"Heroes never die."

When I first heard those words, it was as if they'd rolled off the lips of an angel, echoing in the air as the doctor descending from above. Our squad members, who had until then been pinned down by Omnic suppression fire, rose to their feet and rallied around that shining beacon of hope as we pushed the robotic menace back from our objective. It was a glorious victory, a proud day in the history of Overwatch.

It wasn't until days later that some of us began feeling off. At first, it was just mild cases of nausea and vertigo that passed quickly, momentary dizziness with no explanation. We continued our missions; we had a war to win, after all, and between the aches and strains of constant combat we didn't have time to worry about the little things.

I clearly recall that it was a bitter December morning when Private Jenkins started lagging behind the squad on a routine foot patrol in a bombed-out urban street ravaged by weeks of back-and-forth fighting. He suddenly started yelling, screaming about the ants inside him and, before anyone could get to him, smashed his head into the nearest wall. I'll never forget the dull gray sludge that leaked from his skull, nor the sickening stench that wafted through the air. The screaming continued for nearly an hour before his vocal cords gave out.

Jenkins might have been the lucky one. Not long after, more and more of our squad began to fall ill with no explanation. Now, years after the Omnic Crisis ended, few of us remain; the others passed away due to mysterious organ failures and other strange ailments.

I never saw the doctor again after that day, but I know now that she was no angel. God help her if we ever meet again.