George was a fairly normal boy, by most metrics. He was 5'10" with brown hair and eyes, and at 18, spent most of his time worrying about the decisions he would have to make about his future.
It was important, he had been told, to have a clear idea of what you want to do when you're young so that you can work towards it.
He, however, had almost no idea what his life would contain.
He did not have any stellar aspirations or dreams of grandeur.
In fact, he was content to simply play video games, eat, and sleep each day.
It was a cycle that he had spent his first 18yrs of life steadily perfecting.
However, there was one particular obsession that he kept hidden.
In a world that seemed so terribly unromantic all the time, George felt an irresistible attraction to the now-defunct police organization known as Overwatch.
Its name struck him as somewhat Orwellian, which he thought may have contributed to the public's distrust of it near the end of its existence, but to him, Overwatch was a romantic symbol of the eternal conflict between Good and Evil. It was a light that would chase Darkness into the shadows, and wouldn't rest until Justice had been done.
Or, at least, that's what it had been.
Now, it was simply relegated to the history books, and George spent a lot of time wondering what could have been if the organization hadn't been shuttered over, ironically, a lack of oversight and clear accountability.
As a result, George's daily treks to and from school and work were consumed by daydreams of Jack Morrison, Reinhardt: The German Giant, and Lena Oxton…
Especially Lena Oxton…
Ever since he had first seen pictures of the hero named "Tracer", George had been smitten.
He had watched the Overwatch recruitment videos with her dozens of times, completely enamored by her adorable accent, and the way that she would always exclaim, "The world could always use more heroes".
"Yeah", George thought to himself as he turned the final corner to his job, "The world really could these days".
A few more steps, and George stood in front of the entrance to his work: the Overwatch Museum.
His friends had thought it was weird that he wanted to work there, but to George, it was almost a dream job, even if it did pay minimum wage.
When it opened, the museum saw a flood of business from the public, who were eager to remember the heroes of yesterday.
Since then, though, traffic into and out of the museum had slowed.
Maybe the world had just stopped caring about the past as much.
Maybe it just stopped believing in heroism or maybe the struggles of the real world became too much for people to forget by visiting a museum.
Whatever the cause, the museum had to make some financial decisions regarding the staff, and as a result, George found himself sat in the admissions booth, holding the titles of cashier and security guard simultaneously.
He hadn't been given a gun or any sort of weapon.
Instead, he had been instructed to simply watch the monitors and call the police if he felt that a dangerous situation was developing.
George had never had to do that, thankfully.
Most disruptions that occurred were overzealous kids, and George felt more than capable of handling them before things got too far out of hand.
He peered out from his station and gazed up at the sky.
"It's a pretty dreary day", George thought as he observed the layer of gray clouds above, "Don't think we'll be getting too many people in, anyways".
And with that, he leaned back in his chair and unfolded the magazine that he had been keeping in his backpack.
As he allowed his mind to drift away from the dreariness of reality, George failed to notice the shadow that dashed across one of the monitors…
George's shift passed by without incident.
A few people had walked in front of the building, but none had ventured to George's booth.
George had spent most of his time daydreaming and thinking about he would do when he got home.
As the sun finished setting and the street lights flickered on, the custodian opened the front door of the museum and waved to George.
"Good night, George. I shut off the lights and everything, so you don't need to worry about it. I'll see you tomorrow"
George smiled and waved back.
"Thanks, Delores. I'll see you tomorrow"
And with that, George rose from his throne and stretched.
He groaned as he felt the stiffness in his muscles before he grabbed his backpack to start readying for the walk home.
As he put away the magazine and other books he had been reading, George cast a quick glance to the monitors lining one of the walls.
He stopped.
Something was amiss.
He withdrew his hands from his bag and walked over to the monitors to make sure that he was seeing it correctly, and sure enough, there it was, showing up in a dimly-lit corridor: an open door.
"Well that's not supposed to happen", George whispered to himself.
He knew exactly which door it was, or rather, where it led.
When the museum was still experiencing the opening boom, they would often have Overwatch-related artifacts flown in from other parts of the world.
Ever since the business slowed down, though, they kept most of the "rare" items in a storage room.
It was a room that George wasn't even allowed to enter freely, and it surely wasn't meant for random strangers to explore.
"I don't remember anyone buying a ticket", George thought as he reached for one of the desk drawers.
In between himself and the desk was the office's phone, and as George's hand passed by it, he froze momentarily as he pondered phoning the police.
That was what he had been told to do, after all.
"Bah", he thought dismissively as he reached into the drawer and pulled out a flashlight, "Delores probably just forgot to close it."
He flicked the flashlight on and off to see if it worked before strolling out of the admissions booth, opening the front door of the museum, and stepping into darkness of the building.
George whistled while he turned the final corner and saw the still-open door.
Twirling the flashlight in his hand, he walked over to it and grabbed the handle, opening it fully.
"Hello?", he yelled into the darkness, "Is anyone there…?"
George stood still for a few seconds, listening for a reply, but none was given.
George shook his head and started to close the door.
"Silly Delores", he said to himself.
A sharp sound, like metal on concrete, echoed through the darkness and froze George where he stood.
There was no doubt.
It came from within the storage space.
"But nobody is in there", George thought, "Or at least, no one's supposed to be…"
George stood paralyzed for what felt like an eternity before mustering up the courage to crack the door open a little more.
He cleared his throat anxiously before calling out again.
"H-Hello…?"
More clattering, this time clearly distinguishable as multiple objects hitting the ground.
George had never been more aware of how dark and intimidating the museums corridors could be until that very moment.
"P-Probably just some shitty kid, right…?" George tried to reassure himself as the door creaked open and he stepped inside.
He nervously flipped the flashlight's switch on, and started walking farther into the darkness.
"H-H-Hey, kid", George said, "You're not allowed back here…"
The clattering sounds continued, and when George came up on one of the many rows, he could tell that it was coming from his left.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck", George said to himself as he nervously stepped in the direction of the noise.
After a few fearful steps, George could see a light in one of the alcoves and a shadow that most certainly was not some random kid's.
George noticed it taking down boxes, removing their tops, and throwing their contents to the side.
It was looking for something.
"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck"
George turned off his flashlight and clutched it to his chest before sidling closer.
Once he was at the final shelf before the intruder, George stopped.
He could feel his heart beating a million miles a minute, and he became suddenly aware of how tightly his sweaty palms were gripping his flashlight.
He closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing before slowly peeking around the corner to see who, or what, was there.
It wasn't good.
It was a figure that George had seen on the news numerous times.
Not one that he had ever thought or hoped that he would see in person.
It was a man, maybe 6ft tall, of muscular build, and aside from his gloves and boots, he wore only two things.
The first was black robe.
The second was a mask that resembled a skull.
"FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK"
George quickly whipped back into hiding before the terrorist known as Reaper could see.
If he wasn't on the verge of a heart attack before, he certainly was now.
His entire body was sweating, and his knuckles were white from gripping the flashlight.
"Call the police", George thought, "That's what you should do. Just call the police. They'll know how to handle this"
He turned to walk away, trying to think of the closest phone and how he would get there.
There was an office at the end of the outer corridor that had a phone in it, he remembered.
It was just a simple matter of-
And then he tripped.
.
.
.
His feet tangled together, and George threw his arms out to stop himself from falling flat on his face.
It worked, and he looked up in time to see the flashlight bounce on the ground, making what seemed like the loudest noise that George had ever heard.
The world froze.
George's heart stopped.
Reaper stopped.
Then the black-robed terrorist stood up and darted to the end of the aisle.
He looked towards the direction of the sound, and saw a frozen, petrified George staring back at him.
Growling, Reaper started reaching into his robe and walking towards George.
George shrieked and stumbled onto his feet before sprinting through the maze of shelves.
As he ran past one of the aisles, a box beside him exploded into a mess of cardboard, ripped apart by a shotgun shell that was meant for George.
"Shit", George exclaimed as he brought his arms up to shield him, "Shit, shit, shit"
Another box exploded as George ran to the end of the row, and hurriedly turned the corner to the entrance.
Reaper, meanwhile, threw aside his guns in anger before pressing his hand to his ear and activating his communicator.
"We have a witness"
George dashed through the open door, and whirled around to slam it closed.
Then he started to sprint down the hallway to the office.
The only light to guide him came from the wall opposite the storage room.
As an aesthetic choice, the designers of the building had constructed it as a huge, doming glass wall that acted as one massive window.
George had always thought it was a weird design, but he was never happier to have it than right now.
His legs burned, his lungs felt like they were about to explode, but George willed himself on past the numerous free-standing displays that led the way to the office.
He grabbed the handle and turned it, happy to have finally reached salvation.
Except it didn't open.
"No", George whispered as his tried in vain to open it again, "No, no, no"
"KEYS!", he exclaimed.
He started patting down all of his pockets, searching for the keys that he had been given.
He found them in his back pocket, and his fingers fumbled as he tried to get them out.
He brought the key ring to his face and started sifting through the myriad keys to try and find the one for the office.
"Admissions, no; bathroom, no; supply closet…"
George's fingers started losing their subtlety as his nerves became more and more on-edge.
"Come on, FUCK", George screamed at himself as he tried desperately to distinguish the keys from each other.
Finally, he found it, and he started to stick it in the keyhole…
When he saw a red dot float along his arm.
He froze again before slowly turning towards the transparent wall.
There they were.
On one of the adjacent rooftops, he could see it.
A red light dancing on his face as the sniper lined up the shot.
Death.
His arms felt like two ton weights.
His legs still burned from running.
Even if he could get into the office, they could still probably shoot him through the window.
He couldn't move.
He couldn't run anymore.
This was it.
Images and memories, thoughts and dreams; all of them passed through George's mind as a blur while he awaited the end.
Things he wished that he'd done.
Confessions left unspoken.
George's tear ducts begin to swell, and another recursive image came to mind.
Overwatch.
He couldn't help but think how ironic it was that he would meet his end in a place that gave him so much hope.
At least it was a place he liked.
"I guess that's better than most people get", George thought morbidly.
He would at least face his death head on, he decided.
George took a moment to compose himself, pushed back his tears, and picked up his head to stare at the now-steady laser sight.
He took one final breath.
Closed his eyes.
And felt himself get knocked to the ground, landing in a rough heap of humanity.
"That bullet felt very strange", George thought to himself, "Not at all what I thought it would be like…"
He could hear the bang reverberating.
"I always thought getting shot would be a lot more… Instant…"
"Wait…"
He hadn't been shot.
George opened his eyes.
He hadn't been shot.
He'd been tackled, and was now lying behind one of the standing displays of the museum.
"Stay down, luv", an eerily familiar voice said into George's ear.
A voice he'd only ever heard in videos, though he'd watched them dozens of times.
George turned his head to look at the person pinning him to the ground.
His cheeks started to burn as he recognized his savior.
"T-Tracer?!"
The brown-haired Brit responded to her name by winking at George and smiling.
"At your service", she said cheekily.
The moment was interrupted when another shot rang out, and Tracer once again pressed George against the ground.
"What's your name, luv?", Tracer asked.
"G-George"
"Right, George. I've got something to take care of, but I'll be back in a flash", Tracer said with a smile before rolling off George and blinking away.
George laid still for a moment, still trying to process what was happening.
Failing to think of anything better to do, and giving in to his curiosity, George pulled the rest of his body behind the display and poked his head over the top to watch what was happening.
There she was: George's hero blinking up the fire escape of the building across the street in pursuit of the sniper on top.
George's would-be killer had entirely lost interest in him, opting instead to fire down at the pursuant Tracer, but none of the shots ever found their mark.
Tracer was too fast for that.
George swore that he could even make out a smile decorating the face of the speedy trickster.
She made it look so easy, being brave.
He was jealous of that.
"Guess that's the difference between heroes and plebs like me", George thought.
Tracer, meanwhile, was getting closer and closer to the sniper's rooftop perch.
The sniper took one final shot at the rapidly-approaching Overwatch agent and, when it missed like the others, did something George never thought they'd do.
They jumped off the roof.
George's mind had long since given up on trying to make sense of the situation, but this development still surprised him.
The sniper allowed themselves, momentarily, to fall towards the ground before shooting a wire towards the museum, which latched onto a part of the building just above the section of destroyed glass.
Tracer had anticipated such an event, and launched herself from the fire escape and into the falling assassin, knocking their gun out of their hand, and hugging her arms around them to prevent escape.
The two of them swung pendulously before their combined weight caused the wire to snap, sending both tumbling into the museum.
The two of them rolled on the ground before coming to a stop a few feet away from the flabbergasted George.
Tracer jumped to her feet, seemingly unfazed by her fall, and pulled her pistols on her adversary.
Now, finally, George could see the person who tried to kill him.
It was a woman, at least George thought so.
Her blue skin made George wonder if she was even human, but she did seem faintly familiar.
That's right; she was called Widowmaker.
He had seen her alongside Reaper on television, alongside some ludicrous reward for any information leading to their capture.
Now, he might get a chance to claim it.
"Sorry, luv", Tracer said as she smirked at her foe, "I'm afraid there's no escape this time".
Widowmaker scoffed before picking herself off the ground and sitting up.
"You have a great talent for acting before you think", the blue assassin quipped.
"Oh, come now. I'm not that bad", Tracer pouted, "It worked out pretty well this time".
George couldn't help but smile at that.
His joy, however, was interrupted when something from the corner of his eye caught his attention.
"Is that… smoke?"
Widowmaker shook her head and smiled wickedly.
"Oh, ma Cherie…"
George was sure of it now.
Clouds of black mist were swirling, gathering together to form something.
George couldn't guess what it was, but he was sure that, whatever it was, it wasn't good.
"She doesn't see it", George realized, "She doesn't know it's there".
It was becoming even larger now.
George's legs still burned.
His arms were still heavy.
But he had to.
The smoke was solidifying now.
It was…
"Reaper?"
He had to help her.
Widowmaker's smile curved maliciously as she glanced behind Tracer.
Curious, the speedy savoir glanced behind her shoulder.
Reaper had now fully materialized, and he readied his shotgun to fire.
George's limbs moved on their own.
Faster than he thought possible, George closed the distance between them.
"This is it", he said to himself, "I'm finally going to be a hero"
He lunged at Tracer, and tackled her.
The world erupted into light.
All George could see was overflowing blue light that lasted for an instant before everything disappeared.
Darkness.
Nothing seemed to exist.
George felt like he was falling, but he couldn't tell how far he'd fallen or how far he had to fall.
"Is this Hell?", George asked himself.
It was cold.
If there were any light, George would have been able to see his breath.
George shivered and his teeth chattered as the cold pierced him to the bone.
"Maybe this is the punishment for all of the things I've done"
"Maybe I'm just cursed to endure this for all eternity…"
A dot of light became visible below him.
George had never been a religious person, but he found himself praying that the light would offer some form of salvation.
The light grew larger and larger, until George crashed into like a train entering a station.
Images flew past him as he fell through the light.
Pictures of the future, past, and a thousand other realities flooded George's mind.
In a single moment, all the horrible truths of the universe rushed into George's brain, and he briefly understood his place in the universe.
George's brain felt like it was on fire, desperately trying to keep up with the information that was flowing into it.
It was all George could do to scream, the agony of the moment almost ripping his mind apart.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"
Every cell in George's body felt like it was being electrocuted, and he felt himself being ripped apart by the power of this place.
Tracer blinked away from the two Talon agents before rolling on the ground.
Something had pushed her mid-blink, and when she heard a thud behind her, she quickly realized what it was.
George tried to pick himself off the ground, but his arms collapsed out from under him, and he fell on the ground, unconscious.
Or at least Tracer thought it was George.
He looked like him.
Well, mostly like him…
He looked older, not by much, but enough to be noticeable.
He was slightly taller, more muscular, and his face had lost the youthful exuberance it possessed mere seconds before.
His hair was also different.
It was entirely white now.
Tracer crawled over to him and put a finger on his neck.
"Phew", she sighed.
He was breathing.
He was alive.
For now.
Before Tracer could react, she found herself pinned against the floor, staring at George.
"I told you, ma Cherie", a wicked voice said from on top of her, "You should think before you act."
A pair of large black boots walked into Tracer's line of sight, stopping in between her and the unconscious George.
"Pathetic", Reaper said in a low, grisly tone.
He kicked George onto his back before turning to face his former colleague.
He knelt before her so that she could see his face.
"I want you to watch this, Oxton", the voice declared, "I want you to see what all your heroic efforts are worth"
"Fuck off", Tracer said as she struggled under Widowmaker.
A low, unsettling chuckle emanated from behind the mask, chilling Tracer to the bone.
Reaper turned and walked back over to the still-unconscious George.
"I'm going to enjoy this"
With that, he put one of his boots on George's chest and pointed a shotgun in his face.
George's eyes shot open, and Reaper looked at him amusingly.
"Sorry, kid. I've adopted enough stray mutts to know you should put them down instead"
George's eyes lost their sharpness.
His irises slowly shrank and glazed over until there was nothing but whiteness.
Reaper pulled the trigger.
And George disappeared…
The pellets from Reaper's shell lodged in the floor where George had been.
"What?!", Reaper called as he looked around for his escaped prey.
Tracer's eyes grew wide, and she stopped squirming.
A second later, she felt Widowmaker get blasted off her by some unseen force.
Reaper whirled around to see George standing over Tracer, his hand smoking after some mysterious act.
A growl came from behind the mask, and Reaper stepped towards the elusive boy.
He aimed both of his shotguns at him, and fired two shots at George.
To his surprise and frustration, George again blinked out of the way before blinking directly in front of Reaper, catching the terrorist off-guard.
George brought his fist back, and it ignited into flames as he punched the black-robed assassin.
Reaper cried out in pain as he was rocketed into the wall, fracturing it and making an indent on the surface.
He pulled himself out of the wall and stared at the strange boy standing before him, eyes still white.
After a few seconds of careful though, he began to transform into a cloud of black smoke once more.
"You're not worth the trouble", he growled as he disappeared, "Don't cross me again, boy… I won't be so merciful next time"
And with that, he was gone.
Tracer sat up and looked around.
In all of the noise, Widowmaker has managed to escape too.
She turned to marvel at the young man who was still standing nearby.
"George, luv, are you alright"
The white of George's eyes receded, being replaced by his normal iris and pupils, and George collapsed.
Tracer blinked over to him to break his fall.
"Oi, Georgie-boy, are you alright", she asked as her concern creeped into her voice.
George looked up at her and smiled.
"Georgie-boy?", he asked sleepily, "I guess I've had worse pet-names…"
George's vision turned blurry, and the last thing he heard before slipping into unconsciousness was Tracer calling his name.
George woke slowly.
Music was being played somewhere, and he cursed whatever band it was for waking him from his slumber.
It had been such a wonderful sleep.
"What an amazing dream", George thought as his mind begin the process of rebooting for the day.
There was a pulsing pain in George's head that faded as he woke up.
"I got to meet Tracer", he recalled with a smile, "She was so cute"
George laid in bed for a few more minutes before finally deciding to start the day.
He rolled out of bed…
And fell on the hard metal surface below.
Confused, George looked at his surroundings.
"This isn't my house", George thought, fighting the urge to panic.
He stood up and started to look around more.
Everything was alien to him: the beds, the pajamas, everything.
The windows were even strange to him.
He walked over and peered out.
The ocean and the sky were the only things outside his bedroom, and he could tell that he was moving at a fairly brisk pace too.
"What the fuck…"
He turned around and noticed a small alcove built into the wall with a shower a sink and a toilet.
He walked into the restroom and looked around before his eyes found a shirtless stranger's reflection in the mirror.
The unfamiliar image made him jump before a slow realization set in.
"No…" He whispered as he walked up to the mirror and started touching his new face, shifting it around to make sure it was actually his, "No, no, no"
He grabbed a strand of his hair and brought it before his eyes.
"And what the fuck happened to my hair?"
He wasn't entirely opposed to the changes, he had to admit.
The awkwardness of his youth had been replaced with a mature sophistication that seemed to suit George well.
His slender frame had been replaced by broad shoulders and a muscular physique.
He was, maybe for the first time in his life, handsome.
Before he knew it, his bedroom door opened and a pair of arms had wrapped themselves around his torso.
"OI! You're awake, Georgie-boy!"
George turned to face the source of the voice, though he didn't really need to see her to confirm who it was.
Tracer stepped back and smiled at George with her hands behind her back.
"I guess I shouldn't call you that anymore", she said sheepishly "What with your new callsign and everything"
George stood in shock for a moment before it dawned on him.
"Wait…", he said as he tried to wrap his brain around it, "So… that wasn't a dream"
Tracer cocked her head to the side curiously.
"What are you on about?", she asked.
"We were actually in a firefight with those two terrorists?", George asked.
"Oh yeah, and you kicked their butts", Tracer said while punching the air.
George leaned back against the sink.
It was real.
All of it was real.
Even that nightmarish flood of knowledge.
It all seemed fuzzy to him, but George could still tell that his brain had managed to absorb quite of bit of the forbidden knowledge.
He was lost in thought for a few moments as he came to accept the situation.
Finally, he sighed and brought a hand to his face to massage his temples.
"Sorry", he said apologetically to his companion, "It's kind of a lot to take in".
"No worries, luv", Tracer said enthusiastically, "We'll have time to debrief once we get home".
"Home?", George asked curiously.
"Of course!", Tracer replied, "We're almost to Gibraltar now".
Gibraltar.
Watchpoint Gibraltar.
"Of course", George said to himself, "The home of Overwatch".
He smiled weakly.
"Well, I guess we better get ready, then", He said.
"Too right", Tracer replied with a beaming smile.
She looked at George for a few seconds before she realized that she was staring at his bare chest.
Blushing, she looked away.
"I'll see you once you're done getting dressed", she said hurriedly before rushing out of his room.
"Oh, before you go", George said, stopping Tracer from escape the awkwardness of the moment, "You mentioned something about a callsign?".
"Oh, yeah" Tracer twirled around to face George, "Your new codename is 'Apollo'"
Her face still flushed red, Tracer bowed to George.
"W-Welcome to the Overwatch team"
And with that, she turned around and hurriedly left George's quarters.
George sat in shock for a moment.
"Apollo", he said to himself, "I like the sound of that".
A sudden warmth filled him with a realization.
"I'm a member of Overwatch… I'M A MEMBER OF OVERWATCH"
He jumped for joy and pumped his fist in the air.
He had achieved a dream.
Whatever came next was just icing on the cake, as far as he was concerned.
As he rummaged through the new clothes he had been given, the newly-christened Apollo smiled confidently.
He found a shirt that fit his new body and pulled it over his head before staring into the mirror.
"Alright, Future. Give me your best shot"
To be continued