He used to ask the others about their memories. Childhoods, upbringings, favorite places and family vacations. They would give him bits and pieces, describing their youths like they were looking back on it through a kaleidoscope or a mother's scrapbook, filling in the blanks between specific snapshots with the mundane, intricate complexities of emotion. Winston never understood that; he could pinpoint the exact moment he was able to remember things.
He knew it was an effect of the genetic experiments. Cerebral cortex augmentation, just one pit stop on the race he was entered into to make an animal's mind more like a human's for the same reason man went to the moon in the first place; to see if it could be done. In all his research, he was never able to figure out a better reason to do anything. Then again, science and the dreams of the heart never got along, because to spread your wings and live among the stars is irrational. Ironic, that he, a life devoted to science, lived just there, where dreams dared to go, among the stars.
His earliest memory is its own snapshot: an image of his hands, with particular focus on the intricacy of the lines in his palms. Before that, nothing. After that, everything he ever was. But his own story was never enough.
He used to ask the others about their childhoods.
Angela never entertained the question. Sometimes, she'd leave with a friendly smile; most of the time, she'd look down while her normally pleasant expression turned grim. He can still remember seeing the pain in her blue eyes, like lightning flashing under the sea. He remembers an instance, one of many instances he recalls in a graveyard, where she spoke to headstones like they could hear her, like they were people. He didn't conclude until later that, to her, they could, and they were. After all, heroes never die.
Others were easier to goad answers from. Commander Reyes talked about the Church of Santa Maria in the barrio, and how he was fond of its bells. He also told stories of how he and the gangs of neighborhood kids would fight during school for the hell of it, resuming their feuds after class was out, when they decided to even attend.
"There were worse things we could have been doing," Reyes had said, "like meth, or being pussies."
Commander Morrison talked about his farm, how he and his brothers and friends would play in the loft when they were younger, or how he was almost caught in a combine on more than one occasion, and how the stud horse, Charlie, kicked.
Winston sometimes shared his memories. He told them how the moon looked, or how it felt to be in a spaceship as it blasted off in next to zero gravity. The memory immediately after the image of his hands is of restraints around his forehead, arms and legs, and needles on robotic arms sticking him, the blue serum in the syringes emptying beneath his skin. He still remembers the sound of his own screaming: high pitched, terrified, and primal, more animal than man, and the same screams coming from the next room over. He wasn't the only test subject who hated needles.
He never shared that one.
He used to ask the others about their families. Lena used to talk about her father's study, how it smelled of Earl Grey, Crown and Macanudos. She talked about the old pictures of archaic members of the Oxton family hung on the walls, back when all pictures were taken in black and white, and the pictures of her father when he was younger, stronger, his mustache absent, and in the Royal Air Force. She talked about the bookshelves, and how she used to sit on his knee while he read her Tolkien. She'd always giggle at that part.
Jesse used to talk about the yellow dress his mother wore on Sundays, and how it made her brown eyes look green. He used to talk about her cooking, and how whenever a guest came over she made plates and plates full of green chili, chicken mole or tamales. He talked about how she used to love Clint Eastwood and the Marlboro Man. He talked about how she cried when she found out about Deadlock, and how he missed her.
Genji talked about his older brother, but very rarely. A happy memory would cross his mind: a joke, a story, something small, and his robotic voice sounded happier for a few short moments before other memories of his brother came back.
Winston never had a family. His biological parents were used only for breeding; he and his siblings were promptly taken and placed in controlled environments by Horizon staff shortly after birth. He never recognized any of his brothers or sisters, but he and the other test subjects were allowed regimented social time in a recreational enclosure. The strongest of the young gorillas got to use the tire swing and the jungle gym while the weaker ones were forced to play with basketballs and teddy bears. Winston grew quite close to a specific teddy bear. Its name was Pollux, after the star he could see through his habitation suite's window.
Social hierarchy is something developed very early on in the evolution of a species. Wolves form packs, lions organize prides, cattle gather in a herd, and gorillas form troops. In these groups, the alphas are the physically strongest. The alphas did not play with teddy bears; they played on the jungle gym. Winston tried to play on the jungle gym once… once.
In the absence of external danger, there was no mutual benefit for the test subjects' troop to include all members. There was no reason to find safety in numbers, and there was no way for the alphas to identify themselves other than infighting. Instinct was still somewhere inside, even though by their first year, most of the gorillas on the moon showed intellectual capacity similar to most human six year olds, six year olds with more strength than most professional athletes. The first time Winston tried to play on the jungle gym, his arms were broken, and the incident was marked in Horizon's research observations.
He used to ask the others about family vacations. Torbjorn used to reminisce about his family's first trip to Denmark, and the first time he and his cousin had gone to Amsterdam. He was quite fond of that story.
Reinhardt talked about every city he had ever visited, and sometimes, it seemed like he had visited them all; some of them, he even visited in peace time. He often told a story of Paris, the city of light, up in flames, while the Eiffel tower was unscathed. If hope was an expression, a tone of voice, a glimmer of the eye, it was in that story.
The farthest trip Winston ever made was over 230,000 miles. The first time he went somewhere other than his habitation suite or the recreational enclosure, he went to the medical wing. He remembers the smell, the sting in his nostrils from the sanitizer, and the crisp starch of the sheets. He remembers how the hair on his arms itched under the white plaster of his casts. He remembers the first time he met the man with the glasses.
A minor fall. A major lift. A pentatonic arpeggio. He always liked music. Winston smiles as he hums to himself, a nostalgic fluctuation in his deep voice as a song from his past warmly marches out of Athena's PA.
They'd composed songs about Overwatch, mostly for the holovids. Epic orchestral scores that built into heroic suites were in every production promoting the organization, especially in its younger days. Those compositions always held a dear place in his heart; they still do.
Winston had always liked instrumental songs better. The ones with words seemed… hollow, when he was younger, before he knew what most of the words meant. He was able to appreciate the poetry in them now, but on the moon a song about a blue sky or the sea, or loved ones was meaningless, because they relied on the shared experience of the listener. The lunar sky was black, water was never seen in quantities more than a few cups, and love songs made it feel like love was exclusive to earth… it felt alien.
But instrumentals… you don't have to know any language to feel that emotion. They studied it on the test subjects at Horizon. Positive and negative reinforcement. They would play Beethoven right before feeding, Mozart when they were asked to solve puzzles and Chopin when it was time for bed. To this day, the Moonlight Sonata makes Winston's mouth water. Pavlov with a classical twist.
Even after he made it to Earth, Winston took a long time to realize just how much emotion could be put into a verse in a love song. He always wondered why the love songs were so often sad, until he first fell in love.
Dr. Harold Winston was the first friend he ever made. Their first meeting was documented by the medical bay's cameras, and so too would the majority of their subsequent meetings be recorded.
The infant gorilla jumps and reacts as most animals do, with flight, when the doors to the medical bay open and Dr. Harold Winston enters. He is not a large man; delicate glasses balance on the bridge of his Roman nose, and his stubbly whiskers form a grey shadow along his jawline. He is well dressed under his immaculate lab coat, and in his hands he holds a transparent holopad.
When he sees the small ape trying to escape his restraints with greater fervor as he approaches, Dr. Winston halts his advance. The gorilla slowly calms to an uneasy state of stillness, the same kind of stillness between gusts of wind in a storm.
"Hi," he says simply, smiling gently as fearful amber eyes stare up at him.
The gorilla's arms, casts plastered around both wrists, slowly sign, "Hello."
The test subjects had shown remarkable cognitive development thus far. Ever since the initial serum injections, most of the infant gorillas had shown intelligence more than three hundred percent greater than their control group counterparts of the same age, and the graphs showed promise for a steepening trend. Among the first things the Horizon project had sought to teach the gorillas was the lexicon alphabet, then American Sign Language. It was amazing, how most of them were able to understand basic sentences without accompanying signs for translation. In other words, some of the gorillas were able to comprehend English.
"I'm Dr. Harold Winston. I am the head researcher here."
The gorilla's spiky hair flows as his eyes dart submissively back and forth between the floor and the eyes of his visitor. He is nervous, and who is to blame him. He's been more or less an outcast among the subjects thus far.
"Gorilla 28," signs the ape slowly, not looking up.
Dr. Winston looks at the number on the gorilla's shoulder; black numbers against the tight white leotard confirm that test subject #28 is introducing himself. Remarkable. Before the conversation continues, Dr. Winston's holopad comes to life, and research notes are scribbled down with a stylus.
"How do you feel?" he asks.
"Arm hurt," signs 28, "sad."
Harold is moved. He can see the expression more in the gorilla's eyes than in the stiff motion of his arms and hands.
"Your arms hurt because you haven't taken your medicine."
The gorilla's eyes widen, and he looks away as he again tries to pull free of the restraints gluing him to the bed. When he realizes he is not escaping, he lets out a small yelp, and plops down, frantically signing away.
"Medicine scared," he signs, over and over again.
Dr. Winston recalls that the serums were called 'medicine' to the test subjects. He also recalls the reaction test subject 28 had to the injection. The words "phobia of medical treatment likely due to unresolved traumatic stress" are scrawled onto the holopad.
"I understand," he says as he tried to take a step closer, only aggravating the gorilla more; the leather restraints groan against the ape's powerful pull, even despite fractured ulnas.
He reaches into his pocket, and produces an incentive that has proven common among the test subjects: a vacuum sealed sleeve of peanut butter, the kind in soldiers' and astronauts' meal packs.
"Would… this make it better?" he asks, uncurling his fingers just out of the gorilla's reach to reveal the peanut butter lying in his palm; immediately, the ape's eyes brighten, but he is still cautious.
"Treat?" 28 signs, his lips parting with a small smacking sound.
"Yes, it's a treat," laughs Dr. Winston, "But only if you take your medicine."
As he finishes, the gorilla again retracts, a very human looking fear crossing his face again.
"It's not like that medicine," he corrects, a kind reassurance in his voice; he scratches his whiskers as he thinks of a better way to coax the gorilla, "This is… health candy. But you're only allowed to have it when you're sick or hurt."
28 nods, and pulls towards the doctor until his restraints lock out, and slowly, his fingers dash about, forming silent words.
"Gorilla hurt. Treat please?"
Harold smiles.
"Do you promise to take your health candy?"
28 pauses, slowly, looking down at the peanut butter, then at the pills at the bedside, but he looks longest up at Harold. It's amazing, when the animal's lips mimic the expression on the man's face, and they curl into a smile. This was the exact moment 28 began to trust Dr. Harold Winston as a man trusts another man, and it was regarded as one of the earliest and greatest breakthroughs in neurological enhancement since the founding of the study.
To Harold Winston, it was a profound moment, in which he wondered if his work was right, if he was playing God.
To test subject 28, it was the first time he had ever made a friend. It was also the beginning of a culinary obsession of pureed nuts.
Amber eyes gleam as a hairy hand snatches the peanut butter, and the plastic sleeve between white teeth, the gorilla's index finger comes up to his lips, then opens into a wide palm before descending onto his own fist.
"Promise."