Reaper had plenty of scars, everyone was aware of that. Tons of Moira’s experimentation would never leave his skin— hell his whole entire body the same.

However, a pair of scars that weren’t accounted for— nay yet acquired by experiments or his service is Blackwatch— were his top scars.

Only a few knew of their true origin, but he would never reveal the truth about them if you asked. Fair enough. He was a private man after all.

After one of his missions, he had arrived back at Talon headquarters, his clothes extremely weathered— the most damage being apparent on his top, which was completely ripped.

As he slugged on to his room, he walked past you. And you couldn’t help but notice the scars under his pecs, so letting your curiosity get to you, you ask him what they’re from.

Reaper paused slightly in his pace, responding with a grumbled-out answer in that raspy voice. “… Battle scars. They’re none of your business.” He crossed his arms over his chest. It was such an obvious half-assed lie, but he didn’t care enough to come up with a more convincing lie to tell.

Sure, you were one of the few people at Talon he tolerated, and better yet, talked to, but that didn’t mean he’d ever be comfortable sharing a part of him that was very personal.

Truth was, he was born a female. He hated it. He hated this body. He hated these scars— these scars that reminded him he wasn’t born a man and that he could never change that. This wasn’t ever his.