hey guys. one must imagine trans man Emre.
one must imagine trans man Emre adopting that "big damn hero" persona as a way to affirm his gender. he enjoys taking care of people, being a protector, in that traditionally masculine sense. it makes him feel good, and strong.
one must imagine trans man Emre in the gym at Overwatch HQ. not wearing a shirt, he's proudly displaying his scars. he makes a point of not covering his left wrist either; the donor site for the skin graft for his bottom surgery. it makes him happy to show it off– he is a self-made man and he's proud of it.
just last week he was interviewed by a magazine about his experience as an openly trans man working on such a big task force. he's ecstatic to represent his trans brothers and sisters, and the piece received a ton of praise. he got a lot of letters from young trans kids, saying they look up to him. he kept every one of the letters on his wall.
one must imagine trans man Emre, ten years later.
waking up with blood on his hands more often than not, sometimes a body in his arms. he's a monster, a shadow of himself. who is he protecting? he's no longer the same man those letters were assigned to.
his left arm is gone, replaced by wiring and plating and mechanisms that whir under his skin like he's some kind of machine. Emre supposes he is. he mourns the loss of his scar sometimes. scratch that– he mourns the loss of his scar every day, but moreso he mourns the loss of what it allowed to happen. underneath the belt, he can no longer recognize any part of himself. he doesn't dare look any longer than he has to, terrified to see what he's become.
his hair is longer, now– he's sure some of his teammates back then would've cracked a joke about it. as pro-lgbtq as the organization was, sometimes little comments like that slipped by regardless. he wears eyeliner, a pleasant surprise he stumbled onto by accident. despite the gendered connotations society assigns to makeup, it makes him feel a bit more like himself.
one must imagine trans man Emre. he looks at himself in the mirror of a dingy hotel room, trying not to look at the horrible, obvious elephant in the room. trembling fingers skirting the edges of the plating on his chest, he finds no trace of the scars he cherished so dearly before.
quietly, he wonders, "what's even left of me?"
theartofmadeline
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