reinhardt { peacekeeper } fin

Jazz played in the office while he waited, tapping his fingers to a happy tune and grinning, eyes closed -- he nearly fell asleep that day. It was easier, sleeping, with the title back on his name after years of watching moss grow on his own silver mantle; 

O V E R W A T C H

He smiled in solace. 

The first peaceful day of years of fighting, begging and watching the organization he put his heart in rot with the same coagulated blood flow any failed mission was treated with. He bit his tongue every time he read it, status: failed, like red text of a neon alarm clock telling him in the morning to wake up -- it was his alarm. Failure in red text as he slept alone, a glow burning into his eyes as he popped back pains out of his spine: they left. An empty office of white, the first time cold winds ate at him, one detention center and a whole life's work was undermined. 

He nearly killed the kids responsible. 

Glory sat in his hand, a new-born white bird -- pecking at his palm while an axe stay gripped in the other, like a shotgun one shot away from the name Reinhardt, it fucked him over, that revolt. His branch of overwatch crumbling and every kid under his treatment sentenced back into the system, they didn't tell him this. That the revolt meant termination of his branch; he never expected it. Those center's halls and cheering people feeling the first taste of outside air, he should have been proud. He wanted to be proud, he was always to support the underdog even as he sat on its chest, beating it from above. 

And it killed him, with every red name to send his first group back into a shredder, their faces ripped in stripes that matched their detention center uniforms;

"They're good people, Trevino,"

"I don't care, Reinhardt."

They didn't blame him either; the most of them at least. Begging for their case, a tables length away from choking a man, I know them, he signed every last one of their names. Every one name who placed the blame on somebody else; he almost wished they'd take him down with them, putting all their weight on a name only big enough to hold him but he was known for being too big anyways, there was no drowning Reinhardt. He signed each of their names and prayed it'd kill him. 

In a way he'd like to see them now, his smile and burly body and show them that he lived. That he cared. It was unethical, he was told. Head of this revived branch now, Reinhardt breathed winter winds from district two mountains -- he couldn't save that first group. Through a year of sovereignty and safety he swore for them, they never blamed him, so he learned to smile. He realized he had to. Strumming the tips of fat fingers on a wooden desk, his free hand holding his head up; he's always liked Jazz the most. The overwatch branch under his shadow fully, the smallest perk was control over any radio they afforded between headquarters. 

He smiled like he had learned to do over six long years.

Things can be destroyed, but as long as the people are strong, they can always be rebuilt.

Mountain years -- he couldn't count days apart only that he had something to prove for nobody; nobody but himself. The revolt was taken care of in every way he could help, listening to higher ups before moving back to those district two regions. Winter was home, his mother grabbing his cheeks as a child until the turned red; the mountains were the closest thing he had to it again. His mother hugged him on return, wrapping arms around his waist and he squeezed a trap of a hug hard enough to pop her back, she laughed. Slapped the back of his head questioning why she saw him again, and why he wasn't out with overwatch and a part of him wanted to smile that Wilheim family smile. 

"I'm sorry," it got lonely, surviving.

Years passed like harsh breezes, living life slowly with feeding goats and taking care of his mother -- love was never an act he bothered with. Never a thing he had time for, through rolled sleeves and overalls: he made kids laugh when he went shopping. And it made it feel almost worth waiting, kids screaming and pointing at a mountain man, he wore snow on all 6'6" of him and looked like father ratmas himself, they smiled. 

A knock on the door, jazz music fleeting underneath and Reinhardt coughed. They entered, "Lena Oxton," a growl, an introduction. 

"How would you like to join Overwatch?"

[  justice will be done  ]