Stranger

There was a gentle buzzing, like the incessant crashing of waves in a beach. He could feel it behind his ears and vibrating through his chest. It was reassuring at first, but now it had begun to palpitate. To push and invade his thoughts. The volume increased to the point he had to open his eyes. It diminished, but didn't go away. He looked around. Hundreds of cables connected him to machines he vaguely remembered. The pristine white sheets covering him only disoriented him further. His body was stiff, but strangely weightless. Any kind of movement took a lot more concentration. With a frown, he let his head drop back into the bed.

Distant memories begun to bleed into his mind, blurred and fragmented. A hospital, clearly. Someone asking for consent. Anger and pain. So much pain. But why? A fight? Maybe in the arcade, or a bar. Hanzo would kill him when he got home. A pang of fury. That wasn't it. He remembered his brother's face. He had been there. He had been yelling. He had been… chasing him? Because of father. Yes. Hanzo had… killed him.

He sprang up from the bed with a gasp, realization sinking in. He wasn't dead. And this was not a hospital. His heart threatened to burst through his chest. The stiffness was gone. His face decomposed into a snarl and a yell. Yes. As he crushed the covers between his hands and cursed, he remembered. That bastard had stabbed him in the back. His own blood. For duty, he had said. He scoffed and threw the sheets with all the force he could muster. They tangled in the cables. He looked down.

His arm. All thoughts stopped. For a second, his mind became blank. Then it exploded. What kind of shit was this? Metal? A bloody prosthetic? The consent. A doctor had visited him. Said something about technological aid. The words non-essential prosthetics burst through. Fumbling, he managed to remove the sheet completely after several tries. This… couldn't be happening. Just below the gown, his knees were metal. His calves. His feet. He tried to move his toes. They weren't there anymore.

He needed to stand up. To find a mirror. He plucked the cables out as fast as he could, ignoring the pain. Twisting and stumbling, he fell to the floor. Cold sweat formed on his face, dripping onto the floor and drenching his gown. Every order he gave took seconds to occur. The stiffness had come back. He had to use the bed as leverage, pulling himself up. There was no mirror. Only machines, whiteness and that bloody logo. Overwatch.

He would have to find himself a mirror. Every single step was lengthy, premeditated. He buckled countless times. Sometimes managing to grab something, others falling to his knees. Eventually, the glass door was right in front of him. The hall was empty. Even if alarms had gone off the second he unplugged himself, nobody seemed to come. He prepared to push, but froze. The reflection on the door was as clear as any mirror.

It was as he feared. Metal plates covered every inch of the extremities he could see. Between the cracks, a muscle-like fiber engorged or thinned as he moved. But his face. It was... not his. Dozens of branching cuts divided it, red and swollen. His skin was pale, his eyes bloodshot. His jaw was gone, replaced by more plates and fiber. This was not him. Not remotely. This was not the face of someone who could get any girl to sleep with him. Of the charismatic king of the arcade. Of a powerful heir to a criminal empire. And definitely not of a dragon.

A choke, and a whimper. With a powerful pull, he ripped the gown from himself. His chest was just as bad as his face. Where once carefully sculpted muscles rippled, pale skin and scars glared at him. Holes with metal cylinders laid across his stomach, glowing with a vibrant shade of green.

His reflection coiled, falling into its knees. It curled and screamed, letting tears fall freely from its face. It pulled at its metal skin, uselessly. When the doctors finally arrived, it lashed out. Punching. Kicking. Cursing. When it was sedated, he watched it grow numb as his own sight grew blurry. He wondered why.

As calmness finally took hold of him and doctors filed out of the room, licking their wounds, he wished he had told them to turn off the machines. The incessant buzzing hadn't gone away.

"Genji Shimada." Jack's voice was commanding, as always. He stood in the middle of the room, pointing at the holographic representation of her patient. "Heir to the Shimada clan, and our only chance to finally finish this operation." A silent gasp ran across the room. Angela nodded. It was to be expected. As much as she wished for the man to be an innocent victim, she knew Overwatch wouldn't treat just anyone with such a special treatment. However, her guts still tangled at the thought of what was done to him.

"With the reconstruction of his body, we gained a skilled agent. The surgery has been done successfully, giving us-" A low grunt from the opposite side of the room stopped him mid-sentence. A visible shudder came from every person present in the room. "Cut the crap Morrison." Gabriel sat with his feet propped on the table, casually looking at the ceiling. With a curt movement, he looked at Jack square in the eye.

"This kid's nothing more than your consolation prize. We all know the Shimada operation failed. Our intel lost all relevance the instant the head of the clan died. So stop trying to make it sound all grandiose and get to the point." Jack glared at him, clearing his throat. With a gesture of his hand, he called Angela over.

A long breath of air. Inhale, exhale. She stood up, and made her way to the front of the table. Everyone looked at her expectantly. It was no secret she had participated in the surgery. Even though she had been given no previous information about it, it apparently had been planned for a long time. She wondered if the decision of bringing her in was influenced by the creation of her prosthetics. The sole thought of it made her dizzy.

She cleared her throat twice, and spread the holographic images necessary for her explanation. "Yes. His body was rebuilt with several enhanced prosthetics. Both his arms and legs were replaced." She pointed at the blueprints of the extremities. "They are fitted with both biotic and mechanic technology, which will greatly increase his strength and agility." The fact that they would also negate a great portion of tactile sensitivity was left out, mainly because she could not bring herself to say it.

"The left arm was built with storage compartments for small weapons of choice, which will be decided by his strike commander." Someone coughed. Jack looked at her, silently asking her to hurry up. "His feet have small retractable razors, which will allow him to traverse steep or even vertical surfaces, as well as mute the sound of his step." She could tell them how he would lose most of his sense of taste, or how the prosthetics would demand he spend a great portion of his life in maintenance. How he would never be seen as human again. But they wouldn't listen, and they wouldn't care.

"Above all, the medical department reminds you that even if his regeneration is faster than a normal human being's, continued exposure to bullets or any kind of great force will kill him easily. It is in Overwatch's best interest to use him sparingly." She knew the last part would be ignored. As with any kid with a new toy, the military department would push him to the edge, testing just how far he could go.

"And…" As her voice lost the professional intonations she commonly used, most looked at her with an annoyed expression. It was not uncommon for her to deviate from the carefully crafted speeches others made for her. They all knew she had a bleeding heart. It made them question her ability to make rational, objective decisions. She thought that made her the only person in the room to have a moral compass.

"I hope you all will take into account the delicate state in which this patient currently is. He needs several weeks to completely ease into his new body, but more importantly, to adjust to his new life." She looked around, sheepishly. Only Reyes and Jack were staring at her. "Thank you." She slowly walked back to her seat, fighting the urge to yell at those who ignored even the most basic notions of empathy.

"Thank you Dr. Ziegler." Jack resumed from his seat, walking back up to the spotlight with determination in his step. His eyes gleamed with mischief. "Genji Shimada will be assigned to work as a Blackwatch agent." A chair creaked angrily as Reyes adjusted his posture.

"Training will start as soon as he can stand." Angela huffed, busying herself with the files in front of her. "I conclude this meeting. I'll leave him to you Gabriel." With that, all stood up and walked orderly towards the door, trying to avoid the obvious confrontation that brewed between the two commanders.

Angela walked behind them all, clutching the files to her chest. She wished to help him. To get him to adjust to what Overwatch could be. She knew it wasn't perfect. But it stood for something. It was a beacon of hope to people around the world, who turned to them to advance towards peace. She knew nothing about what life was for him before, but maybe being here was better than dying by those closest to you. Maybe he would see she only wished the best not only for him, but for everyone. Maybe he would help her ease her guilt.