiritual leader than most, and to his eyes saw in him more than a guiding light. “Has he returned, as well? Or do you seek answers here alone?”

CURIOSITY IS THE NATURE OF THE SPIRIT. Genji finds comfort in that. He trusts it, now, as he observes the former monk with respect. Much of Tekhartha Zenyatta's past is an enigma. Genji finds himself wanting to understand; hopes that clarity, like a burning spotlight in the endless dark, will help his doubts recede. His mind is turbulent, but this is not an irrational consequence of uncertainty, of self-deprecation. Genji is not sure how much of his mind is still just meat, just organ. Grey matter and gunmetal, and the line where they meet.  

"I suppose I take after my master,"  Genji explains, after a brief, humored pause, "We seek the answers out ourselves. It is why he had left the mountains. It is why I have come to it. We will only stay a few more days. He would be glad they will be spent with more friends." 

Genji considers the mercurial reception they had received, master and pupil, at the threshold of the Himalayan monastery. He is only able to guess the nature of Zenyatta's proverbial mitosis from the Shambali. 

this  is  the  way  of  war .     every  heartbeat  of  it  is  as  familiar  to  her  as  the  astringent  burn  of  antiseptic  on  her  hands ,     as  much  the  marrow  of  her  bones  as  the  blood  itself .       angela  weaned  at  its  breast ,     learnt  early  the  searing  tells  of  things  like  loss ,     of  love ,     of  death     /     and  all  of  them  hurt ,     but  none  so  much  as  the  telling .       war  is  written  by  the  victors ,     after  all .       history  is  made  of  the  brutal ,     the  beautiful ,     the  stuff  that  provokes  reaction .       never  the  long  toiling  hours ,     the  waiting  and  in - betweens .       it  is  all  too  easy  to  read  the  numbers  but  not  to  know  the  truth  of  them ,     those  long  sweaty  minutes     :     fifteen  hours  spent  dodging  bullets  and  having  every  nerve  alight  with  adrenaline  &  the  sour  smell  of  fear  in  the  air ,     two  hours  with  the  clock  still  ticking  of  time  now  spent  in  the  triage  tent ,     hands  plastic - sticky  from  endless  pairs  of  surgical  gloves ,     listening  to  the  underlying  muzak  of  broken  cries  and  other  intermittent  sounds     –– –– ––

click - flash !     her  heart  hitches ,     and  she  has  to  remind  herself     :     not  a  gun ,     not  a  gun ,     not  a  gun .       just  a  photographer  for  some  news  site  or  other ,     documenting  them  for  the  annals  of  history .       carry  on ,     just  look  natural ,     like  you’re  doing  your  job .       the  light  in  the  triage  tent  is  sepia - tinted ,     the  sun  beginning  to  set  through  the  open  flaps  of  canvas ,     the  lightly  wounded  with  their  requisite  bandaging  making  their  way  out .       angela  hums  softly  to  herself  as  she  folds  bandages .       there  was  something  almost  wholesome  about  the  repetition ,     the  old  adage  of  coming  from  dust  and  returning  to  dust     :     the  bitter  taste  of  dirt  on  her  tongue  as  she  wielded  her  little  army  of  nanites ,     some  unholy  deity  playing  with  the  threads  of  life ,     untangling  the  cut  ends  and  re - weaving  them .       a  moment  of  peace  in  the  aftermath  to  breathe .     probably  just  a  moment  though .

and  not  a  second  too  soon ,     the  strident  sound  of  a  summons .       the  neat  pile  of  bandages  teeters ,     steadies  itself .       angela  is  obedient ,     heels  snapping  together  and  turning  in  an  about - face .       she  pastes  an  affable  smile  on  her  face ,     though  it’s  not  hard  for  it  to  be  genuine  when  she  pulls  up  to  the  two  men  and  sees  for  herself  the  tic  of  discomfort  in  her  dear  commandant’s  face .       a  friendly  nod  to  each  of  them ,     hands  clasping  behind  her  back .          ❝       jack .       what  can  i  do  for  you ?       ❞

THE EPONYMOUS CAPITAL CITY of the Emirate of Dubai harnesses a coastal defense system operated by world-renown private security contracters. The coasts were vital; the ultimate world hub of business is in Dubai, their ports welcoming cargo and passengers as the center of regional and international trade. 

The city did not expect Null Sector to come from the Arabian desert, hiding in the sandstorm, crawling out of the dunes like the wrath of dishonored spirits. It took twenty-three of the Strike Commander's best soldiers to defend the city, coordinating with Helix Security International to beat back Null Sector forces with EMP drones. 

Just beyond a collapsed overpass, pieces of Null Sector drones litter the rubble and road, bullet-riddled omnics for at least a mile; the dust is suspended in the air. Jack is frustrated, but he reminds himself that he does not always have to fight. It is always harder to remember that when the bullets stop thundering, and the consequences settle like dust, like the silence at a funeral. He watches Angela approach him, her cherubic face smiling despite the dust sticking to her cheek, and he is relieved. 

"The young man would like a photo,"  he smiles at her, tired, but honest, true. "Do you mind?"   CLICK — FLASH—— !   Jack turns to the photographer, who detaches his thumb from his camera's shutter release. The young man looks sheepish.  "Sorry,"  he says, "Candids sell better. You looked happy! This would be great for your image, sir." 

Jack receives the statement like an abrupt splash of cold water, doused over his head. For a moment, he can not think of a response. Remembers: this is a victory. This is a victory. He should be grateful. He prefers to be vigilant. Wonders what the headline will be, emblazoned above his happy face.  

"It was hard won,"  Jack finally says, fighting the cognitive dissonance,  feeling Angela's small hand settle over his back. He relaxes.  "Now, if you’ll excuse me--- I was actually on my way to our field hospital. I was a corpsman, after all." 

                 ❛    OH, THAT SOUNDS EXCRUCIATING.  my deepest condolences, commander.    ❜    a chuckle rises up from her throat.  ndaya offers a pitiful half - bow, gloved hand coming up to rest just beneath the collar bone in false sympathy.  she used to think his face was just FROZEN that way, one scowl too many that finally locked him right up.  but gabriel reyes is softer than he appears.  he cares more than she ever expected him too, more than her old captains ever did.  they were interested in RESULTS, less so how they came about.  she can’t say she misses them much these days. 

she does like him, so there is something to be said of progress.

                ndaya traps the tablet under her palm as it glides between them.    ❛    you forgot terrible hair piece,  but yes.    ❜    she’s read his file thrice over, grown intimate with every dubious detail of his list of transgressions.  maybe she’s a little excited.  forefinger drags up over the glass pane, scrolling through lines of text like a muscle memory.     ❛    back in the day ?    ❜   interest peaks. she leans forward, elbows bearing weight over her thighs.

                 ❛     ———  oh, i looked over these floor plans, too.  are we not doing a roof extraction ?   seems easier to bring him up than try and walk him out the front door.  a big ugly face like that is going to draw attention.    ❜

GABRIEL'S MOUTH STRETCHES BEHIND HIS HANDS, folded together in front of him. He leans back against the backrest of his seat. Their private shuttle cuts a steady path through the night sky, a paragon of anti-turbulence aerospace engineering, reinforced polymer armor plating, as silent as death. When he was a  kid,  planes used to shake and rattle, hurtling above the world almost as if through sheer force of will. He thinks about that, as he offers her a wry smirk.  Gabriel feels the nostalgia like a  bad  omen.  

"Mogilevich was small fry when we turned him. Excellent informant. Terrible, human-wise,"   deadpanned, ironic; she is right, he is pissed. The past feels too close, like a shadow sown into the soles of his feet. The prospect of retribution keeps Gabriel calm. Laser-focused.  "With his intel, we took down more than half of Talon's cartel. Suddenly there was room for a small fry to grow..." 

Gabriel peels himself away from the table, pacing, a steaming mug balanced around his palm. Ndaya is like a vengeful ghost. She is not interested in mercy. He can appreciate that. He appreciates Ndaya’s discretion more. This is not official----  otherwise, they would have had three months to prepare for this. Instead, they have sixteen hours. He is changing the rules of engagement, here, now.  "He knows me. He knows how Special Ops work. Some of them are even on his payroll."  He meets her eyes, knowing she is staring, analyzing, vigilant. 

FILE:  COMMANDER REYES. / SECRETS.

It’s more than likely Gabriel did not disclose his true intentions when he recruited Moira into Blackwatch, and the process itself had bypassed official channels due in part to Strike Commander Jack Morrison’s “negligence” in failing to control the classified, autonomous nature of Blackwatch. Moira was allegedly put into Research & Development to improve the safety and performance of Blackwatch’s Paramilitary Operations Officers. That was the pretense, anyway. Gabriel was already infamous for having unconventional recruitment methods; Moira was hardly the most unorthodox member of Gabriel’s elite teams. Overwatch became complacent, as Jack and Gabriel’s past together in the Soldier Enhancement Program created a conflict of interest.

The evidence is in Archive: Retribution. Moira’s experiments with Gabriel’s changing physiology were likely done in secret, because 1: human experimentation is controversial by the majority of society (SEP was considered highly controversial in spite of its “public” knowledge, Zarya’s negative perception of Genji’s cybernetics, and Moira’s research into advanced genetic engineering was already considered grossly unethical among the scientific community; Overwatch themselves ended her research), and 2: McCree makes disparaging statements of how much he did not like working with her, and openly disapproved of Gabriel recruiting her; he was also shocked and visibly upset at Gabriel’s behavior in Rialto, Italy, indicating that such recklessness was not typical of the Commander----  Gabriel had broken the rules of engagement. This detail is important.

Rules of engagement are typically determined before an operation, and are unique to every individual mission: specifying the circumstances and limitations under which forces will engage in combat with the enemy. Special Forces teams work together to determine these rules, memorizing every moving part of the plan, and their roles in that plan, in order to succeed without casualties. Going against these rules compromises the entire team, and is considered highly dishonorable among Special Forces groups. McCree was not the only one to disapprove of Gabriel’s decision to kill Antonio Bartalotti. When Genji was interrogated by STRCMDR Morrison regarding the incident, the cyborg commented on Gabriel’s recklessness with contempt, accusing Gabriel of endangering their lives. It is obvious that Genji respected him, regardless: Genji did not voice his concerns and followed Gabriel’s lead without question during the mission, trusting Gabriel’s leadership in spite of his private misgivings. This implies that Gabriel’s actions in Retribution was unprofessional and uncharacteristic.