On the mission, Pharah Amari is a cold, determined, and fierce warrior. She flies above her enemies, blasts them with precise missiles, in some kind of multi-dimensional Chess game where the stakes are life for the winner, and death for the loser.
No matter how many missions she goes on, she comes back with a buzz. For, you see, there is no other way to put it - she gets off on combat. The 'combat high' is a documented trait among all skilled warriors. Human beings who can stay calm during an intense adrenaline rush have been valued as warriors since time immemorial. People who are born to battle find themselves drawn to the feeling of hyper-awareness that skilled warriors feel when death is just a stray bullet away. No game, no art, not even sex is as good as the dirty business of bloodshed for this warrior woman.
When the armor comes off, she is someone else. That is how it has always been. Not just for her, but for all humans who involve themselves in the ugly business of bloodshed. After the fight is over and she returns to the base, she is no longer a proud warrior. She is tired, sweaty, and wants a hot shower followed by a cold beer. That is the life of a mercenary; intense sweaty violence followed by resplendent peace.
The sweat, though, is not from heat; her Raptora Mark VI suit has the finest cooling systems ever invented. No, there is a very different sweat upon her body, and she wants to wash it off as soon as possible.
It's the sweat of fear.
Pharah Amari is a woman who is fearless normally. It's hard to be afraid of little specks on the ground as one soars high above them, firing rockets that can demolish anything. But on today's mission, there was a dangerous foe: another professional.
Pharah's regular missions are routine. She goes somewhere, she does the task, and returns to base. But on this mission, her squadmates died. One by one, each of them was downed by a sniper's bullet. The sniper did not kill Pharah, though. The foe merely amused itself by blasting her wings off; easily repaired with nanoskin tech, but the foe's intent was not to kill, but to say: "I can kill you whenever I want."
Pharah had fought on hundreds of battlefields and emerged victorious. It was what she was accustomed to. To be toyed with by a sniper, even though Pharah knew that snipers often toy with their prey, was frightening. It's like being the big fish in a small pond called Egypt (I know that Egypt is a fucking desert. Bear with me. There's water in the desert too.), and learning that there's a shark in there with you.
It didn't matter how long she stayed in the shower; the stink of fear clung to her, never to be washed off. After a few minutes, she twisted the little knob until it squeaked, dried herself off, then walked to her office, completely naked. None of her co-workers so much as looked at her.
None, save one...