short, one word Overwatch prompts from tonight:
Junkrat is covered with them, and in all honesty, Satya feels more uncomfortable catching sight of them, of realizing she has paused in her actions to stare at the way Junkrat’s skin knit across his body in raised, uneven lines of white and pink, than she ever does about the fact that he feels comfortable walking around in varying states of undress. Of course, resolving the latter may help remedy for former, but it was more than their existence that nettle Satya so deeply, but rather than attitude by which Junkrat bore them.
Satya was not unfamiliar to scars, that wasn’t the reason they troubled her so. Quite the opposite, in many ways. She has few, but she is very aware of those which she does. Two thin spidery ones, cutting across the underside of her toes and then a scattering within the arch of her left foot – where she had tread on glass as a child while running down the crowded streets. At the time, she had been too overwhelmed by noise and smell and the need to get home and be safe to notice what littered the dirty pavement. Another, pale-with-age, barely-there starburst over her knee, from when her mother, overwhelmed and exhausted and at the end of her rope, had been unable to understand her daughter's meltdown, unable to handle the shrieks and tears, unable to empathize or name the pain that was making her daughter wail, and had shaken her by the shoulders so harshly that she had tumbled from her mother’s grasp and cut her knee on the steps.
To a one, Satya loathed them. They were memories of a long-gone time -- a poor time, a dirty time, a confused, overwhelmed, distressed, confused, bored time with her head buzzing and filled with the faces of people that would soon abandon her.
The final scarring she had covered the stump of her forearm and shoulder, the mark where her arm had been severed. These scars were covered, always, by her new arm, her improved, sleek, hardlight-constructed arm, but it was still an imperfect marring she knew existed just beyond her sight.
She had only three, and they ate at her. Seeing Junkrat's, the way he bared them to the world, made her feel like she was witnessing something private, intimate... something not meant to be shown. And yet Junkrat gave no sign that he noticed them at all, like these ugly badges of mistakes and failures were a true part of him.
Some days, she longed to ask how they had gotten there, but she never quite could bring herself to cross that threshold. It lead down a path, she suspected, that she could not easily back away from once it was tread.
