Chapter One: Ignorance Isn't Bliss
Midnight. The Witching Hour. A time made famous by fables and fairy tales, where one day ended and another began. Spells wore off at the stroke of twelve, mythical creatures roamed freely…and in one run-down pawn shop in Manhattan, something wicked was brewing.
The lights were out on the first floor, the "Sorry, We're Closed" sign displayed on the door of the Lucky Pawn. Upstairs, however, lights were on. Inside the second floor apartment sat three men at the dining table, cigar smoke swirling about their heads as they looked over their poker cards. An old Yamaha radio played Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here casette tape, giving the otherwise dreary apartment a little life. The owner of the building, a lanky balding fellow with bright orange hair, would occasionally sing along to some of the songs, mumbling the lyrics as he'd look over his hand, only interrupting to fold or call. At midnight, the song the album was named after began to play, and he got so caught up in the song that his hands began to mimic the opening guitar. His two guests took notice of this. One, a portly fellow in a flat cap and yellow shirt, nudged his equally portly identical twin, dressed in a trilby and white shirt, only for the second to cringe in pain and smack his brother on the back of the head. The first glared a moment, before giving an apologetic shrug upon realizing where he nudged his brother: a still-healing gunshot wound that still stung when bothered.
"You fuckers sure are bad at cheatin'." The twins turned to the redhead, who had stopped playing the imaginary guitar. He took a drink of whiskey, eyeing the two with suspicion.
The one in the trilby frowned, looking hurt at the accusation. Sure, they were cheating, but not at that very moment. "Why, whatever do you mean? We were just admirin' your air guitar skills, Jersey."
His brother chimed in. "Yeah, that's all we was doin'." Their voices were as identical as they were, right down to the thick Cockney accent. He added with a smile, "You're a regular David Gilmour!"
Jersey almost looked impressed by the namedrop. "Damn fuckin' straight, David Gilmour." He narrowed his eyes at the two. "If you compared me to Roger Waters, I'd fuckin' kill you right where you fat fucks sit." He took another drink of whiskey. "Waters fuckin' sucks."
The twin in white rolled his eyes. "Yes, Jersey, we know. You say that every time you play that fuckin' tape."
Jersey shrugged. "Ain't my fault Mundies make some damn good music. That, and their alochol. Goddamn, do they make some fuckin' good alcohol."
"Shit, Jersey, you sound like Grendel. Always goin' on about your Mundy drinks."
"Maybe Gren is onto somethin'." He held up his bottle, admiring it in the dim lighting of his overhead lamp. "If I didn't know better, I'd say this Jack Daniels son of a bitch was a fuckin' Fable himself. How a Mundy can make liquor that good I don't fuckin' know."
"Maybe he made a deal with a devil?" The one in yellow asked, a shit-eating grin on his face. "Perhaps a-"
"Oh no, don't you fuckin'-"
"A Jersey Devil?!" The twins started howling in laughter, ignoring the middle finger and unamused face Jersey sent their way. Lousy sons of bitches. It was always riddles and puns and surreal poetry with those two.
"You two are little shits, you know that?" Jersey didn't skip a beat as there was a knock on the door, adding, "Just for that, Dum, you can open that fuckin' door."
"Awright, Awright…lazy fuck, can't even open his own door…" He got of his seat and started to the hall.
Jersey turned to the other. "And Dee…them cards you're hidin' in your ass. Take 'em out. I need to burn that shit."
"Wot? Cards in my ass?!" Dee jabbed a finger in Jersey's way, furious. "I have half a mind to break a bottle over your head for that accusation!"
"I'm a demon who runs a pawn shop for a living, Dee, I ain't fuckin' stupid. I've seen every scam in the fuckin' book. You don't think I notice how you scratch your ass each time you get a lousy hand? And these were my good cards too, you nasty fuck…"
Dee opened his mouth to retort, but Dum appeared again. "Er…Jersey." He shifted uncomfortably. "Uh…he's here."
Jersey reached a hand out to pause his tape, leaving the room eerily quiet. After a few seconds, he snapped, "Well, don't just stand there, Dum, bring him in!"
Dum nodded, vanishing again. This time, someone new walked in. As he did, the air in the room turned cold, the lights flickering for a moment. Each step created a tiny puff of dark matter that vanished as soon as it appeared. In his hand was something large covered in a cloth, and he himself was covered in a black cloak, giving the skull-like mask he wore a frightening contrast. Dee gulped, giving Jersey a nervous look, and Dum shuffled in awkwardly, unable to look at the wraith. Jersey, however, stared him down, a poker face hiding any emotion. There was a few seconds of silence, before Jersey glanced at the item in the stranger's hands. "Well? Let me see him."
The stranger set the item on the table, unceremoniously pulling the cloth off. Underneath was a birdcage, a crow perched inside. The stranger turned the cage slightly, to show off the bird's crooked leg. Jersey, facial expression still neutral, nodded. "Did they give you a hard time? Them fuckers on The Farm may be weak, but they can be obnoxious as fuck, especially considerin' that cargo."
The wraith chuckled, the sound downright sinister. "No one knew I was even there," he replied, his raspy voice only serving to frighten the twins more.
Once again, Jersey only nodded, no hint of anything the stranger said or did having any effect. "Okay, okay. So apparently you Shareholder fucks aren't complete fuck-ups. Of course…there is the matter, of, uh…well he ain't known as the Crooked Crow, y'know."
"My job was to deliver the bird."
"Yeah, and you did. The fuck do you want, a medal?" Now Jersey was showing emotion-irritation. "The fuck I'm s'posed to do with a bird? The witch who turned him they got workin' on the 13th Floor. And it's all because of Mr. Big Bad himself." Now he was on a tirade. "That fuckin' wolf…killin' Mary, turnin' the Crooked Man into some stupid animal, makin' Dee even more useless than he already is-"
"Hey!"
"Oh c'mon, you fat fuck! How much shit you got excused from cuz of that fuckin' bullet? I know you're milkin' that shit! Not like I mind, though-means more cash for me."
"I pull my own weight just fine, thank you very much! Besides, you ain't even in it for cash, anyhow! We all know you just-augh!!" A large thump under the table and Dee shut up, clutching his knee in pain. Dum rushed to his brother, giving Jersey a glare yet again. Jersey ignored them both, eyes on the stranger.
"Sorry about them," he said. "They just like to stir up shit."
"We ain't the only ones…" Dum muttered, glaring daggers at Jersey. Jersey ignored him, his focus solely on the wraith.
"You got a name, or should I just refer to you as a Nazgul?"
He was unamused. "Reaper."
Jersey scoffed. "Reaper! Now, ain't that edgy! You fuckin' Mundies, I swear. Either you try to make the Reaper too scary to be taken seriously, or you make him a joke. He's a personal friend of mine, you know. Comes from the same layer of Hell that I do." Jersey gave Reaper a smile that lacked any friendliness. "So…wanna drink? Or would you prefer to stand there all menacingly like that?"
"I'll pass."
"Standin' there all menacingly it is. Fine, miss out on some good whiskey. More for me." Jersey took a drink, significantly longer than the others. Wiping his mouth with his arm, he looked at Reaper. "You still here?"
"White needs an answer, Jersey."
"Well unless you can speak crow, I don't think you'll be gettin' one just yet. I ain't the brains of this group by a long shot, bud. You can go back to your pal Whitey and tell him I ain't agreein' to shit till I get the Crooked Man back. That's M-A-N, not B-I-R-D. Capische?"
Reaper made a gravelly grunt in response. As he turned to leave, Jersey stopped him. "Oh yeah, uh…be on the lookout for any detectives of the…lupine persuasion. We got us a fuckin' big bad wolf for a sheriff, and he's the reason things have gone to shit."
"We can take care of him for you…"
"Yeah no, fuck that. I don't want Snow on my ass for killin' her boytoy. Besides, no way am I owin' you fucks any favors. You focus on runnin' back to White with your tail between your legs. After all…" Jersey gave Reaper a smug grin. "There ain't nothin' you can do to stop me from turning you down . Can't kill me like you did your old boss."
The mask hid emotion, but Jersey knew he'd hit Reaper in a sore spot. He could taste it, and boy, was it good. "This isn't over." Right as he said that, his body disintegrated into a black shadowy cloud and rushed out the room, door slamming shut from the power of the wind.
The apartment fell into silence, as the Tweedles looked at each other uneasily, unsure what to do. Jersey rubbed his temples, before letting out a deep sigh and reaching for the bottle. "Fuckin' White piece of shit…now I'll have to work with a fuckin' hangover in the mornin'…"
"Say, uh, Jersey..." Dee cleared his throat. "You, uh, never really told me an' Dum about these 'Shareholders'…"
"And why the fuck you think that is, huh?" Jersey glowered at the two, making them shrink back. "I thought we all knew from Day One that I don't go into details about the shit I know." The silence reprised for a few long, awkward moments. "All you need to know about 'em is that they stick their nose where it don't belong and take what don't belong to 'em. And that they keep wantin' in on what we got goin'."
He turned his radio back on, making it clear he wasn't going to say any more on the matter. "Now gimme them cards. Wasn't lyin' about burnin' em."
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Expecting things to be the same after years of being away was the most foolish thing a man could ever do. Time went on and the world changed, whether or not you were there to be part of it. All you could really do was try and pick up what you could and keep going; slowing down for a second could put you and everything you worked for in jeopardy.
Doomfist knew this all too well. Six years he was in prison, away from the organization he devoted his entire being to, and away from the world he so desperately wanted to improve. Six years where the only power he had was communicating with a mole in the security personnel on the off chance he was put in charge of Doomfist's meal delivery or exercise time. Six years where news of others' exploits was constantly on TV during rec time, but any mentions of him had died out long ago. Six years where he disappeared from the minds of everyone…six years where he could plan his triumphant return.
Of course, there had been a few…hiccups along the way. Vialli, a former member of the inner council, had decided Doomfist was no longer needed, and attempted to take him out. His little coup went about as well as anyone would expect, and Vialli was now at the bottom of the Venice canals, where an eel like him belonged. He wasn't the only council member to have died, either. A few months ago, Sabyh Kieck had been assassinated, and they'd lost a great deal of men to some monstrosity known as a Cyberdemon. Oddly enough, it vanished the same day that Sabyh was found in his office, meaning the two could possibly be related. Perhaps it was some sort of rogue Omnic, like that Kaiju creature in South Korea. But no one knew enough to tell Doomfist anything...except for one man, who had just so conveniently snuck into Talon Headquarters at three in the morning.
"Reaper." Doomfist stepped in front of the wraith, arms crossed over his broad chest. "Welcome back to HQ. We were starting to worry something happened." You would be hard pressed to hear any mirth in his voice.
"Sorry," Reaper replied, equally mirthless. "Didn't realize I missed curfew."
"Oh, don't give me that. I know you've been sneaking off. You were supposed to kill Reinhardt this week-"
"What do you think I was trying to do? See for yourself-he's gone missing."
That was true. Reinhardt had been off Talon's radar for awhile now, as had Genji Shimada. Neither one had turned up for a few weeks, and showed no signs of a return. There were other oddities as well: Lena Oxton, Jack Morrison, Jesse McCree, Angela Ziegler…all had moments of just vanishing off the map. Sometimes days, even a week or two. But they all came back one way or another. Yet those two…they were gone. "Any luck hunting him down?"
"No."
"Where did you even go to find him?"
"Doesn't matter." Reaper walked past Doomfist, on his way to the elevator.
Doomfist followed right behind the wraith. "Don't tell me you're getting sentimental, Reyes. I know Reinhardt is a jovial fellow, but-"
Reaper snickered. "Oh, please. Sentimentality is the last thing I could feel." He pressed the elevator button, not even bothering to turn around.
"Then what's going on?"
Reaper didn't answer the question. Instead, he gave a rather cryptic observation: "...You missed a lot while you were gone."
Doomfist furrowed his brow at that. Was that…gloating he heard in Reaper's tone just then? A hint of superiority, as if there was some great big secret right under Doomfist's nose that he wasn't figuring out anytime soon. His confusion bought Reaper enough time to slink into the elevator. "Wait-" But it was too late. The door shut before Doomfist could do anything about it, or ask any more questions.
Something was decidedly rotten about Reaper. Doomfist had his own misgivings when he heard Reaper's true identity as Gabriel Reyes, leader of Blackwatch. All Reaper had done was prove himself untrustworthy, sneaking around and undermiming Doomfist's authority at every turn. Doomfist just knew he had to know more about that Cyberdemon, and even Sabyh's death. After all, Widowmaker and Sombra, two Talon agents that worked closely with him, had gone MIA, without any clues to their whereabouts. And yet Reaper was still on the inner council, and allowed on whatever missions he wanted? It was nonsense!
But despite all these facts, everyone seemed to trust the Reaper. Whenever Doomfist would bring up anything suspicious, they would shrug it off as if it were nothing. His failed attempt to recover Doomfist's gauntlet? "Oh, you of all people should know how strong Winston is. No wonder they lost." His constant vanishing? "He's taking on more missions for Talon. You should be grateful, considering how little you've been able to do for us in the past six years." The Cyberdemon and its victims? "A what? Are you sure getting knocked down by that ape didn't give you some brain damage, Akande? Those men all died in a tragic terrorist strike on Talon. We just use that conflict to grow stronger…I thought that's what you believed in." It was infuriating. The world he left behind six years ago was vastly different, as he expected, but there was more to it than just that. And whatever it was, he was going to get to the bottom of it.
