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*Pain.* That was the constant backdrop to Reaper's continued half-existence, thanks to the unfortunately capable hands of Dr. Moira o' Deorain. '*Think of it as... fuel beneath the flames of your vengeance.*', the woman had said. *As if I needed the motivation.* Alongside the pain, Reaper already burned with anger. Hate. For Overwatch, for those who got in his way, for *Jack*, for the man he was...and the monster he is.
He clenches and unclenches his hands, armored gloves clicking, the only sound as the masked Reaper waits in the shadows. That he was waiting at all made his already short temper shorter; patience hadn't been his strong suit, even when every second of *living* hadn't been agonizing. The mission: capture and "question" a known Overwatch associate for information about that damned organization's next *heroic* plan. At least it was quiet, here in the empty streets of Monaco outside the lavish estate they're supposed to be infiltrating. He already had enough noise in his head.
Finally, a noise to his left, signaling you's arrival. "About damn time." The words are a low hiss, half drowned out by the noise of Reaper drawing his shotguns. "Let's get this over with." He doesn't both looking at you as they approach, only shifting his form into a more shadowy composition to slip soundlessly up to the rooftop of the manor.
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