He's on the ground… staring up at a face he hasn't seen in years, looking down the barrel of a gun… about to die.

He's been here before.

The first time… it was an Omnic.

Bastion unit 0048Q. He remembers that number like a brand.

His first real brush with death. The first time his skills didn't carry him through all the way.

His hands are up, blocking a fist, an elbow, then a hard kick that actually hurt. He laughed, smiling at the irritated glare he receives in response.

Then Jack was there, Jack, Ana, Reinhart, pumping the thing full of holes, with Jack helping him up as Ana tossed his shotgun back at him. And they're back to back, firing off at every tin can that crawls out of the woodwork to try and stop them.

The second time…

The second time was against Jack.

Fires raged all around them, blood soaking his clothes. His blood… and Jack's.

Their world collapses around them, this fragile little bubble that Strike Commander Morrison tried so hard to keep together with bare wire and spit.

Fitting.

There's a bullet through his gut. Another in his thigh.

He can barely move as the flames creep closer.

Then he hears the ringing in his ears, feels the heat and the sting of pain.

A bullet hole is next to his head.

He grits his teeth and moves peering through the flames and finding Jack's eyes shining with an equal hatred as the farce crumbles around to bury the both of them forever…

The blows against him are precise. Good form and strong. But he has experience, and each counter is just as precise, just as strong. He's still holding back and its enough to send his opponent to the ground with a grunt of frustration.

He rises from the burning remains of the swiss base, like Morrison. A different man. Something… more… Something less.

He kills.

He hunts them down for what they did. What they made of him. Snuff's out their lives one by one.

It's easy.

He trained them. He taught them all their tricks.

That didn't mean he taught them all of his.

They don't even pose a challenge. Its years before he's threatened by anything. Before he even feels pain again.

At the hands of a Monkey of all things.

That Tesla canon nearly kills him. Its the first time he's felt himself on the verge of dying as he is now. With what he's become. If it wasn't for a quick teleportation, he would have died.

They fight again. He actually has to laugh at the stubborn determination there. The desire to win. To prove something.

But he doesn't. And as angry as he is, he finds it thrilling. A challenge. When the ape calls back Overwatch, and Talon offers him a chance to fight the naive monkey again, he takes it at a discount.

Its embarrassing to have lost twice. Next time, he won't get so overconfident. He'll just put the shotgun round in his face!

The fight goes on. He's not tired, but his oponent is. And yet, still he can see the determination, the drive to beat him. To win. The refusal to accept anything less than finally surpassing him…

Maybe one day.

Overwatch… a new one is born.

Rising from the ashes of the old.

Led by a Monkey of all things.

Lena is the first to return. Coming to Winston's call like she'd been waiting for it.

And of the old team… his old team… Reinhart is the first to return. Then Torbjorn. The old war dog longing for purpose again and the dwarf ready to fight the return of the Omnics.

Then there's the Shimada, dragging along his criminal brother. Angela returns right after him, following her pet bionic experiment.

Even the ingrate drags himself out of his hole in the desert.

Others he doesn't recognize… and one that he does. All wanting to join. All wanting to be heroes.

A new Generation...

Finally… Jack crawls back to them, even Ana pulls herself from the grave.

They're all there.

The ones he's hunted for so long.

And so he fights them… Hunts them.

Again and again, time, after time.

But these are not the isolated, lonesome prey.

This is a pack… a team.

They find their ways to survive. To hurt him.

They don't come close to killing him. He's not that sloppy.

But he can't get to them. Not like this. So he bides his time. Lays low. Waits for their guard to drop.

It does.

Surprisingly; it's Jack.

It would come down to him.

It always did.

Their fight through the streets of Dorado brings him back. Back to that place, with the flames and the wrenching steel.

They're older, perhaps even stronger. They've each picked up new tricks along the way.

But Jack could never beat him.

He lands a shot.

It's clean; punching straight through Jack's leg and he's standing over his one time friend, shotgun bared down on his skull.

"This… is how it should have ended."

Then there's someone else, firing down on him, putting a wall of fire between him and Morrison.

He looks up...

Amari.

He fires up at her, bullets moving through the air as they exchange fire through the streets.

He can beat her. He can kill her.

He keeps fighting, every punch, every kick, and manuever is predictable.

Until the one moment its not.

She ducks under one of his swings, he swears she's going to go for an upercut, and instead, she goes for a back-kick that rises straight up into the air, cracking against his jaw and knocking him flat on his ass.

He lays on the ground, blinking up at the overhead lights, wondering what the hell just happened.

His hand reaches to his mouth, pulling away with a wet, sticky red.

He'd almost forgotten he could still bleed.

Then… she's standing over him.

She's panting, wheezing. Hands on her knees as she leans; trying to gulp air down into her lungs.

But she's smiling. Looking at him with such a feeling of proud joy even the pain in his jaw seems to fade a bit.

She holds out her hand to help him up.

Little Fareeha was finally growing up.

He smiles back with bloody teeth.

"Bien hecho, mija

She dodges and weaves. The suit moving her through the air with speed that made him dizzy, trying to keep up.

He notices his mistake a second after he makes it.

But it's too late.

The rocket she fires from above nearly kills him outright as it hits not half a foot away from him, fires burn at him as he's launched through a wall, he feels his bones break before he shifts into his wraith form, trying to mittigate the damage.

But it's no use. He can't hold it for long, and when he comes to, he can't even move.

He's half buried in rubble, the fires edging closer, the tongues of flame bringing him back to the swiss base.

His hands reach to his stomach, pulling away with a wet, sticky red.

He'd forgotten he could bleed.

Then she's standing over him.

Breathing heavily; her suit whirs and clicks from the scores of damage it had absorbed from his shots. Keeping her safe.

She stares at him with a grim resolution, looking at him with… anger.

She pulls out a gun. And aims it at his head.

Little Fareeha…

All grown up.

He smiles, coughing up blood as his chest weakly rises and falls...

At least its her.

He can be happy that its her...

"Bien Hecho mija."