In the dream he's still whole. He's on stage and playing music, a song about getting high in a park and getting shook down by cops as he walked home and crying about it. He can feel the thrum of the guitar in his hands as he moves between frets. He looks at the girl to his right, shouting the chorus into the microphone, her dark hair spilling over her dark eyes. He knows the next song they'll play will be about her. He knows that she knows it too even though he's never told her so.

Then there's a horrible screeching noise. He shrugs. Feedback from the PA. The song ends and he's about to tell the crowd about the next song, but he hears it again. Louder, and there are other noises this time. Shouts. Sirens. Then just the screech over and over.

Wylie Toledo rolls over and smashes the snooze button. He shouts and recoils as the pieces of the digital alarm clock fly at him.

"Fucking hand," he mutters into his pillow.

He tries to sleep again, but the constant whirring of the server room just a few feet of cheap drywall away and the fear of having the dream again get him out of bed. He takes a cold shower. Better to focus on being cold than anything else. He brushes his teeth, throws on his jumpsuit, and carefully attaches his identification badge to the lapel.

He looks at the picture on the badge, then at his reflection in the mirror, then back at the badge. It was a good picture at least.

He walks through the labyrinthine hallways of his newish home, keeping his head down. He didn't use to keep his head down. When he finally gets to Grady's office he fills a paper cup with coffee and chugs its down. Cold as ice water. It was half after three in the morning, just like every shift. Why couldn't he get hot coffee at this hour?

Grady isn't there, never is this time of the morning. But he had laid out a schedule for Wylie, Jackson, and Sam like he always did. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Sam had to clean the cafeteria, and a bigger one when he noticed Jackson would be tending to the Overwatch members personal quarters.

"Shit on Reinhardt's floor Jack," he said to no one. Grabbing one of the hovering trash barges from the corner Wylie set about his job.

He was a janitor. Well, he figured he could say he was part of Overwatch, but he was still a janitor. Not that he cared. Sure what he was doing was illegal, there wasn't supposed to be an Overwatch. But the job paid better than most and for the first time in ten years he was back in Europe. He never much cared for Poland, but he could take the train to the places he did care for when he had time off.

He could still remember the help wanted ad.

GREETINGS! DO YOU HAVE A THIRST FOR ADVENTURE? ARE YOU WILLING TO TAKE RISKS? WE'RE LOOKING FOR ABLE BODIED INDIVIDUALS TO HELP RENOVATE A WAREHOUSE IN WARSAW! REPLY NOW!

(please include a brief description of yourself, why you are applying, and any special skills).

Wylie had called, set up an interview over the Web, and afterwards was invited for a face to face in Warsaw. The woman he interviewed with asked him a lot of questions about his arm. She was European, Swiss or German. The questions were gentle, but questions he didn't want to answer and tried desperately to shrug off. He didn't think he was going to get the job. But when he arrived at the airport for the flight back to the States he was stopped.

That was...shit...three months ago?

He went about his day. He emptied trashcans, waxed floors, wiped down windows. He hated wiping windows. Always had to stare at the hand when he did it.

It was around eight in the morning when him and Sam stumbled into each other.

"Wylie," Sam shouted excitedly. "You'll never believe this!"

"Belive what Sam?"

"They went out tonight! Like for real! On a mission!"

"They've been doing that Sam," Wylie said changing out one of the trash bags in what could only be called the lobby.

"Yeah I know...but," the other man let the word hang there waiting for a question.

"But what," Wylie finally answered indulging his young friend.

"But they're do back any minute," Sam shouted.

"So why are you here," Wylie asked indifferently.

"Oh...shit you don't know," Sam answered laughing. "You still think this is the lobby don't you?"

"It isn't," Wylie asked raising an eyebrow. "Well what the fuck is it then if it's not the lobby?!"

Sam just kept laughing and pointed up. Wylie didn't look up anymore so seeing the struts and cranes and walkways left him dumbstruck. He was in a hangar. He knew where THE hangar was, this must have a secondary one. He hurriedly finished bagging the trash and made to leave when Sam grabbed him by the hand.

"Come on Wylie...stay! Maybe some of the glory will wash off on us."

"What glory is that exactly," he spat back him.

"Uh..." Sam recoiled, confusion plain on his face. "They're heroes Wylie?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"What's your problem man," Sam asked upset.

"They're just people Sam. Just like us. Sure ones a talking gorilla who makes Einstein look like a toddler, and ones a cyborg ninja. But last week Reinhardt treated me like shit. Asked if I had ever waxed a floor before."

"Why," Sam asked with a frown.

"He couldn't see his reflection in the floor."

"They aren't all bad," Sam said after an awkward silence. "McCree talks to me every day."

"Yeah? What about D. Va? The old guy? Any of the soldiers or pilots who are here to be a part of Overwatch? They chat you up?"

Neither of them said anything for a long time. They heard the transport dock in the other hangar. Cheers, congratulations, people shouting and celebrating.

"If you hate it so much. If you hate them so much..." Sam finally said walking towards the hangar door that was slowly opening. "Just leave."

Wylie stood there leaning on the trash barge as the people filed past him. There went Winston and Mei and McCree, the people who ran the day to day of Overwatch following closely behind them. Everyone was happy, relishing in the success of the strike team. They didn't notice Wylie hopping on the barge and running his good hand through his hair, didn't hear his deep sigh, didn't care whether he left or not.

They filed past quickly, faster than he could have expected and he just had to laugh. He laughed so hard he fell back onto the bags of trash in the barge and, despite the smell, just kept on laughing.

"Hi'ya," someone shouted at him. "W'as so funny it's got ya tossin' about in the trash?

Wylie bolted upright, taken completely by surprise.

"Oi," the woman to his left exclaimed. "You're names Wylie! I knew a Wylie once, was a bit different. You a bit different?

"Um, er..." he stammered.

"Wylie..." she pulled her goggles up and looked at his badge. "Toledo! Wylie Toledo. Oh man, that's a name. A great name! Are you from Toledo?"

"No, it's just my..."

"You ev'a been to Toledo? It's beautiful. The one'n Spain I mean," she said giggling.

"How did you know my name," he asked.

"Mercy talks 'bout you, she did your interview. She's a worrier Mercy, but you seem well fit. Don't talk much though."

"Well you're talking enough for the both of us," Wylie said, a tad more biting than he meant.

"Oh...shit," she said with a pout. "Guess I am."

She kept the pout up maybe ten seconds before bursting into an infectious laughter, one that made him laugh himself, but genuine this time.

"See you 'round Wylie," she said before he was caught full in the face with a rapid displacement of air.

He dropped off the trash, waxed the rest of the floors and then retired back to his nook next to the server room. He thought about laughing and hoped he wouldn't have the dream again.