5A loose reference is made to Chapter 3 of The Strike Commander's story, Overwatch: The Final Hour.
A sequel might be made if you guys show enough interest in one.
Final Battle
It was ironic, wasn't it?
The organization that he stood for, brought down from within. By him. The original leader.
Then again, his whole life was one sadistic joke, played upon him by a cruel deity, of that he was sure.
For fighting those dreaded, demonic robots that the idiots of his own race created – spending the most time on the field out of his peers defending the world and the inhabitants of which he loved and cared for so much, and what did he get?
A ticket to the damn attic.
The role of garbage cleanup boy.
While his best friend – no, not his best friend anymore. A traitor – got the role of being the famous face, and the multitude of blessings and fortunes that came with it. Rewards that should have been his to gather instead, piled upon his former comrade.
The boyscout.
That f***ing boyscout.
Jack Morrison, youngest member of the original Overwatch team that ended the Omnic Crisis, got the role of being the Commander of the expanded organization. Morrison was elevated from being the heart to being the soul.
And what did he, Gabriel Reyes, get? The Reyes who grit his teeth and grounded his guts to fine powder to pull all of his closest friends through the darkest years of the third world war? The Reyes who hardened his teammates to rally them to stand together to protect the entire populace? What exactly did he get when the war was finally over?
The role of leading Blackwatch. The hell contrasted with Overwatch's heaven.
Instead of being hailed as the mortal equivalent of an archangel, Gabriel was cast aside into the dark pits of life to organize and deal with tasks that softies would go insane over comprehending.
He gave his life, but he was no saint.
He was treated as nothing more than Lucifer. And that in and of itself was reviled.
The public gave him respect, but they would never give him a smile.
His friends would show him joy, but they'd never bother to alleviate his agony.
Gabriel could pull triggers easily. But he could never pull the strings of the team ever again.
His leadership which won the war against the mechanical beasts was now viewed as nothing more than dated and barbaric, his life's work cast aside like he was a shameful relic. Good for nothing but to rot away whilst cleaning up the mess.
The mess that those bastards left. The mess that his friends always left, but never bothered to thank him for clearing up. He took up their burdens while they relaxed and grew complacent, and every time he'd remind them of the job, they'd laugh in his face and pile it on his list. Another task to carry out in his endless hell.
Of killing. And pain. And killing. And disdainment. And pain. And distrust. Derision. And scorn. Killing. More killing. Pain. And even more killing. And pain. Endless pain.
Pain. Pain.
Pain.
He was nothing more but an old, shattered, barbaric relic.
A tormented outcast.
An ignored wound.
A fallen angel.
And he had snapped beyond repair. Nothing more would fix his situation than the only way that he knew for most of his life.
Pain. And death. Murder, savagery, blood. And killing.
It was an addiction.
Gabriel Reyes never found the taste in alcohol or the like throughout his life.
He scoffed at the blandness of the ruby shade of wine. But he had hooked himself onto another red liquid.
One that came throughout one's first fall in life, throughout the necessity of growing up, and the endeavours of hard, vigourous work.
He had addicted himself onto blood.
Gabriel Reyes had shot others throughout his career. Taken lives. Spilled guts and internal fluids. That of others, and even sometimes, others to him. He too had suffered at the hands of his enemies at times, but with the permanency of the flowing river of time, he had accustomed himself to the repulsive barbarity. He laughed when being tortured, and when he could return the favour by blood, he cackled with perverted glee and sadistic pleasure.
Weapons were his true limbs. Savagery was his life.
And none of those bastards understood that.
F***ing none of them.
And they would pay oh so dearly for that.
Starting with the fusion generator.
Jack pleaded with him. With f***ing tears in his eyes! What a prime example of a f***ing softy.
Was Morrison serious?
Did he think an apology, and a weak offer to council him, to appeal to their former status as brothers in arms and for life would work for him? Ease his pain? Alleviate the venom that bled his soul dry of humanity?
Did Jack think that would work?!
Bloody easy for the boyscout to say that.
That. F***ING. PIECE OF. PERFECTIONIST. SH**.
At least Jack still had his parents alive. He had his wife Ana, and his precious little Fareeha. He had Reinhardt and Torbjorn, and their f***ing alcohol. Angela and Winston adored their beloved commander of the organization that they perceived to be Heaven on Earth – all the while ignoring Gabriel Reyes and all of his hard work to ensure that that had been a possibility for them in the first place.
Gabriel Reyes was nothing more to them than a sick joke. A stupid nightmare. A blind painter. A deaf musician. A clown phantom. And he hated it. He hated them all for it.
He had recruited Ziegler, Oxton, and McCree, but they had all turned their backs on him. Oxton and Ziegler – those disgusting, childish brats – had scorned him, shunned him, and like the elder Amari, always chose Jack.
Jack. Jack. F***ing JACK.
And the boy he had rescued from the street gang that would have consumed him and clouded his future, condemned him to a destiny where he would've ended up with nothing more than dying from blazing flame and screaming metal – what did the boy do to repay him in kind? Abandon him and all that which he had taught him and raised him to fight for.
In the end, McCree never viewed him as a father.
It was Jack.
All Jack.
Jack. Jack. JACK.
SH**.
Well they could all die and join him in the fires of hell if they saw him as nothing than a pathetic shadow of the past. They could all suffer forever, as one twisted family – then they could see who the real leader was.
Not Jack.
Him.
Gabriel Reyes.
And the countdown for the reactor was nearing the last two minutes.
At that moment, that was when Jack Morrison decided, with a heavy heart, and a soul full of ethereal tears, that his best friend – the big brother that had once looked out for him, the joker who would always alleviate the edginess in the air, the man who had led them all to peace – was nothing more than a ghost. A lost cause.
And with that decision, action came only a moment later as he raised his rifle and opened fire. Gabe wouldn't let him go that easily though, and with the genetic enhancements gifted to them so long ago by the US Army, Reyes leapt up through the maze of the catwalks and pipes. Jack, not as dedicated to keeping his figure as Reyes was over the years, had slightly more difficulty following his former best friend throughout the facility. That slight made all the difference though.
Jack released a cry of pain as a sudden jolt of agony smashed into his skull. Gabriel followed up with a knee to the ribs and a shotgun-loaded backhand to the chin.
"Always all bark and no bite with you," Reyes spat as Jack tumbled to the icy titanium floor.
"And you were always the heartless serpent – like one of those Omnics!" Jack retorted as he willed away the pain and launched himself at his best friend. The sudden sharp shock as Jack wrenched his wrists apart made Gabe drop his shotguns, though he quickly countered with a remorseless kick to the left of his opponent's chest – right over the area of the heart.
Jack crashed into the wall behind, and as spots devilishly offered to rob him of his vision and mortality, his frantically pumping heart made his ringing ears aware of the all-too-familiar screech of metal as twin flashes of silver momentarily blinded him. Gabriel closed the gap in nothing more than a moment like a black panther for the savage kill. But all Jack needed was a moment to react.
Grabbing his own standard issue military combat knife, Morrison instinctively slashed, and Reyes howled in frightening joy as blood and bits of flesh, tendon and muscle hurtled to the ground with a sickening splat.
"That all you got, f***ing boyscout?!"
Reyes dropped the knife in his bad arm, and with a lethally impressive feat of strength, willpower, and precision, he lodged his remaining blade into Morrison's cape, pinning his former friend to a defenseless position against the wall.
"Now to show you how to finish the job," a dark and husky voice said. Jack was sure it wasn't Gabe speaking anymore, but rather that of Lucifer. Or a heartless Grim Reaper. Gabe retrieved his shotguns, making sure to ominously scrape them amongst the metallic floor before leveling them at his former brother.
"And when I'm through with you, everyone within this headquarters will die – a glorious, blazing, agonizing death – a kiss of love compared to the hell load of misery that you all were too happy to just crush me under."
Jack knew he only had a few seconds before this damned reaper would fatally rip away his soul from this Earth. With a quick glance to his left, he saw his rifle within leg's reach. If he could only have enough time to flip it up to his arms… There wasn't enough time…
No.
No.
As long as he was Jack Morrison, he would fight to protect all that he loved and stood for. As long as he breathed, hope and justice would still have a fighting chance. And he would take that chance, no matter how slim it was. No matter how much sacrifice he'd have to commit himself to. He'd do it. He'd always do it.
And Reaper – no, Gabriel Reyes, his former brother and comrade, devoured whole by the cruelty of this world – had one sole weakness in battle. His pride. And that would blind Reyes to the fact that he could kick out a foot, and when his limb struck the armrest of his rifle, it sprung up off the floor back into rightful arms. And now it was too late for Gabriel to react.
"I've got you in my sights."
Too late for Gabe to realize, metal shards sang fatally through the air, piercing his flesh, shattering his bone, boiling his blood. He cackled at this… this… futile attempt to stop him, for his own trump card he still held in reserve. If Reyes' weakness was pride, then Jack's weakness was desperation.
"Die."
That tornado of bullets, damaging reactor equipment and striking Morrison in the vitals, was for the betrayal and the abandonment.
"Die!"
That scream of murder was a rage against the deity who was foolish enough to place a demon amongst saints. How this deity condemned him to eternal outcast and agony, and bloodlust and longing.
"DIE!"
And that, was for all those who killed him a little bit each day. Those who stripped a piece of mortality away from him, never to give it back with remorse or gratitude. Those who sneered at him, laughed at him, shook their head at him and saw him as a failed warrior and fallen paragon. A bastard high on the drug of brutality. Nothing more than a pathetic f***ing mistake that should have never existed in the first place.
Those ingrates deserved to die. Die.
Die.
F*** them. F*** them all to hell.
That'll be easy. He'll be waiting there for them. Always.
That was all his life amounted to anyways.
And when the hellfire of bullets stopped, all that was left were two broken, bloodied, shattered men. Former comrades. Former brothers. Former friends. They were family no longer. They had secretly, silently snapped years ago. It was only now that they had clashed together in bloodthirsty battle for the final, fatal time, wielding the broken swords of their souls not to dish out justice to each other, or to sow evil amongst the people of the world.
It was just Jack Morrison.
And Gabriel Reyes.
And all the damage that they had done to each other.
And it was the f***ing lanky runt that triumphed over Lucifer for the last time.
The reaper collapsed, sprawled to his side, moaning and howling in everlasting agony.
The face of Overwatch struggled to his knees, propping his scarred rifle for life support. It was a good thing Morrison always carried a bandolier of biotic grenades with him. He would surely and sorely need them soon.
"I… I'm sorry, Gabe," he spoke to the corpse that he had once shared laughter, tears, and honour with, "But… someone… had to do it…"
Within a few moments, Morrison's mind suddenly flashed back to the self-destruct sequence of the fusion reactor. He released his helpless despair and anguish with a plain, primal, agonized tragic scream.
For all the lives he had taken, for all the blood he had spilled, for all the friends and family he sacrificed, he had ultimately failed.
The people of the world wanted Overwatch gone. They would get their wish.
Jack Morrison had failed, and hope would be the first victim to go afterwards.
And it was only then that Jack noticed the almost silent, but still barely audible, wheezing coughs radiating from the body of the reaper.
Gabriel Reyes would never say these next few words.
But he was Gabriel Reyes no longer.
"F*** you, Jack."
And he let out a final tragic chuckle as the system clock beeped. A bittersweet roar escaped him as the explosion claimed him and his worst enemy.
Jack would pay.
They would all pay.
But now he was free of the torment.
He was free of the torment.
He was finally, thankfully, relievingly…
Free.
