FEARWATCH

Broken Bones
What Could Have Been
Hidden Wounds
Vampire
Seance
Devour
Prediction
Fangs

Broken Bones

Here's the scene. The man's spotlit by a single lonely bulb hanging by a stripped wire. He's on a chair and there's not much else in the room to note. It's dark. Humid. Everything has a sickly glisten to it. The others are all cast in heavy shadows sporting blood splatters on their nice boots or black gloves.It's the usual. A demand, a strike, a refusal. Escalation, a demand, a broken finger, a refusal. They keep asking the man who sent him, who he's working for, what he's being paid for his silence.Someone without the stomach for this leaves and slams the door behind them. Tried to tell the boy he weren't ready for this, but he wanted to watch. Maybe he thought his presence would soften proceedings.The man spits blood and tells me to go fuck myself. One of the others puts his hand on my shoulder and drawls that maybe the guy in the chair has had enough.Go join the boy if you've had enough is what I tell him. We're doing what needs to be done. This is important to somebody, somewhere.Doesn't matter what happens to the man in the chair. Whether he became another name to scrub away from history, or if he was put in a neat little file somewhere and cut loose to meet a sticky end elsewhere. The point isn't what he said or where he ended up, but what he could endure.Not sure if that's where aspiration is meant to be found, but there it was. Sometimes think about men in chairs when I let the world tear me. When flesh strips into smoke. When it's my turn in the hot-seat and the good soldier cracks my jaw. It's all about what men endure."At any rate, the progression of your injuries is fascinating," The bad doctor murmurs. Right now she seems like an image at the end of a telescope. Gotta wonder how she ever scraped me off the side of the wall, "If there's ever going to be a next time I'd be curious as to what your body remembers. Of course, you've fused just a little. We'll have to make clean breaks here - here - and here."The three points of contact feel impossibly far apart, but it's all down the length of an arm. I'm not expected to answer. Not expected to listen. Doctor always did talk to herself when looking through the smoke."Ready?" Thinking about men in chairs and what is deserved. I'm broken back into place.

What Could Have Been

"Ow. Ow. Ow." Tracer picks herself up from the ground. She feels like maybe all her muscles are now scrambled? Her spine might be dust? There's an Oxton-shaped hole in the drywall she just got smashed through.Sojourn comes through on her earpiece, "Walk it off or play it back, Tracer. Can't have them getting away.""Yeah, yeah I'm on it." Tracer taps twice with her knuckles on the device strapped to her chest. Good luck and preparation, she feels every aspect of herself shiver and-

"Lena Oxton racing as fast as she can, outrunning a speeding bullet, heart thumping blood pumping, hearing the roar of the wind in my ears, nobody faster, nobody better!"

"Oh my God, did he see us? Did he?" Lena won't know if she's about to scream with laughter or start crying. She's going to have stolen sweeties in her hoodie pocket and she's not going to have a good reason for why she did it. Not even peer pressure, it was her idea."Think we're clear. What did you get?" Izzy is going to grin at Lena in a way that Lena has never noticed until that very moment. That single point in time.

"... And she does it all for the girls." Now there's a sigh that'll roll through time. "... Girls..."

"And yoink!" It's a two-blink manoeuvre. The first to get into position to snatch the purse from the thief and rattle off a cheeky one-liner, the second to punt herself through time and out of reach for any retaliation, "Not sure this one belongs to you mate, really not your style."People, particularly thiefs and vagabonds, tend to crap themselves when it comes to facing honest-to-goodness super powers. Guy With Red Beanie Hat is no exception, he's already doing a runner.It's just as well, the purse-snatch victim has already caught up, "Oh my gosh, thank you!""Psh, all part of the job. Never caught your name, though...""Emily. My name's Emily. And don't worry, I know yours."

"Wait, that doesn't make sense." If there was a point in time where one might stand to look left and right, how many versions of themselves would they see? "Who's Emily?"

Mrs Haddon was standing in front of a SmartBoard droning on about revision plans for the coming test. It's one of the important ones - is something she had told the class over and over while Lena was only barely listening.Lena Oxton had a game of her own. She was leaning back in her chair, hands braced on the table, pushing and pushing on just two legs precariously balanced. She was looking for that feeling of freefall."Lena!" Mrs Haddon snapped Lena back into the moment."Huh-- Sorry, Miss." Lena said, startled by being called out. A classmate sitting a whole desk away glanced back towards Lena and smiled. She had braces and black hair and holes in her sweater sleeves for her thumbs.

Everything that happens to any person is a cascade of moments, one crashing into the next. Callsign: Tracer is freefalling without order, crashing out of sequence.

Lena Oxton falls in love. There's a woman with red hair and a knowing smile and she's a teacher. Lena Oxton says that with a screwed up face, fighting the grin, 'Teacher.' Lena Oxton used to chew up teachers and spit them out for breakfast. She was a punk, a rebel."And now you're such a goody-two-shoes.""Oi! Vigilantism is a crime! I still do crimes!"It's going to happen.

Spaces are constructed. There's a space that Callsign: Tracer has crashed into built by all the things she's ever going to do after all the things she's ever done. It's not a space that can be seen, not without changing the witness forever."I wanna... I wanna..."

"Pilot, you're clear to engage the Burner." The g-force feels like a punch to the chest."Shockdrive is ready. Clear to engage." This time she does almost lose her lunch."Answarp fully charged. At your discretion, pilot." Total systems failure. A deadweight in the skies, brought down without further incident."Clear to activate the Slipstream. Ready when you are, pilot." A small explosion sends the jet tumbling into the ocean and its pilot elsewhere.

"I survive this," Callsign: Tracer is a witness to herself. Some images flash by so fast she doesn't register them, but she sees enough to know that it's not her life blinding her right now. There's a future ahead of her. "Gotta, right? See what's waiting for me?"

"Quick as you can, love. We need to leave, like, five minutes ago." Lena is zipping around the bedroom, shoving anything she can think of into her suitcase.Emily is in a bit of a panic, not going nearly as fast, "You're scaring me, honey. What's going on?" Emily hasn't noticed the red dot on her chest.Lena has and she knows it's too late.

"No, bring that one back," If Callsign: Tracer were piloting a craft, or running along a track, she might be able to course correct. Turn herself around, return to a too-quickly-gone vignette of what's to come, "Is that because of me? Can I fix that? How do I go back there? Come on, come on, I can help her!!AARGH!!"There's no comfortable way to de-atomize.

It's cold. The air has an artificial quality to it. Too still, with a sterile scent. Lena Oxton sits up and recognizes two things: She's wearing a very thin medical gown and she's in some kind of glass tube."You're awake!" And there's a gorilla outside the tube. An actual gorilla. A terrifying thought occurs - the crash. Did Lena get Planet Of The Apes'd?"Who are you? Where am I?" She plays it cool. And also she's very tired and sore."Ah, I am Dr. Winston. Don't worry, I'm a scientist. You are in a secure chamber for the time being, for your own safety. You've only been back a few hours.""Back..? From where?" She's sitting in one of those medical beds with the too-thin mattress and slightly scratchy sheets."Hm. Well, that's part of the problem. Fascinating really, but... I was hoping you could tell us. What's the last thing you remember?"Lena squints. There's something missing, a gap that her memories seem to curve around, "Mission control gave me the all clear. I hit the Slipstream drive, but something went wrong. All the alerts lit up and then... I woke up here." Lena scratches the back of her head, "I really dunno what else to tell you."

Hidden Wounds

The Widowmaker lines up her shot. She's on a rooftop, loaded up with the usual gear, an exit strategy already worked out. Only the important thing has to happen before she can leave - the part where she pulls the trigger, feels the kick of her gun, and watches the hit."Status." A voice in her ear, coming from a subdermal implant. She hears it with a slight buzz and it's followed by a sting."On mark. Waiting." Widowmaker's response is murmured, her voice doesn't betray the chill she's feeling. The ache in the weight of her weapon. She sees her target and she doesn't hesitate. Trigger, kick, unheard crack, the body falls. Widowmaker's shoulder feels bruised."Confirm." Buzz, sting."Confirm. Moving to evac."

The Reaper stares at Widowmaker. He's sat in his own seat on the opposite side of the dropship. He had his own business to attend to, evidence of it splattered on the white-bone mask. She knows that behind those black sockets he's seeing through her.Maybe, she thinks, he knows I'm dying.

"Experienced any shortness of breath?""Non.""Stiffness?""Non.""Bruising? Particularly around your joints. Sore spots.""Non, et non."Dr. O'Deorain frowns. Widowmaker is sat on a medical cot, wearing a thin little gown, while the doctor quizzes her health. The usual debrief."I'm scheduling you for a round of boosters regardless. And you're due a transfusion. With luck, you will find the time to come in for those before your next assignment.""Mm.""Widowmaker."Widowmaker looks up at the doctor, finally making eye-contact. Widowmaker wonders briefly if she looks tired, if it has become obvious, and she sits up a little straighter."It's in your best interest to be honest about your health. You are a heavily modified individual with an abnormal physiology. We rely primarily on self-reports to diagnose any issues.""I am fine, docteur."

The next time Widowmaker wakes up, she tastes breath in the back of her throat. It tastes like a vital organ had withered overnight, her stomach perhaps. Unable to sustain her specialized diet any longer, maybe it has started to digest itself. The acid and blood pooling, the odour curling up her oesophagus.Widowmaker spits up bile in her bathroom sink and she knows she's out of time. She can see it in the bones of her collar, the gaunt expression her face sags around. The way it takes a deep breath in and a moment of true focus to pull herself up and look like she isn't becoming waste.If they know, she thinks, then it will be termination.

There's a room with a table, two chairs, and a depressing little bulb spotlighting the furniture. This is where Widowmaker has always received her orders. They used to be programmed into her - drilled into her mind with a series of codephrases to make her listen.Recently Widowmaker was able to remember the first time it happened, and the seizure that she experienced the following night. The copper taste of the blood from the wound she bit in her cheek.The Reaper sits opposite her this time and all he does is toss a file onto the table between them."Read this."Widowmaker reads it."Leaving in two hours."

The Widowmaker lines up her shot. She's crouched on the corner of the rooftop and the weight of her own body on her foot and knee hurts. The rifle shakes in her hands. When nobody is watching, she allows herself this - the pain of it.Her target is inbound, a chopper coming to land on the roof of a highrise opposite her position."Status." The voice in her ear that comes with a buzz and a sting."In position. Target in sight, not in range." She allows herself to sound tired this time, the response is silence all the same.Widowmaker views the world through her scope, she watches her target until it fills enough space to become a viable shot. Then she squeezes the trigger and this time the kick knocks her down.She doesn't get visual confirmation, but Widowmaker listens as the chopper loses control, its rotors whining like a siren until the great crash into the side of a building."Confirm." The voice, the buzz, the sting, it sounds bored because he knows that he doesn't need to confirm something like that."Confirmed.""Move to evac."

The sunlight hurts Danielle's eyes. Her skin is sensitive to it also, changing hue from blue to uneven purple blotches. She never went to evac, instead she had managed to make it to the coast. Here there is yellowing grass, high cliffs over the ocean, blue skies and salty heat.Here there is a home. Owned by a man who doesn't exist - invented by a man who is no longer alive. Kept empty on the off-chance that the dead man's wife might have survived him and needed somewhere to stay.She has food delivered from a nearby village, the service instructed to leave deliveries by the door. Never knock, never linger, cash payment is always waiting.She spends her mornings reading - when she is well enough to focus on the words. She spends her evenings outside - when the sun is low enough and she can watch it settle into the ocean.One evening Danielle hears bootsteps approaching. Weeks weren't long enough to forget the sound of his stride - the Reaper, Gabriel Reyes. She's sat at the edge of the cliff, one leg outstretched, the other knee up to rest her elbow on. She doesn't move from this position, not even when she hears a weapon unholster and click ready."Don't." Danielle mutters, "It is already done.""Mhr," Reyes sighs, he tosses the weapon aside and it lands with a dull sound in the grass, "Might've wanted it like that.""If I did, I would have stayed."Reyes grunts as he takes a seat besides Danielle. He's also stiff these days, his bones older than the flesh around them."Why are you here?""You weren't where you're supposed to be. Had to go looking.""That all?" She looks up at her visitor. He's not wearing his mask and so she sees his face - warped, scarred, but for once honest."Thought you'd say goodbye."Danielle nods, that was good enough for her. She shifts her position, swaying to one side until Reyes takes her frail weight. The sun, like all things, continues to set. The orange ripples cast by its glow slip away one by one.

Vampire

Dr. Angela Ziegler is lucky enough to have a corner office at Overwatch's headquarters. Dr. Moira O'Deorain is lucky enough to have been invited inside, particularly after last week's stunt. Angela is lecturing Moira about it now. Something about irresponsibility, foolishness. Moira isn't listening, her attention is on other things. The shine of the sunlight hurting her eyes, but her gaze still transfixed by the soft glow of Angela's neck."Are you even listening?" And suddenly Angela is expecting a response."A momentary lapse of judgement. It won't happen again." Moira takes it with a stiff upper lip, rubbing the wrist of her right hand. She's wearing gloves to hide the scarring there."Won't happen again-- I can not, Moira. I can not keep having this conversation with you. Just get out.""Angela.""Now."Moira retreats from the office, her ears hot, a pang twisting in the pit of her stomach.

In the cafeteria people are staring. Moira is back at the counter for thirds, stacking a trio of juiceboxes on her tray, plating up for herself the last of the bacon. When she sits down she immediately drains the juice one after the other and devours the meat with messy handfuls.

More.

Her hand doesn't hurt - she might feel less concerned if it hurt, hurt was something tangible, identifiable. What she felt was a creeping cold. Moira wonders how she would react to a test subject if they described their own flesh as 'hungry'.On her way out of the cafeteria she quite literally bumps into Dr. Ziegler, who had by now committed to giving the doctor the silent treatment. In a flash of irritation Moira grabs Angela by the wrist, "Watch where you're walking.""Oh."

The intimate, unmistakable sensation of someone else's pulse.

Moira's lip curls. She releases Angela just as soon as she had taken hold of her and exits the scene.

The laboratory lighting was set to dim, as it often was in the late hours. It's a decision that Athena had made for the people that lived within her walls. Late nights were not unusual for the staff working on the Overwatch base, but some sort of day-night light cycle ought to be maintained.Dr. O'Deorain had been finding it easier to work under dim lighting. Ever since the incident that had marred her hand she had been powering through a migraine."You have been awake: 36 hours. I recommend you allow yourself to rest." Athena's voice is professionally neutral. Judgement in it is only imagined."Quiet." And yet Moira certainly feels judged. She's sat in an examination chair. Right sleeve rolled up, the glove removed. There's a deep purple vein running from between her knuckles to just beyond her wrist. The skin around it is pale and dry. The bones of her hand are pronounced and aching under the skin.On the tray besides the chair is a discarded syringe, an empty vial. Evidence of an unsuccessful blood draw.Moira remembers being a student and revising before one of her final exams. She remembers getting so caught up in the study that she had neglected to eat or sleep or drink and how the hungry sensation in her stomach felt like she was eating her own self from the inside. She remembers this, because that is how her hand feels now. Self-consuming."... Moira?" It's Angela's voice, the good doctor O'Deorain hadn't heard her come in.

But now, with proximity, the sound of another's heartbeat is impossible to ignore. Thump. Thump. Thump.