The morning stretched on in a suffocating stillness. Even the city noise felt muted from this height. Every few minutes I would check the ping that wasn't going to move. He wasn't going anywhere. And as long as he stayed surrounded by human shields, I had no opportunities.
I counted almost well near a hundred men roaming the place, with him being surrounded by at least ten since I've been here. Any attempt to storm the castle would raise the alarm and he would no doubt flee to another place. This one more secure than this one.
So at the moment, my mind was elsewhere.
Last night, I realized that I made a mistake. My retreat would appear to Overwatch that Fusionator successfully drove me away, therefore, I was going to run into him again. The thought hung in my mind. If not Fusionator, then some other Overwatch agent. The longer I played both sides, the more likely that paths would cross in ways I couldn't control.
Fusionator threw me off for a moment, as he analyzed and questioned me. I had underestimated his intelligence. Even if he wasn't the smartest person and could spot those things, then I couldn't continue as is.
The only way to hide Shawn Rose… was to become someone entirely different. Become Dagger. But who was Dagger? How was he going to fight?
I remember last night that I told Fusionator that I was cybernetically augmented. I could use that. The only cybernetic augmented soldiers I fought with were in Africa. They used their augments to block attacks.
In the game Overwatch, there were three roles: tank, damage, and support. But some heroes were fused between those roles. Like Bridgette was a tank/support and Doomfist was a tank/damage. Some could argue that Soldier 76 was a damage/ support.
Getting trained by the Shimada and applying their fighting style made me a damage. My healing ability made me a support. Therefore I was a damage/ support as well. Actually, that was how Shawn fought. If Dagger was to be the complete opposite, I would have to be a tank/damage.
I slid off the girder, landing silently on the rooftop below. There was no one here just old HVAC units and scaffolding blackened by storms. Perfect training ground for an idea that I always thought about but never wanted to apply.
I punched forward and held the extension and held it. The action wasn't what I was intending. I needed to insinuate the motion that I was mechanical, but I was too human with it.
I punched out again. Then repeated.
I was incorporating sudden, glitching pauses mid-strike. Spreading it to the rest of my body. Every movement was a rejection of everything the Shimada taught, which was difficult since Mamoru drilled those practices into me.
Within the hour, I removed all the elegance. All that remained was the mechanical rhythm, with little to no human fluidity.
Just cold, imprecise, mechanical stuttering. I practiced again and again until the motions began to feel natural to me. But a sudden low hum cut through the air. I froze, peering over the rooftop edge.
A black armored van rolled up to the base of the Curator's building. It was a sleek, reinforced, discreet vehicle. However, I saw everything it was telling.
Government-grade armoring that wouldn't be pierced with simple low caliber weaponry. Impact-resistant blacked out windows. Talon used these same vehicles, but he was hiding from us at the moment, which meant this was the only other to us this...
Overwatch.
Ah, Curator, well played. I see your move and raise my own.
I clicked my mask fully into place. If Overwatch was here, I couldn't let them interfere. And I couldn't do that from the outside.
I dropped silently onto a balcony several floors below, entered through an unlocked maintenance hatch, and slipped into the unfinished upper floors. The smell of drywall dust and metal shavings hung heavy in the air.
Ignoring the training I just did, I did what I did best, I became a shadow between shadows.
Patrolling guards walked past me without ever knowing I was inches away. I timed their movements with their heavy footsteps, slipping between blind spots until I reached the elevator shaft.
Voices echoed from below with a familiar authoritative tone. Three Overwatch representatives were being led through the hall. I scaled the shaft wall, hooked my fingers into the railing, and climbed with silent precision. At the top floor, I crawled into the vent and followed the sound of the conversation.
Once above the main penthouse chamber, I braced myself against the metal supports, hanging upside down like some oversized spider.
Then, when the moment came, I slid open a vent grate and slipped onto the ceiling frame where no eyes ever looked.
The Curator sat behind an ornate table, draped in a robe meant to broadcast power but which only revealed insecurity. Surrounding him were dozens of his hired guards, all tense, all armed.
Across from him sat the three Overwatch representatives. The Curator cleared his throat nervously.
"Thank you," he began, "for coming under these… unfortunate circumstances. I hope you can excuse the environment. These precautions are...."
"Unnecessary," the lead Overwatch agent interrupted pleasantly.
"Good to see you again… Mr. Valen...."
The Curator stiffened hard. "The Curator," he corrected sharply. "Is fine."
A polite smile from the agent. "As you wish. Now, you requested this meeting. What did you want from us?"
The Curator exhaled, gathering whatever fragile pride he had left. "I have decided… to accept your invitation."
He leaned forward. "To join Overwatch."
The room fell silent.
A scoff. Not subtle at all, or professional. A full-bodied, disdainful scoff from the lead representative.
The Curator's face flushed with shock and offense.
"W- why do you scoff? You extend an invitation for months and now...."
The rep's smile never wavered.
"We extended an invitation to who we believed to be a philanthropist, not a paranoid arms dealer hiding behind one hundred men."
They gestured lazily around the penthouse.
"What exactly are you protecting yourself from, Curator?"
The Curator swallowed hard, eyes darting.
"And then," the rep continued casually, "there's the sighting of Dagger last night."
The Curator flinched, a move that wasn't missed by anyone in the room.
"And the fact," they added, "that we know you were present at the Fusionator incident. You didn't think we'd notice?"
Silence. Absolute, suffocating silence. It made me feel bad for him. For only a moment.
"So," the rep concluded, rising from their chair, "why should Overwatch involve itself in unnecessary Talon business?"
Panic bloomed across the Curator's face.
"W–wait!" They paused mid-turn.
"What… do I have to do," the Curator whispered shakily, "for Overwatch protection?"
The answer came cool and sharp. "Simple. Tell us why Talon was hunting you."
The Curator looked down, gathering his resolve, and opened his mouth....
THUD.
A dagger embedded itself in the wall beside his head, quivering. Everyone looked at the dagger, then towards the ceiling. Red lasers illuminated the darkness of the roof. And I dropped from the ceiling. My boots touched the ground soundlessly.
The room erupted into overlapping threats, safeties clicking, shouts filling the air, but I didn't move. I stood completely still, posture loose, hands empty.
The Overwatch representative assessed me calmly.
"I can assume you're Dagger."
I didn't answer.
The Curator's voice trembled as he backed away.
"What do you want from me?" he asked, voice cracking. "What do you want?"
I turned my head sharply with a mechanical, unnatural motion exactly like I trained. Then I faced him fully.
"A deal."