She was D.Va.

She was an idol, a soldier, a beacon.

She was the kind of person that was easy to like, but just as easy to hate.

She was a lot of things, but she was most certainly not a child.

Clearly, they insisted on calling her such.

It irked Hana to no end when they used the damned title. Jack, Angela, Reinhardt, Torbjörn, Zenyatta, Aleksandra, Fareeha, Jesse, Hanzo, Winston... they'd all done it. Rather, they still did it, somehow incessantly. To spite her or out of honest mistake, she didn't know, nor did she care. All she knew was that when they used it, it was frustrating, and that frustration molded into a deep-set bitterness the more and more often the title came up. This bitterness was a lot deeper than it seemed— an outward, mild annoyance, and she did nothing to tame it. She'd been with Overwatch for three months, after all. Things should have changed by then, but they hadn't.

And it wasn't solely her teammates that called her a child anymore.

"This is no place for children," Widowmaker had jeered, once on an escort mission in Toulouse.

Hana had puffed up her chest indignantly, spinning around to pinpoint the sniper's location.

"Who are you calling a child?"

"Kid," Soldier: 76 had barked, "fall back. I'll handle her."

Inwardly, she had died a little, because it was hopeless. There was no way they would ever see her as anything more than a child that needed to be monitored at all times. Someone who couldn't cover their backsides in a pinch. Someone who couldn't be trusted to get the job done.

And she learned to hate it. She had never hated anything so intensely before, nor had ever she thought that she would need to, but here she was: stuck in some strange, hellish place between limbo and an old, old memory. She learned quickly that this would be less of a safe haven than she had thought, when she had joined, bright-eyed and raw. She learned quickly that this world, this separate reality she had naively thrown herself into, would attack her from every angle, everywhere and anytime it could.

"Can I get you a snack?"

"Do you want me to fix your mech?"

"Here, I'll do your laundry for you."

"Go back to the ship— we'll take it from here."

It was almost laughable, if not for how sour it all made her tongue taste when they looked down on her like that. Oh, and Hana was bitter, so bitter to them, but she told herself that they deserved it and carried on with her acrimonious ways: clinical smiles, too-tight of handshakes, staying up until the ass-crack of dawn with a mug of cold coffee in one hand and a mission report in the other, dark circles hanging under her eyes.

Everyone thought she was gaming when she retired for the night. It was easy to let them think that, easier than having to explain the intense research she did on previous operations in an attempt to gain their respect. She stayed up late, later, and then well into the earliest hours of the morning, sleeping on a schedule of approximately five hours every two and a half days. Doing the math helped keep her more awake while she studied.

Hana read about the old Overwatch, and dug eagerly into the Blackwatch files, learning all she could about Gabriel Reyes and Ana Amari and Gérard Lacroix and the others that had built the foundation of the Overwatch she had been cast into. She read about the Geneva disaster and the theft of Watchpoint: Grand Mesa and the beginning and end of the Deadlock Gang. She read about the Horizon Project, about the origins of the chronal accelerator, and she was just beginning to skim through the far and few documents they had on a Talon asset codenamed Sombra. The hours of sleep she missed upon reading took a toll on her, but that was what makeup was for.

When was the last time she had slept properly? She couldn't even remember. The only things that kept her going most days were numerous green drinks pumped full of sugar and caffeine and crinkling bags that emptied far too quickly. She couldn't be bothered to get up for proper meals most of the time. Her life was too rushed— missions, streaming, reading. In her free time, she would head down to the training center to clear her mind and maybe show off a little. It was easier to lose herself in rhythms and physical activity.

She would punch things for hours, kick things, too— she had been trained in various forms of martial arts, and her supposedly-weak melee was, in fact, a vicious barrage of fist, bone, and body. Nobody had expected her to be such a powerful physical fighter for someone whose preferred form of combat was piloting a giant, bulletproof mech, but she got the feeling that she was new territory in every shape and form to them.

No one wanted to spar with her. It was not out of fear, nor out of ignorance. She learned quickly that they were afraid of breaking her, of injuring her. (Once upon a time, Fareeha had clumsily tried to explain why she persistently refused Hana's offers to spar when no one else was around, but she had lost the younger girl's attention as soon as she declined.)

Sometimes, Hana would run. She would run for miles— around the track, on the treadmill, around the parameters of the base, until her lungs heaved, her face dripped with sweat, and she could barely stand anymore. Exhaustion was better excuse to retire for the night early to get some reading in, she supposed. Occasionally, Lena or Angela would join her on her runs and try to make conversation, but she was only ever angry or laconic when she ran, so those conversations were always short-lived.

Hana would also take frequent trips to the shooting range— Jack encouraged it. He said it was good to keep her wits about her, to keep her edges sharp. Hana, personally, hated it— her pistol never felt right in her hands, like it had never belonged there in the first place. Her hands were far better fit for a controller, though she never complained— not once. Her mien was masterful in craft. It served its purpose of masking her discomfort. The others didn't seem to notice how constantly she shifted her grip on her pistol's hilt, how she didn't call to it affectionately like Lena, Jesse, and Aleksandra were so prone to doing.

And she was jealous. Jesse spoke of his gun like it was his own child. Whenever Hana thought of hers, she felt compelled to throw it into the nearest body of water and never look upon its metallic sheen again. She never did get rid of it, of course, because she tended to rely on her gun more often than not when her mech got caught in a pinch. Hence, why she trained so diligently, despite the grudge she had long held against it.

Every time she had a break, she would head down to that training center. Typically, it was her turning the lights off, because the only person who had ever stayed in the training center later than her was Aleksandra, both of them prone to disregarding the nighttime curfew rule.

Winston had insisted on scheduled bedtimes, and when he brought it up she told him something along the lines of 'fuck the schedule' and did what she wanted because she was a bullet and the others weren't entirely bulletproof, not to her. It was painstakingly obvious that they were unaccustomed to and unprepared for such stubbornness from her. The situation was almost funny— they had dealt with the earliest days and youngest ages of Jesse McCree, Genji Shimada, and Lena Oxton, and yet they were embarrassingly unprepared for D.Va. Even if D.Va didn't act so much like a child, even if D.Va was articulate and composed and restrained and a little bit proud with a hint of slang, and she didn't know what to do with herself anymore. Hana had always prided herself for her ability to control situations without changing, but here, now, she wasn't sure whether pride or desperation would come out on top.

This confusion didn't make her any less an adult, but, despite all her mature tones and clipped actions, despite her verbal dissent and visible displeasure at the name, they still called her a child.

'Child, child, child,' they said. And she would sneer and bite her tongue and find an excuse to leave the room before the acrid words could find a way past her bright, cocksure veneer.

What of others, the ones that didn't call her a child?

The others weren't much better. In fact, they were worse. Worse in the way of casting her those silent, pitying glances when she got injured in the slightest, as if she were eight in their eyes and not nineteen, wincing prematurely whenever she opened her mouth as if they expected her to scream. They treated her like porcelain, even though she had trained for years in hand to hand combat and could outshoot most of them with her gun, and it was hell.

Down went the artificial targets, quicker passed the miles, harder fell the punches, and still came the apprehensive glances.

It stung her pride, it ate at her self-esteem, and it never ceased to confuse her. Hadn't Jesse and Angela been younger than her when they joined? Who gave them the right to be so hypocritical? She wasn't the youngest to ever join, so why were they treating her like the thinnest pane of glass? Was she not skilled enough? Was that it? Was she not good enough for them?

Anger and hopelessness were the ripe fruits of her still-growing tree. Why do I do this? she asked herself, sometimes— bitter words said to the mirror bearing a face with an equally resentful expression. It never makes a difference. I should give up. I should pack up my shit and disappear. Nobody would mind. I'm only a burden, anyways.

But she never gave up, because quitting was losing and she would not break first if it killed her. She was D.Va, after all.

Hana knew the others considered her too young to be fighting, she knew. She understood, or at least she tried to. She was younger than them, and had not seen as much of the suffering of the world as they had. Or had she? She'd seen her fair share of death, had taken her fair share of lives. What she'd seen was just another uncertainty compared to their accomplishments, she supposed. Everything was uncertain.

For example, their reasoning. Of course there were reasons. Maybe not good ones, but they were there. They were reasons all the same— and she got it, she understood, but that didn't make it any less galling, heaven forbid.

The elder members of Overwatch refused to treat her with respect, to treat her as an equal and not as a burden, even when she had given them considerable evidence proving otherwise, but what could she do?

Should she stomp her foot, she would only be proving them right. Should she fight her way through it, she would only be digging her own grave. Should she deal with it calmly, it would be uncharacteristic, and therefore unacceptable. Because she was D.Va to them and D.Va was the kind of person that complained and rebuked about being called a child but never actually did anything about it, because she had been conditioned to take everything that was given and give back only what everyone else wanted.

And, regrettably, they wanted her to be a child in a suit too big, with unquestionable fame and a rebuttal to everything. They wanted her to be bright and peppy and snarky, but also obedient. They wanted her to be more. If she had already been pushed to her limits before, then she was certainly straining the boundaries of her existence now. She was a rubber band, and they were pulling her back further and further and she knew that eventually she would snap. Eventually, everything she'd created would come crashing down around her and she wouldn't be able to stop it. D.Va could only go to so many lengths. Hana could only tear herself into so many pieces.

But, for Overwatch, she would not break. They didn't deserve the satisfaction. So, what could she do? What could she do in retaliation to the uncertainty and the strain?

Cuttingly, sardonically, regrettably, she turned herself into everything they wanted, sans the child that they so desperately tried to make her, and sans the charisma that was so commonly found in D.Va. There was no gratitude in their exchanges, no respect from either party. It was corrosive and acidic in every aspect; this passive aggression was the key to her survival, and likely the only reason she had not yet been dismissed.

Hana closed herself off from them, and made sure that they knew that that was exactly what she was doing. She misplaced their belongings on purpose, neglected to tell them important mission details, and so on and so forth. It was remarkably petty, even for her— but she was D.Va and it was the most D.Va-esque thing she could do.

She only spoke to her teammates when she had to. If there was an opportunity to avoid contact with them, she took it. And she could see the hurt confusion in their eyes when she hastily removed herself from their presence, and she reveled in it.

But it hurt. Oh, it hurt, because they were persistent.

She tried to convince herself that they had brought this on themselves. She tried, she really did.

Her life was a cycle. Missions, streams, reports, training. She hated it.

Streaming was hell, but she had to do it. She had to get up each morning knowing that the face she was born with wasn't good enough, knowing that she had to doll herself up and hide her body because she had to be what everyone else wanted. She was never asked for consent, or asked for her opinion. She was simply told 'do this and don't question why' and that was that. She had condemned herself to this— there was no escape from stardom. The chains were too long and too thick to break.

Of course, she acceded, but only because their metaphorical swords were pointed at her throat.

Her fans were given a voice pitched annoyingly high, with cheesy, quirky one-liners that she hated to say but she had to because no one else would. She was being paid, she was being sponsored, and she was being fed the lines by all the politicians and adults that sought to hold her and pilot her by her strings.

The missions were hell to complete, but she had to complete them. She had to get up each morning knowing that if she faltered in the slightest she was done for, that she had to sharpen her teeth and build her walls taller every day because she had to be what everyone else wanted. She was never asked for help, nor was she asked to do menial tasks. She was simply told 'let us handle this' and that was that. She had condemned herself to this— there was no escape from being marginalized. The chains were too long and too thick to break.

Of course, she acceded, but only because their metaphorical guns were pointed at her temples.

The members of Overwatch were given a sharp tongue and a hard gaze in passing, and the occasional insult disguised as a catchphrase, because she did not respect them as much as she should have for working with the former heroes of the first Omnic Crisis. She was being paid, she was being sponsored, and she was being fed the lines by all the politicians and adults that sought to hold her and pilot her by her strings.

And she was vibrant. She was so vibrant, it hurt her own eyes. How bright was she to the others, then? Was she blinding, as she had so diligently strived to become? If that was the case, then was the pain worth it in the end? She didn't feel accomplished, or proud of her actions. She just felt sore and morose and bitter.

When had she become so old in mind as to refer to when she was her younger self as 'the good old days?' When had that happened? She hadn't even realized the change. And it hurt when she glanced at her reflection in her windshield sometimes and wondered aloud, 'how did it come to this?' because she knew the answer. She just feigned ignorance because she was only nineteen, god damn it, and she wasn't a child but she wasn't nearly old enough to be looking down on the world with such biased malaise.

She didn't know what to do. She didn't know what she wanted. D.Va was old in mind, young in body, and both of those principles fought for control of her morale so often that it left her stranded somewhere in the middle.

Life went on, because she was D.Va, and D.Va did not need anyone's pity, but she got it anyways and there was nothing she could do about it that she hadn't tried already.

If she could, she would drown her sorrows in alcohol, but even that she was denied, because she 'wasn't old enough' according to Jack, and 'just because she was of age in her homeland did not mean that she was of age here.'

Luckily, Hana had mastered the art of lock-picking at a young age. As well as the art of persuasion, she supposed, especially when it came to Athena. She was glad that life her forced her to learn such skills, because it made it easier to sneak a drink in every now and then when she hit a low. Vodka and and her green energy drinks did not mix together well at all, but whatever would hide the fact that she was mooching alcohol from the storage room would work for her.

The situation still made her frustrated, of course, more frustrated than she had ever known herself to be, but what could she do against a man three times her size and twice her weight whose skills with a gun were rivaled only by the late Ana Amari and Widowmaker herself?

Besides, stealing liquor was only a temporary victory; the euphoria only lasted so long as there was liquid in the bottle to stomach.

As the alternative, she drowned herself in combat, because damn if she got left behind just because everyone thought she was weak.

She was not weak. She had to prove that to them.

Hana hated that that was what she had to resort to. They didn't trust her, and she hated to say that she was used to it. It almost felt... natural, to have to prove herself over and over and over again; to be looked down on. After all, that's what it had always been as D.Va, a rising star in the world of gaming.

Hana had always needed to prove herself somehow, whether that be because of her age or her gender depended on the person. She hated it, loathed it, but she took what she got and gave them back her infamous facade. It was the most she could do without doing anything, because she wasn't allowed to do what she wanted no matter how much she wanted to. That's what hurt most about being an idol— everything she did was by what someone else wanted. She was just a body, but her personality, her words, her appearance and her history— those things had been shaped by the government, her parents, and her fans.

There was nothing she could do, not really; at least, nothing that could change things for the better. Because of that, nothing ever really changed at all. They just got progressively worse the longer the days elapsed. Mission after mission she fought, and there was never any improvement with the situation. She knew it was her fault for choosing this path in the first place, but it was always easier to blame someone else than to have to sort through her own prejudices.

The bitterness and frustration consumed her, but bitterness and frustration were easy to manipulate, and she carried on.

Eventually, she knew not when, nor why, nor what had sparked the thought, she decided to adapt, as subtly as possible. To change. To evolve, because it wasn't direct interference and it was the most she could do to try when she had already given up. No changes to herself, no changes to the others. Just... something to see if she could catch their eye and gain some respect.

And what she focused on to make that change happen was her arsenal.

Her fusion cannons were strong, but they weren't strong enough or flashy enough to do the damage she sought. She had plenty of ideas to make herself deadlier, to make herself a better, stronger machine, but most of them would require outside help and that was absolutely unacceptable.

She had to work with what she knew— she had been taught basic-through-advanced engineering at the MEKA pre-academy. Chemical reactions, basic mechanisms, explosions— she knew how they worked, and she knew how to tie them together. Chemical engineering had been a mandatory class; she was glad. Now, she had sketchpads full of ideas. Corrosive bursts could be added to her fusion cannons for more armor-piercing rounds— a fully rotational axel set at her MEKA's hip for more maneuverability— rocket launchers could be placed on her mech's haunches to get her out of tight situations where her fusion cannons were impractical. There were more, an infinite number of pages more.

In the end, though, she only made one modification: a self-destruct mode with a large radius and an even larger explosion. It took many trials and came with many errors to get the formula right, but in the end, she thought, the results were something to be somewhat proud of despite the circumstances.

It worked brilliantly.

The self-destruct button became her best friend, for lack of a better term. It wiped out legion after legion of mercenaries, terrorists, syndicates, gangs, and any other potential threats Overwatch took on. All it took was the flip of a switch and the press of a button and then it was game over. D.Va: one, bad guys: zero.

The others hated it when she told them about it, because it was always easier to ask for forgiveness rather than permission, and nobody would have let her do it had she asked outright.

They told her to use it only as a last resort. She had expected as much.

But what they didn't know wouldn't kill them.