LET IT BURN .

Things were obviously very different for the wraith since leaving Talon. 

Even during his time with the organization, he’d had sights on him; red dots that traced themselves with a phantom echo against the planes of his back, enemies that had either wanted his ultimate demise or some twisted sense of closure. Maybe both, depending on how one looked at it. Being officially gone from the group placed those stakes on a much larger scale– Vendetta was not someone he wanted to operate with, for multiple reasons. She’d not been subtle about knowing who he was, and Gabriel wasn’t that dumb. 

She’d kill him within an instant. Retribution, if one were to go that far. Revenge for the untimely death of her father– which, in Gabriel’s opinion, was well deserved.

But, he was past that now.

Everything moving forward from that moment was a strive in survivability. Being able to retain himself in a space where it made sense; it’d been clear that Overwatch wasn’t that, as his longest running theory had been that they were the ones to put an end to his name. There were conjectures to that proposition that made it, ultimately, confusing; why would Jack be there? The only answer that his own mind led him to was that someone else had been wanting to take over– or, take them down entirely.

Nevertheless, whoever had done it seemed to have achieved their goal. Against Gabriel’s own wishes, he’d been turned into a multifaceted weapon for his own enemy organization. Fate unraveled itself in interesting ways, but the old commander couldn’t help but think that it was always supposed to be like that, even from the very start. A plausible deniability he’d wanted to claim over the fact, but the events of his life after his alleged final moments only furthered that logic.

Until now, of course.

Laying low was something that he could do, he just hadn’t been forced into the hole this deep before. Operations were a different hazard– this was quite literally a play toward his own life. If he didn’t keep himself concealed, coerced by the shadows that conformed to his silhouette as if they’d owned it, he’d easily find himself where he was meant to be over a decade ago. The steps he needed to take moving forward had to be planned, thought out to a meticulous degree that caused headaches the longer he sat and thought about it. 

Finding Jack– or, wanting to find Jack, caused him migraines. 

Given his typical fashion of matter, the wraith preferred to work in the evening; scoping an area, familiarizing himself with locals that pushed in and out at certain times. He knew when the streets were empty, barren of souls that finally pushed themselves home after either drinking, enjoying the evening– the less eyes, the better. A crowd since dwindled, Gabriel was able to spot the man of his interest with ease.

Now had simply been about laying a bait, and hoping one would catch it.

He’d watched each deliberate intake of the environment based off of the man’s body language alone; Gabriel knew what it felt like to have eyes on himself, and he could tell that these movements weren’t one of a settled man. Watching Jack evade himself into an alley only furthered his suspicions, and the wraith followed a sizable distance behind. He’d foregone his typical attire– there was zero reason for him to retain it, it would only make him an easy pick amongst the crowd. Instead, he’d reduced himself down to the few hoodies he’d swept up in his hasty rummaging, tactical pants, and a beaten down version of a mask that loosely resembled what he’d dawned before.

It wasn’t the preferred owl, but it was a veil nonetheless. A militaristic metal upon his features, rough edges smoothed akin to that of a gas mask instead. Slits for the bare of his eyes to be seen rather than clouded beneath a murky stare; the hood of his jacket was almost always pulled over the top frame of the mask, casting a crescent to dilute his image as much as it could. 

Metal rang itself through his ears, the round of his shoulder collecting itself near the edge of the alley as he watched Jack ascend, taking the ladder with the stride of someone on a mission– people really didn’t change, did they? His own footing was deliberate, quiet and lethal; a prowl that only rang itself as he’d hit the first notch of the ladder, forcing him to silence his upheaval by reducing himself down into the murky tendrils that prefaced an omen of his wake. Up it gathered, curling around the bars before producing itself toward the top of the building– the air rippled itself around his frame as each cell slowly rebuilt upon itself, gnawing at his figure to repair the edges of who he was. 

Gabriel stood, leather-bound palms empty, as Jack turned around, greeting him with the barrel of his weapon.

“It’s nice to see you too, Jack.” 

Each step was calculated. No matter how long since he'd shucked off the coil of military, of Overwatch, he couldn't erase being a soldier. His muscles, his nerves, the very electrical pulses that rocketed within—they were trained on war.

And war has a way of staining you, long after the fact.

"Talon no longer cozy enough for you? The burn of your shotgun shells no longer keeps you warm at night?" The vitriol in his voice was near palpable. He laughed; a short laugh, one void of any warmth or mirth, naught but hollowness taut with years-long rancor. "Funny how that kinda thing works, huh."

Even with a weapon of this calibre in his grasp, Jack couldn't help but want to bring it back down to nails, teeth, fists, and feet. A flash of desire seared his thoughts, of him punching Gabriel's face so hard that shadowy bone snapped beneath knuckle; he wanted nothing more than to rearrange muscle and marrow between blows.

A stiff cock of his neck, a twist of his upper-lip. He managed to rein it in.

"What the fuck are you doing here Gabe—"

Gabe.

He didn't deserve Gabe.

He wasn't Gabe.