I had dreams as a kid. I had aspirations. Ambitions. I had my whole life planned, starting from running track as a kid. Run through high school, get a scholarship to do it in university, go on to do it professionally, retire in my late 20s with some medals, and join Overwatch. Who didn’t want to join Overwatch when I was a kid? Every time you turned on the news, some new jackass was trying to burn the world down or something, and there was Overwatch storming in to save the day. They were like comic book heroes, but real.

And now I’m 25 and sitting on the hood of an old car - a car so old, it still has wheels - outside the diviest of dive bars, sipping a bottle of water that might’ve been ice-cold when Reinhardt was a baby, and waiting for my shift.

It’s not like I’m a failure, I just didn’t know the robotic revolution was going to happen.

Omnics, cybernetic prosthetics, implants… By the time I was leaving high school, anyone with a few coins to rub together could push the limits of what it meant to be human, and that meant no one wanted to watch humans push the limits of what it meant to be human for entertainment and sport.

Despite how it sounds,I’m not bitter about it, really, and I’m not some pro-human nutjob flinging bricks at Omnics in the streets; I will admit that there is a small, dark part of me that wishes I would’ve diversified a bit, put some effort into something that’s still needed these days.

The same self-reflection pity party I indulge in every day before my shift is interrupted, just like it is every day, by my phone playing an orchestral version of the Overwatch parade music to remind me it’s time to tie on my apron and sling drinks.

Okay, so I never stopped being an Overwatch fan. They’re still cool, and they’re still in my mind as I head into the bar.

It’s a pretty normal evening. We’re just down the street from an industrial district, so there’s always plenty of workers in after their shifts. Our dishwashers hate it; the workers slather grease on everything. I don’t mind, though. They know the value of a honest day’s work, the struggle to get by, so they don’t give me much trouble. Much.

There’s one guy. Of course there is, there’s always that one guy. That one loudmouth, that guy who can’t keep his hands to himself. You know the type.

Usually I just avoid him, but tonight’s different. Kelly’s nowhere to be seen and we’re short-staffed, so I’m covering twice as many tables. It runs me ragged, but it keeps me on my toes, and I like that, except for the part where it means I have to serve Ryan’s table.

Ryan’s that guy. He thinks he’s some kind of bigshot; a foreman at one of the factories. He surrounds himself with yes-men that encourage his antics, and those antics usually involve the groping and harassing of a waitress.

Tonight, that waitress is me.

“What can I get you all?” I put on my best smile, hoping to just get it over and done. To my amazement, it works. Just a round of orders. No harassment.

Or so I thought. The moment I turn to leave, there it is. A heavy hand right on my ass.

I grit my teeth, and my mind works through it faster than I ever ran the track. I could stand up for myself - and get fired. I could try to get someone else to work the table - and probably get fired.

I just have to put up with it, or so I tell myself. The truth is, I’m going to tell him off. Today’s the day that enough is enough and Ryan gets a tongue-lashing - just not the kind he wants.

I draw in a deep breath, turn, and I freeze.

The biggest man who has ever existed isat their table. An actual giant, towering over all of us. An old man, bearded and white-haired - and holding my least-favorite customer in the air by his wrist. Just dangling there, his eyes popping out from what’s probably the pain of his arm about to pop out of the socket.

Our eyes meet, and after a second, I look at the giant. The giant looks back at me, he nods, and he drops the man, who immediately scrambles out of the bar.

Some people would consider me a bit of a stereotype because I don’t like being saved. This is different, he’s different. Something about him tells me that it’s not because I’m a woman. This musclebound old man is just a protector of anyone.

I shrug it off and go back to work. They don’t pay me to philosophize about customers, even if they are this intriguing.

It’s a half hour later when I get called to the bar. Kelly came in late, so Drake - the boss - is giving her table duty as a punishment, and that means I’m on bar duty.

It must be my birthday. Bar duty is the dream . No one can grope you, the tips are way bigger, and sometimes you get interesting customers to chat with.

Imagine my surprise when the counter’s almost empty. The only person is that same old man, which actually makes it less surprising. Most of our patrons are probably too intimidated after what he did to Ryan.

What is surprising, though, is that someone who just came in is beelining for him. A tiny slip of a girl, Asian. Pretty. A thread-worn leather jacket, jeans, sensible shoes. Not a factory worker. There’s grease stains on the cuffs of the jacket, and on her hands. Mechanic, maybe.Not my type, though, I like them a bit rougher around the edges.

She orders a Nano-Cola and whisky. I slide it down the bar to her and start cleaning glasses. It’s hard not to eavesdrop, and obviously I’m not going to try not to. They’re talking about another girl. It sounds like it might be the old man’s niece; he travels a lot with whoever this girl is, and he sounds as protective as a father, but he’s too old for that.

The questions are weird. It’s not a catching-up conversation, it’s not idle interest. The girl’s after something. Her questions get more and more pointed, but with a subtleness that the man’s missing.

I don’t miss it. She’s interested in this girl, and she’s picking his brain for what I have to guess is a way to ask her out. Her brow’s furrowed and her teeth keep clenching between questions. He’s not catching on, and she’s getting frustrated, but she’s like me. She doesn’t know how to be straightforward.

I smile, and I clean, and I listen, and by the third Nano-Cola and whisky she orders, I realize it. It hits me so hard, and so fast.

That girl is Hana Song . Hana Song is in my bar. I am serving drinks to Hana Song.

The second realization actually makes me almost drop a glass.

That old man is Reinhardt . The actual crusader himself.

Reinhardt and Hana Song are my customers. And Hana likes girls.

“Brigitte is not a complicated girl,” Reinhardt’s saying. “She likes, eh, machines. Like your MEKA. Why are you so interested, anyway?”

“No reason,” Hana chirps. Oh, yes, there is a reason, and I know exactly what that reason is. Brigitte. Now Brigitte , that was my type. As old-fashioned as it is, I guess I adhere to the old stereotype. Femme girl seeks beefy woman, et cetera, et cetera.

It occurs to me, as I fill yet another mug for Reinhardt, that I have a unique opportunity to assist the Overwatch crew. I have to be careful, though. Less subtle than Hana, just enough for him to get the idea.

I catch his eyes with the new mug, and I wink. He’s confused, but he’s smiling. Maybe he thinks I’m flirting with him. My eyes flick to Hana, and then I wink at him again. I think he’s got it now. Maybe.

Reinhardt stares at Hana for a moment, and then he looks back at me. Realization is dawning, and too late, I realize that he probably thinks I’m interested in Hana.

Oops.

His mouth opens, and my heart sinks. I know he’s about to try to push us together. Hana isn’t looking, and that’s the biggest gift any deity’s ever given me. I shake my head frantically and mouth ‘Brigitte’ while nudging my head in Hana’s direction.

He’s still confused, and then he gets it .

The battleworn crusader actually blushes. Hana notices us just at the end of it, but she catches on almost immediately. She’s frozen, like a deer in headlights.

Reinhardt’s giant hand flops onto her head. He’s patting Hana Song. I am watching Reinhardt pat Hana Song while Hana Song moons over Brigitte. This is officially the best job I have ever had.

“Brigitte is a crusader in her own right,” the out-of-place knight rumbles. “She will value bluntness. She is not the type for the games, you know? The games like Jesse and Hanzo played. You should just ask.” He nods, he drains the mug of beer.

Hana’s taken aback by this. I am too, if I’m honest. I didn’t think he’d have such a straightforward reaction, but is it really surprising? It’s Reinhardt. The closest anyone’s ever come to being an actual, proper Knight in hundreds of years.

I reach for another mug, and he shakes his head. The stool creaks in protest - and relief - as the giant of a man stands. “Come, Hana. I have an idea.”

“The last time you had an idea, we had to get a crane to get Torbjorn down.”

“Better idea! She likes mechanical things, yes. I will break your MEKA.”

“Wait, what?”

“I will break it, and you will ask her to help repair it. Excellent first date.”

I have to give the guy points for trying to be helpful. And for being enthusiastic, because as loud and cheerful as he is right now, I think the entire city might know his plan now.

“...Fine.”

By now I’m not surprised Hana’s going along with it. I’m pretty sure anyone would jump off a bridge if Reinhardt asked them to. He’s got as much charisma as he does chivalry, and it’s kind of infectious, actually.

The big man ruffles through his pockets and produces a cluster of bills. I take them, step over to the till to get their change - and they’re gone. Just like that. I guess Reinhardt can afford to leave a huge tip.

The shock of the situation is still fresh hours later when I clock out.

Reinhardt and Hana Song were in my bar. Hana’s into girls. Hana’s into Brigitte. And Overwatch is in town.





