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Emre Sarioglu doesn't know where he is, or how he got there.
He's in a building that he recognises through observation as a security base. He doesn't know the city, the country, the date.
He does know that he's currently surrounded by around fifty slaughtered soldiers.
The force that makes him do this is always cruel enough to show him the aftermath. He really should be used to it by now; he wishes he was numb, unfeeling. It's not the case. The guilt and the self-loathing are ever-present knives that slice away at him - or what is left of him, he thinks.
It's been years since he has recognised himself. Years spent killing indiscriminately, towards a goal that isn't his. The only blessing left is that he isn't present for the act of killing. He sleeps, deep inside himself, while soldiers breathe their last breaths. This isn't living. It isn't even surviving. His mind and his body aren't his own, puppeteered by a sadistic parasite. And he's not going to let it happen anymore.
Emre stumbles towards one of the corpses. He struggles to remember how to control his limbs when he spends so long without the choice. Shakily bending down, he examines it, finds the holster, and takes out the revolver. It looks just like the model he used to carry, once upon a time.
He thinks of Overwatch. How they believed in him. How he protected people, once.
He thinks of Freja. How she looked up to him. How, if she could see him now, she would react in horror and disgust. How he now resembled one of the monsters that they'd once fought together.
He thinks of his mother. How she must lay awake at night, dreading the day she has to identify his body. How his chair has been empty, and how, he imagines, she still places a plate down for him in case he comes home.
How wonderful it was, to be loved, and to have a place to call home.
The gun is heavy and cold in his hand as he raises it to his temple. He wonders if his brain matter will splatter on the walls, whether his corpse will decay and rot. He wishes he could see it: the unflinching evidence of his humanity. Whether people will cry for him, or whether he will leave behind an exoskeleton, and they will argue that he deserved this.
I'm sorry, mama. I'll come home soon.
Emre pulls the trigger.
O̶̡̨̨̢̖̗͍̪̘̯̪̳̯̦̙̰͈̍̄͐̅̅̚Ţ̶̧̛͎͕̮̦̲̥̳͎̱̭͎̀̔̌͛̽͒̂̒̎̓̊̇̀͑̽̀͐̄̇͋́̈́̕̕͝͠͠ͅT̵̨̧̧̬̜͖̲̮̘̠͓͇͈̖̳̞͇̰̳͍̭̞̰͓͇͎̪͕̔̃̈́̑̒̽̑̓̏̚͜A̶̛̛̛̝͖̦̮̪͇͖̞͇̳͉͎̋̌̇̂̋͆́̈́̔͊̀̓͗͂̋͑̈́̄͘Ą̴͚̫̗͚̰͕̺͔̫̭͚͓̘͚̱̳̒̓̀̊̋͆͑̉̋̈́̈́̾̒͋̃̈̅͊͘̕͜ ̴̡̢̨̢̞̝̗̳̜̗͉͚͓͇̝̥̣̖͕̞̗̱̺̪̱͚͒͐͋͗̂̒̓͋̄͛̄͛̽̈́̉̚͝ͅͅĮ̴̢̨̝̻̘͓͕̯̹͉̞̮̯͚̌̀̉͛̑Ş̵̨̝̞͓͔̞͎͖̀͐̎͌Ǟ̵͛̐̇̿̇̎̽̀́͂̿̚ͅN̵̻͚̯͇͙͖̤̩̻̂̉̃́͐͒̀͐̐̐̓̄̆͘͝͠N̶̛͔̞̫̥̼̼̜̽̒̓̈́͆͂͊Ä̵̛̪̘͈͈̮̣̉͊́̍̋̌͋̂̓͑͆͗̀̂͂ͅN̷̻̭̔͋̈́̇́̾͒̌̈́̃͐̋́͘̚̚ ̵̛̛̬̞͖̙̥̙̗̼̓̈̓̈͐́̇͛͝H̸͓̝̋̌͊̀͐̇́͋̽̀́̔͝A̵̡̧̧̫͙̩͍̖̳̹̖̥͚͕̺̺̱̤͓̞̹͍͛͐͆L̶͔̬̘̥̣͇̭̳̊̑̈́̍̓̐̚͜͝͠͝͝ͅͅĻ̶̨̛̣͎̻͓̞̪̞̯̬͕̱̩͇̩̞͉̹̬̫̜̺̥̮̓̌͗̋̈̋Į̸̢̡̢͔̳̤̳̯͎̻͈̱̬̟̖͍͓̪̙̪͖̏̓͐̽̓̐̓́͑Ṅ̶̡̛̝̼̜̜͈̥͎̝̗͔̙͔̦̤̯̘̣́̎́̋͠T̷̢̧̖͇͇̬͔̺͖͓̟̠͍̪͖͓͉̻͍̠̼̱̠̯̞̺̤̹̐̑̈́͑͊̽͐̓̕͘̚͝͠ͅÁ̵̛͇̙̺̖͍͎͎͓̋͐̿̏̊̏͗̋̎̌̒̆̇̃̓̈́̕͝͝͝A̶̧̧̩̥͔͙̙̗̻̩̘̞̯̻̠͔̟̺̼̮̙͋̐̿͋̆̉̎͛͗̑̿́̌̀̑͐͒͊͠N̵̲̞̖̲̫̥̜̼̜̳͔̗͍̞͓̲̠̻̈́͊̆̀̌̔͠ͅ.̸̢̧̨̨̢̹̺̫̪͈̹̹̩̤͚̠̹̹̺͓̪̘̞͈̩̥͔̼͑̎̂̾̈́̾͝
Emre looks around. He pulled the trigger. He did. God, he thinks - knows - he did. But there's no gun in his hand. It's metres away from him, melted and warped into a red mass. It bubbles on the floor, looking almost alive. Like flesh - like a poor, mechanical imitation.
Then…
Emre's legs can't hold him upright anymore. He sinks to the ground in a pile resembling the gun, a distraught, pathetic mockery of a human. And he howls like an animal, his sobs making him choke on air, and the air reminds him he's still alive. He's still fucking alive.
“Please!” He cries out to anyone, anything, that might be listening. To any mortal, any god, and the thing controlling him that will kill anything except him. “Please, just let me make one choice for myself!”
All he hears back are whispers. Mocking, electronic little whispers, coming from inside him. His own eye-shaped prison, laughing at him for ever daring to think he could escape it. It laughs, and Emre cries.
He isn't going to die today. He isn't going to die tomorrow. If this machine has its way, he will walk the earth until the sun swallows it whole, and he will kill. It will only be so long until he recognises one of the bodies in the fray. He will find members of Overwatch, Freja, his parents. Everyone he loves will die at his hands, for they are human enough to die.
Emre Sarioglu is not human. Not anymore.