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#'jack is howling in the bg'
dp-time-police · 1 year
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punk vlad punk vlad puNK VLAD PUNK VLAD-
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italoniponic · 1 month
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just him
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RSA JACK RSA JACK RSA JACK
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ai-kan1 · 2 years
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I am on my knees begging for you to draw Jack
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The Goodest boyo ever ✨✨✨
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nullians · 3 years
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For some reason this picture feels ominous..
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solrika · 6 years
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Prologue/bg. part one. part two. part three:
~
He moves safe houses that night, driving out of town and down the highway until the sun is high in the sky and he’s another state away. It’s painful leaving the food--waste not, want not, his parents always said--but he can’t trust it not to be poisoned. Though his body could theoretically handle it, he’s not in the mood to be out of commission for eight hours while his system beats the toxin into submission. 
He spends the drive trying to think of new ways to evade detection, rifling through one plan after another. This kind of thing was always Gabriel’s strong suit--
--Jack shakes the thought away, focuses on the traffic. That way leaves nothing but heartache. 
He holes up in a former Blackwatch hideout. The keypad flashes the old “not in use” signal up at him when he types in its code, but it’s obvious someone has been using it as an intermittent base. It smells faintly of candle smoke, and the pistol strapped under the mattress just came out this year. Pictures are taped up in the bathroom--flowers, the corner of a girl’s smile, gloved hands flashing peace signs. Nothing incriminating, but enough to make it feel lived-in. 
Jack makes sure to change the keypad signal to “occupied.” He’ll move out tomorrow, but for now he just wants to sleep. With luck, if the original occupants show up, they’ll remember 76 fondly. 
He’s just settling into bed when the phone beeps. He stares at it, wondering why he didn’t just throw the damn thing away. It beeps again, and then begins singing a cheerful little tune. “Eschúchame! Eschúchame!”
With a groan, Jack rolls over and flips it on. Luckily, it’s just a text. He doesn’t think he could stand listening to Sombra right now.
We have a file of our initial findings for you. It’s followed by an address and a helpful little map.
Not meeting you, Jack types back.
One hour meeting window. 400 to 500. 
Fuck you, Jack types, with perhaps more vehemence than necessary, and shoves the phone under the mattress. 
~
He decides to go anyway, cursing his curiosity. There’s a nonzero chance of it being a trap. 
At least being in a Blackwatch hideout means he’s not walking in blind.
There’s a little drone with a camera that Jack sends in around three am to map the area and send back initial recon information. The address turns out to be for a storage warehouse full of shrink wrapped palettes. There’s plenty of cover for a shootout, and the walls are flimsy enough that if needed, he could break his way out. Jack settles the drone in the rafters and falls back asleep for an hour.
When he wakes back up, there’s only one person waiting for him: the hooded shape of the Reaper, leaning casually against the wall and idly inspecting his claws. Jack narrows his eyes at the grainy figure and decides that the bastard can wait, and sleeps another half hour.
When he finally leaves the hideout, it’s looking like he’ll be late for the rendezvous. Some buried part of Jack protests the lack of punctuality, but he’s not Strike Commander anymore. 76 isn’t beholden to schedules unless he wants to be. 
The drive is spent turning potential tactics over in his head, and when that’s exhausted, he begins puzzling over the... cleaning thing. There’s no reason for two Talon operatives to tidy up his safe houses. No reason to bring him food or make his bed or organize the desk so everything is easy for him to find. Unless it’s their way of playing with his head, showing him how little of a threat he is, toying with him like a cat with a mouse...
Jack snarls to himself. This mouse has a pulse cannon and isn’t afraid to use it. 
Mind games are more Sombra’s field, though. Reaper tends to be as straightforwards as a shotgun blast to the face. There’s no benefit for him in this, as far as Jack can tell. 
Might as well ask the damned skeleton himself. Jack pulls into the warehouse’s parking lot and strides to its door, takes a moment to make sure his pulse cannon is fully charged, and shoulders his way inside. 
The Reaper is waiting, flipping a data stick from one hand to another. “You’re late,” he states, the mask staring unblinkingly up at Jack.
“Where’s your friend?” Jack shoots back, gaze flicking around the warehouse. 
“Busy.” Reaper holds out the data stick. “Here.”
Jack doesn’t take the file. Narrowing his eyes, he growls, “What’s your game here?”
“There’s no game.”
“Bullshit,” Jack snaps. “What’s your angle? What’re you getting out of this? You can’t tell me you’ve been cleaning my rooms out of the fucking goodness of your heart.”
The Reaper’s claws twitch on the file, but he keeps his arm outstretched. “We told you, our information pooled is better than--”
“Stop lying,” Jack hisses, and lunges forwards. Sue him--he’s running on six hours of sleep and his safe houses have been compromised and he wants some answers, dammit. “You really think I believe you turning on Talon after watching you do their dirty work for six years?” 
Reaper twists as they hit the ground, slipping out of Jack’s grasp and stepping back. “Gathering information for six years,” he hisses. “You don’t topple an organization like this overnight!” 
“You did pretty well with Overwatch,” Jack growls back.
Reaper's claws twitch, and the noise that comes out of him is barely human. “I did not cause Zurich.” 
“Tell that to the dead,” and Jack ducks under those claws, manages to get his hands around Reaper’s neck. It’s easier than it should be to lift him in the air--he’s lighter than expected, but he also doesn’t fight back, just snarls through a tightening windpipe.
“You idiot,” Reaper rasps. “I didn’t cause Zurich.” He claws at the mask, and when it falls free the sight is--
“Told you,” Reaper grins, all fangs and flayed muscle, single eye smoldering like a live coal. “Zurich caused me.” 
“Fuck,” Jack breathes, staring at the raw flesh in front of him. He almost loses his grip, and Reaper seems to notice--eye flicks down and then up again, grin widening. Jack growls, and tightens his hands around Reaper’s neck. “So you messed up and got caught in your own blast--”
“They took everything from me!” 
There’s a silence. Jack’s head rings from Reaper’s howl.  Reaper himself looks surprised at his own outburst. 
“They took everything,” Reaper repeats, quieter. His claws twitch against his mask. His single eye darts to the side and back and away again, as if searching for a way to change the subject. He finally glances down at 76 and huffs a mirthless laugh, mutters, “You’re still so sloppy. Emotion gets ahold of you and you lose your gun.” 
The comment stings, but more than that-- “Still?”
Reaper freezes, and without the mask, it’s easier to read the mangled expression as a flash of panic. It smoothes out in a second, and Reaper says, “I knew you. Before.” He cocks his head, a growl winding through his voice. “You want to know why I want to take down Talon, 76? They took my--they took Overwatch from me. And it was my life.”
Jack feels a slow, dawning realization. “You were an agent.” But to have known him as 76 and not the Strike Commander, to have been in Zurich and immediately chosen to go undercover as a double agent-- “You were a Blackwatch agent.” 
“Once.” Reaper finally slips his mask back on. 
Belatedly, Jack lowers him down to the ground. He stares at Reaper’s figure, trying to place the wide shoulders and narrow waist (Gabriel, part of him sings, but Gabriel is dead and gone). “You said you knew me?”
“You worked with us.” Reaper’s mask focuses somewhere to the left of Jack′s face, as if he’s searching for something. “You worked with Overwatch--”
“I’m not a part of Overwatch,” Jack snaps, reflexively.
“Someone called you mother hen,” Reaper continues, almost to himself. The old nickname sparks right at the sore spot in Jack’s heart, and makes him glad the visor hides his eyes. “You helped us. You...” His mask refocuses. “You can help us now.”
"I don’t know you,” Jack manages. But he does know mother hen, knows the memory of Blackwatch’s junior agents teasing 76 just to make their commander laugh at his lover’s mock-frustration. It feels like centuries ago. He swallows. “Which agent were you? I can’t--”
“I don’t know.” Reaper huffs a mirthless laugh, gestures at his face. “Things got lost, after Zurich.” 
Jack should know. Jack should recognize this agent, probably laughed with him, might have even dragged him back onto a plane after a mission went wrong, might have been teased by him after a mission went right and he and Gabe-- 
“The housekeeping,” he croaks. “You all-- you’d take turns doing that for each other. Ga--the commander would walk into a room and just start tidying. Is that why--”
This time, Reaper’s laugh is a little more genuine. “Old habits die hard, I guess.” He cocks his head. Jack gets the feeling he’s staring hard at the visor, trying to read his expression. “You believe me now.”
“Yeah.” Jack bends down, picks up the file. “Yeah, I do."
“You’ll help us?” 
It’s what Gabriel would have wanted. It’s what 76 would have done, all those years ago. “Yeah,” Jack says, and offers his hand. Reaper takes it, cool leather against his palm, claws curling carefully around his wrist. They shake, and it feels--
( we got a deal, Jackie, Gabe laughs, warm fingers against his) 
“Yeah,” Jack says. “I’ll help.” 
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ladysifcfasgard · 6 years
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Would anyone be up for rping with my oc @charliefalsworth ?
He’s the Grandson of James Falsworth of the Howling Commandos in ‘CA:TFA’ and has recently taken up the mantle of ‘Union Jack’.
He’s almost ready to be launched, I just need to finish the last little bit of his about page, finalise the verse(s) & attempt to make a theme bg for him.
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