The coordinates led beneath Geneva that ran deeper than any official map reached, deeper than Overwatch would ever admit existed. They took me past the city's forgotten arteries: old subway lines buried under newer ones, tunnels warped by time and silence. The air thickened as I went, laced with the metallic tang of ozone and decay.
At the end of the descent waited a door of steel and frost. A single sensor glowed red. I pressed the black-sealed envelope to it; the spiral wax mark shimmered, then vanished as the mechanism clicked open.
The world that greeted me wasn't chaos. It was order that felt cold, sterile, terrifyingly precise.
They were waiting for me in the antechamber: three Talon guards clad in matte black armor, visors gleaming faint crimson. One of them held out a sealed case.
"Your credentials," the guard said flatly.
I opened it. Inside lay a mask that was smooth, blackened titanium, its lower half carved like a split blade. Along the inside, a faint script etched in silver: "Truth is only what survives."
And beneath it, a new identification tag:
Alias: Dagger
Division: Experimental Operations
Status: Active
"Your real name," the guard continued, "stays buried. From this moment, you are Talon's knife. Nothing more."
I slid the mask over my face. The world went dark for a heartbeat, then came alive in red tint as the visor adjusted. My voice, when I spoke, came out hollow, altered.
"Then lead the way."
They led me through corridors humming with unseen energy. Every step echoed like a countdown. We passed glass walls where people, or what used to be people, floated in viscous fluid, veins traced with wires. Machines breathed for them. The air carried antiseptic and electricity.
"This facility," one of the escorts said, "is called Vulturis. Our lower lab. Few have seen it, even fewer have walked out."
When the doors to the main chamber opened, light hit like a blade. At its center stood Cain, unmasked now with his sharp-features, calm, the kind of man who saw every conversation as a chessboard.
"So," he said, smiling faintly, "the famous Dagger finally joins us."
"Famous?" I asked, voice modulated.
He gestured to a bank of monitors. "Your file precedes you. Field medic turned strategist, turned ghost. They say you've seen more death than mercy."
"Depends on the day."
His grin widened. "Then you'll fit right in."
Cain guided me past reinforced windows. Behind them lay rows of machines, glowing tanks, and cybernetic frames half-sheathed in human tissue. A dozen scientists in black coats moved with silent coordination.
"This," he said, "is where medicine and warfare learn to speak the same language. The world above fears evolution. We perfect it."
One of the tanks shuddered as something inside clawed weakly at the glass, which was a hybrid of man and steel, chest glowing faintly blue where a synthetic core pulsed.
I forced my voice to stay calm. "You're failing the resonance loop. The current's burning through the cortex."
Cain arched a brow. "And you know this how?"
"I've seen it before."
He motioned for me to continue. I walked to the console, adjusted the frequency generator, and rerouted the voltage through a secondary channel which was easy for me to do. In experimental testing for my Blackline, I ran into the same problem, although it was on mice. They skipped the pleasantries and immediately tested it on humans.
The problem they faced was the same as mine, what to do if a person had synthetic or metal implants when human tissue started the process of reforming. Unlike me, who thought of that problem before it arose, I see that Talon wasn't as intelligent. Unless, of course, they didn't care.
The thrashing stopped. The core light steadied. The monitors flatlined into a slow, stable rhythm.
Cain exhaled, impressed. "You see? I knew you were worth the invitation."
"Consider it a free consultation."
He laughed quietly. "We don't do free here, Dagger. You've just earned your seat."
He brought me to another room which was darker, lined with dozens of flickering holo-screens. Each showed different parts of the world: newsrooms, protests, Omnic news, and Parliament debates.
"This is Talon's other battlefield," Cain said. "Information. Control the narrative, and you never need to fire a bullet."
On one screen, Adawe spoke before the UN Council, her tone calm, resolute. "…Overwatch's duty is not dominance, but stewardship. We rebuild, we heal, we preserve."
Cain folded his arms. "Idealism. Admirable, but impractical. You can't heal a world that refuses to stop bleeding."
"Maybe that's because people like you keep cutting it," I said before I could stop myself.
He looked at me, eyes narrowing. Then, to my surprise, he smiled. "Good. You still have teeth. I'd be disappointed if you didn't bite."
He handed me a datapad, its surface displaying research logs, chemical models, and projected augment schematics. "Your new department: Bioelectric Stabilization. You'll work with our engineers to refine the serum Elise Meret failed to perfect. If you succeed, we'll usher in a new age of soldiers who never die, only adapt."
"You can't build immortality," I said.
"Then build stability." He leaned closer. "That's all evolution ever asks."
I pretended to study the data, but every image on the pad etched itself into my mind. I'd use it later to turn their science inside out before it ever saw daylight.
Before I left, Cain stopped me. "One more thing," he said. "Dagger. The name suits you. Do you know why?"
I shook my head.
He circled me once, hands clasped behind his back. "A gun can be traced. A bomb leaves fragments. But a dagger?" He smiled thinly. "It leaves silence. You cut, you vanish. No one remembers the hand that held it."
"Maybe that's the point."
He chuckled. "We'll see how long you can live as a ghost."
By dawn, I walked alone through Geneva's empty streets. The mask was hidden beneath my coat; the datapad burned like a confession in my pocket.
In Overwatch's records, I was still Staff Sergeant Shawn Rose, known as a medic, soldier, hero.
But beneath the city, I'd been reborn as something else.
Dagger.
A name with no face, no allegiance. A weapon pointed at the darkness, but aimed by no one.