The Overwatch Rewritten.

Chapter 1 - Part 1

Chapter 1

Soles crushed against the mud with agonising certainty, yelling through the crowds. The batwing doors flew open as mud spew out from her shoes, landing in an Irishman's glass. Turning the drink into a deep shade of brown. The woman laid there, her short blonde hair matted with dirt. "Are yer mad lass? In Dublin?" the man slams his drink down and extends his scarred, hirsute arm. A scabbard empties into his hand happily. The bartender grabbed the man and hauled him out. The woman adjusted herself, stood and looked around for the men she was ordered to kill. One: a black man wearing a long trench coat and black fedora, the other, a white man with short black hair wearing a dark three piece suit that had a fiery 'O' over the breast. The woman watches them for seconds. They stood, with no drinks, just speaking. The man on the left clenched his fist. "Corvi cito veniunt, currere debemus." The man on the right scoffed. The man on the left gritted his teeth. The woman recognised the language. Latin. The Old Tongue. The man on the left had said- The woman felt eyes on her. The bartender. A whisper poked through and found her ear. Her hand went to her dagger She suddenly relaxed, just the voices. She went back to look at the men. They were still talking, she looked around for an entry. She saw a bathroom to her right. She looked back to the men but there was only one there (the suit one) holding a drink, smiling. Something was off. The man left the drink, stepped towards her and she unsheathed her dagger and in one swift motion, ended his life. The man fell forward, blood sprayed out, ruining the hardwood. She smiled, her job done. She flipped him over and studied his jacket. The 'O' was prominent, where had she seen it before? The Overwatch. She was on neither side but she understood both. She was simply a mercenary, a hitman. She brushed her hair aside and pulled out her phone. Her Slavic accent showing as the call was answered. "Body two done. Plaza sector 3 in Dublin. Target 1 unknown. Suspected runner-" she heard the phone click. The man had hung up, smoke almost came out of her ears. She needed her pay. The whispers grew louder. She had to fight to calm them. Then something clicked. This man was no ordinary. This man was the leader. A buzz echoed from her pocket. She held the phone to her ear. "Where is my money?" she asked. The man finally spoke, "You will get your money. Send a picture." American. The woman scoffed. She sent a photo and the man spoke again: "It was nice to work with you." the man hung up. She spat and yelled in her native tongue. The bartender still wasn't back yet however...She felt a hand on her shoulder. She whirled around and saw the dead man. Her eyes widened. She took a step back and composed herself. "Not easy to kill, are you?" she gritted her teeth. The man extended his arms. She drew her dagger and twirled it. "However, I am not either." she smirked. The man stood completely still like he was focusing, the body on the ground and the blood vanished. She felt her head swoon, the room blurred and she felt a liquid coming from her nose. The whispers grew louder than ever as the room focused. The bartender was nowhere to be seen, the two men stood in front of her, the trench coat man grinning as if he was overrun with insanity. The suited man stared at her.

"You know what we must do now don't you?" the trench coat man said. Her jaw locked, she took a quick look around and saw nothing except the bartender watching them. The batwing doors sang a sermon of entrapment, they carried a pink trail around them, just faint enough for an expert to see. She noticed the bartender lifting his left index finger toward the doors, he looked almost bored. Enchanter. She turned back toward them. "You must be the hypnotist." she said, gesturing to the trench coat man. He smiled again. She turned to the suited man. "I don't know you." He nodded. He suddenly stood still and took a step to the right and there was two of him. She couldn't help but be impressed. Suddenly, she felt queasy, her vision blurred. The hypnotist had his hand extended toward her, she focused with all her might and threw her dagger at the suited man. He dodged it and it crashed into the wall, cracking its very fabric, and oozed blue. The man came over and crouched down next to her. He took out her phone and pocketed it, pulled out a gun, an old style revolver, and started loading a bullet into it. She could see nothing but blurry colours now. Suddenly her vision cleared. "Any last words?" the hypnotist said. She sat up and shook her head a little. The whispers had finally stopped. She stared down the barrel. The man took one last look and finally spoke. "I do what I must, I do not like to end lives. But you cannot be allowed to live." She nodded. The bartender saw her die. His finger lowered and he gave the two men a little salute.