3/1/2017 EDIT: I fixed up this chapter (for readability) and added some additional information! I highly recommend rereading the very last segment of this chapter (the part with Amin) to see the added details.


"Tracer," Hana croaks.

"I'm really sorry, I really am," babbles the agent, sounding more concerned than guilty. "We- I'm in Russia right now, and I was, um, occupied." A buzz of static. "How- how are you holding up, love?"

Sorry.

Lena Oxton was apologizing.

And she should be, Hana realizes slowly. She brings up the transceiver to her mouth, to compensate for loudness with closeness.

"Where-" Hana's voice breaks, and the tremulous silence breaks along with it, as sharp as the breaking of a neck. "Where were you? Why- why didn't you-"

"Hana, I truly am sorry," says Tracer miserably somewhere on the other side. Her heavy sigh causes a rush of static. "We're really understaffed right now. As in- as in, we don't have any staff at all. Winston and I were busy figh-"

"What's happened to Genji?" cut in Hana. Adrenaline races through her bones, as if she's face-to-face with a dozen Talon agents all over again. She's sick with apprehension and, curiously enough, elation- she's finally going to receive some directions. She's finally going to find out how Genji is doing.

Silence. Hana very nearly shakes the transceiver, as if to somehow dislodge a reply. "Tracer?"

"I'm sorry," repeats the woman, her cheerful voice shaking ever so slightly. "Genji disconnected from the main channel yesterday night. He-"

"Who fucking cares? You can still find him," snaps Hana. "You're- you're Overwatch, you've got all that fancy tech, hell, I bet even your microwaves have GPS transmitters in them." She wants to sound light and friendly, she really does, but her voice is quavering and peaking an octave higher of its own accord. She's beginning to feel sick to her stomach from this confusing mess of relief and despair. "Please. He's very hurt."

"Agent Song," says Tracer firmly. "Genji disconnected from the main channel. He is purposefully hiding his location from us. We cannot extract him at the moment."

Hana's temperature drops a hundred degrees. "What! Why-"

"Our efforts in Russia aren't going so smoothly, love. Genji knows that. He wants us to focus-"

Tracer's voice is gentle. Smooth as jazz. Its therapeutic effects simply glance off of Hana's shield of why's and how's and what's and pleases'. Why doesn't she sound more concerned?

"He's going to die." It's not just a paranoid belief anymore. It's a fact.

A fact that Tracer apparently takes offense to, because she replies hotly with a "Hana, Genji is a professional! Don't worry, he's a tough guy. Have a little faith!" The sheer confidence that shines through her words makes Hana die a little inside.

Blood dripping between her fingers as she presses down on the wound, wondering if the red liquid will ever stop. Genji turning fitfully and rasping, "Anija-"

"Faith isn't going to save him. You don't understand how terrible shape he was in." She wants to somehow plant a picture of Genji in Tracer's head, injuries and all, to somehow convey the full extent of his pain to the woman.

"Please, Hana. Let's not discuss him right now." Tracer exhales on the other end. "We don't have a lot of time, love. And you're not the only one that's knackered right now, so… Believe me when I say that he's fine, so don't you worry about him. Your extraction is top priority right now."

Fuck. This wasn't going the way Hana had wanted to at all. She'd yelled and sworn at her childhood idol, and still couldn't get the message across-

Hana presses her fingers into the bridge of her nose, squeezes her eyes shut. Takes a deep, calming breath, the way Genji always did when he meditated. She'd laughed at him at the time. Silly, silly cyborg-

Her jaw works against the gum in her mouth as she plans out her next words.

"Okay. Okay, then," she breathes. "Forget Genji. Just… Tracer-nim, can you tell me where I need to go?"

That's all she needs from Overwatch, really. Reassurance of Genji's safety, and someone who will tell her what to do. So far, neither has been provided.

"Um- yes, right!" Tracer goes from bitterly morose to hyper puppy in the space of a millisecond. "We don't know how Talon found out about you, or the extraction plan, or Genji, but it's okay! Everything will be just fine."

Hana squints at her transceiver, at the suspiciously happy lilt of Tracer's voice. "Er-"

"The thing is, love, even if I told you which subway you're supposed to take, you won't be able to. Winston thinks that Talon is guardin' those places for sure." Hana blinks at the news, (shouldn't I be surprised?), as Tracer races ahead. "We're planning a new route to the extraction point as we speak, so just sit tight and- well, maybe scout some of the city. Tell us what the situation's like, yeah? Head to Jangsoo Station, and be mighty discreet about it. Tell us what's going on there."

"Hold on. You're not going to come get me from Busan?" asks Hana, incredulous despite herself. After being ambushed by all those agents, it's hard to believe that Overwatch was still carrying through with their go-to-Seoul plan.

Though- though if she really thinks about it, of course they can't come fetch her themselves. Overwatch's resources are spread thin, and to expend what little agents they have on one unimportant little girl…. Hana respects that (and she's not bitter at all, DVA thinks sourly, no, not at all, not at all-)

But Tracer. Tracer does not go through the logistics of Overwatch's schemes, pointing out the reasoning behind all of it. Again, she apologizes.

The British lady falters, and the genuine guilt saturating her tone is almost alarming. "I'm so sorry, mate. Our hands are tied. Overwatch doesn't have the necessary funding or personnel to go looking for you right now. Genji was the only person we could spare, and sending him out alone was a mistake. We tried to get someone else to go with him, but they… they dropped out last minute. If they had… if they had gone…"

A pause. In the deafening silence of the room, Hana can hear the rattle of Tracer's every breath.

For an international icon and hero of Overwatch, she sounds awfully tentative, and soul-crushingly guilty enough for Hana's expression to soften. "I don't want to sound like I'm making excuses- it's entirely our fault that you're in this situation, love. But- but I tried to get Winston to let me go get you out of there, I swear, Hana. I really did. None of this should've happened… I'm sorely sorry."

The raging monster of elation and wanton fury that had been warring in Hana's veins slowly calms, even though she doesn't want it to leave. She wants to be angry, she wants to vent to Tracer, she wants to be able to tell Overwatch exactly what it had done to her over the course of this terrible, terrible week.

You're acting like a child, DVA hisses. Who the fuck cares? You're not dead, and as Tracer so adamantly puts, Genji isn't either. And then, snidely- Though, she's an optimistic fool. Don't get your hopes up.

She bites her lip. Hard enough for her mouth to fill with the coppery tang of blood.

Genji's blood-splattered visor hums in the dark warehouse. "Hana. Think about what you are about to say. Think about it carefully."

The transceiver hums in the sun-kissed room. "Hana?"

Hana takes another breath. This isn't Overwatch's fault. This is entirely on Talon. Pushing the blame around on others isn't going to accomplish anything, and- and being upset towards the indomitably cheerful Tracer makes her fingers curl with an odd sense of guilt.

At least I'm in contact with them, now. You're not alone anymore. It's become her mantra, the thing that keeps her sane- you're not alone anymore, not alone anymore, not alone anymore.

Another deep breath. The silence is back, but Hana knows how to break it now.

By yelling and screaming? No.

"Okay, it's fine. It's okay," she says, finally. No protests, no more swearing. Calm and reasonable… think it through logically. "I can… just, keep me posted, okay?"

"And you keep me posted too," says Tracer, voice bright with relief. "See, we're getting somewhere now!" There's the distinct clatter of fingers on a keyboard. "Let me set this up, and… here we go. Alright, couldja tell me where you are right now?"

Hana's not actually sure what the address of the apartment is, but she gives a clean description of the building itself- tall, light grey, in the heart of Busan's shopping district.

And then- "I'm staying with an Omnic that calls herself Amin Lee." She hesitates. Tracer makes encouraging sounds on the other side of the transceiver, while Hana swallows down the strange guilt that pitter-patters across her chest.

It feels as if she is somehow betraying Amin, though all she is doing is relaying information about the Omnic to Overwatch (behind Amin's back, DVA scoffs.)

"She's got blue lights and she's made of a silvery white material. There's an inscription underneath one of her eyes, but…" Hana thinks back, but simply cannot recall the series of little numbers etched into the Omnic. "I'll get back to you on that. I don't remember her serial code."

"Call back with that info as soon as you can, 'kay? It's reeeeeally important!" Hana finds herself listening almost wistfully to the tapping of computer keys; it's been forever since she's played StarCraft. "Of course, I doubt that she's Talon, 'cos you wouldn't be cozing it out at a cushy flat if she was, right?"

"I don't think she's with Talon either," Hana agrees. "I think this place is safe." She finds herself wondering at Tracer's almost-hyperactive level of energy, and with a dull pang realizes that the persona of Tracer and the woman Lena Oxton were almost exactly the same.

Tracer's image flickers on the holovid, standing tall and bright orange. Her lips move confidently to extravagant, foreign words that Hana traces over in her head as she stares at the Korean subtitles-

왜냐하면 우리가 OVERWATCH 입니다, !

Hana whispers along clumsily, accent thick on her tongue-

"Cos we're Overwatch, kiddos!"

What was this strange feeling? Disappointment? It doesn't make sense; Tracer was everything that Hana had ever imagined. Why the hell-

The Brit's voice positively beams through the speakers. "Well, then! This should be enough info to appease the resident gorilla. I'm calling this status report over, unless you have something else to add."

"No, nothing." Hana plops down completely onto the floor, eyes half-lidded with sudden weariness. "Thanks, Tracer-nim." She's not sure whether she's relieved or even more tensed up now that she's got a mission.

"If I'm guessin' correctly, that bit you added onto the end of my name is something polite, like the thing Genji says a lot- 'san', right?" Hana thinks she's referring to the -nim suffix. She hums in affirmation and Tracer makes a noise of disappointment. "None of those formalities. Call me Lena! That's what all my friends do."

Hana almost retorts that she's isn't a friend of hers, she hardly knows the woman- but DVA responds with a light "Okay, Tracer," and stifles her laughter at Tracer's outburst of "Why, you-!"

She sinks back against the couch. Speaks into the transceiver, seriously this time. "Bye, Lena."

The transceiver's red light continues to blink up at her. She blinks right back. Why wasn't Tracer cutting the call?

Hesitantly- "Lena?"

Tracer's voice is uncharacteristically somber. "Hana. You're fifteen years old?"

She's not sure how to feel about the gentle pity in Tracer's voice. She hates pity, hates it with a passion, and yet-

-coming from Tracer, it feels quite nice. It doesn't feel quite like pity, more like… sympathy?

Impossible. What in hell do I, a teenage girl who's claim to fame is her gaming abilities, have that Lena Oxton, the famous Slipstream-pilot-Overwatch-member-UN-representative, can sympathize with?

"Fifteen or fourteen. Somewhere around there. I lost track a while ago," she replies offhandedly.

Tracer sucks in a breath. "Well, fuck. Didn't really believe it until I talked to you, love."

Hana blinks again. This has absolutely nothing to do with transporting Hana from Busan to Seoul. Also, she's not sure how she feels about international icon and kid-friendly hero Tracer dropping the F-bomb.

"Tra- er, Lena?" she repeats uncertainly. Somewhere in Russia, Tracer lets out a quiet sigh.

"Overwatch hasn't recruited someone as young as you in… in ever, really. We've only been back for a month, and we're already breaking new ground." Hana, again, isn't really that surprised, though she takes a moment to marvel at it- that she, a fourteen/fifteen year old girl, was going to become a soldier.

"Cool, right?" DVA chirps brightly. Hana cringes a little and wishes the earth would swallow her whole.

"Totally. You'll do great," Tracer chirps back, and they both know that neither are sincere in the slightest. "Just, don't hesitate to call, alright? If you're in a pickle, or you need directions- bits n' bobs like that. I'll pick up whenever I can."

The small smile on Hana's face slides off like rain on a windowsill. She's 'known' Tracer for less than ten minutes, and yet the Brit already feels like an old friend. A character trait that made Tracer who she was- famous. Successful. Along with the other poster child of Overwatch, Strike Commander Jack Morrison, the man with the gilded smile.

It is a character trait that Hana had desperately tried to emulate during her formation of DVA.

And so, as she signs of with a "Sure, I'll call," and Tracer shoots back a "Cheers, love!" she watches the blinking red light go dark with a dull ache in her head.

She halfheartedly chucks the transceiver at the duffel bag from her seat on the floor, and, as per usual, misses. Getting up is too much of a pain, so she just leaves it there. Her terrible mood only worsens when she tries to reassure herself that Tracer is looking after her, now.

Tracer is real.

Lena Oxton is real.

The two are one and the same.

Perhaps Tracer is more of the best bits of Lena Oxton mashed together and cleaned up for the world's viewing pleasure, but Lena is… a genuinely good person. Someone who, unlike Hana, is as truly thoughtful and cheerful as her persona.

After years of streaming as peppy, snappy, self-assured DVA, Hana had been sure- so sure that Tracer was a fake. Just another stage name for a stage face.

While she's relieved to know that that this isn't the case, she's also so, so disappointed, because it means that there are real great people in the world that can live up to their persona's name-

-and Hana just so happens to not be one of them.

It's no big secret that if she were Hana Song to her viewers- a pessimistic, coldhearted, sarcastic brat- no one would watch her.

No one would love her, laughs DVA, and Hana agrees with a quiet huff of breath.

The only thing that made acting as DVA bearable was the persistent thought that well, everyone does this! Everyone puts on a mask.

But then the mask had become an irremovable part of her, and over time, irreplaceable as well. Whenever she succeeds in something and realizes, swept with the euphoria of the moment, that I don't need anyone-

-DVA gently corrects, Anyone but me.

She flops onto Amin's couch with all the elegance of a dying slug. Her brain is as exhausted as her body, and the instant she hits the soft, downy cushions, it shuts down.


The poor girl is passed out over the furniture when Amin returns to the apartment.

She turns to the doorway and raises a silvery finger to her faceplate, where lips would be if she were human. The message is clear even coming from an Omnic- be quiet, please. Someone is asleep. And then, pointing at the light switch- Turn off the lights.

Tara scowls from the threshold and flips off the lights. The floor-to-ceiling windows shine with the millions of neon lights coming from Busan's skyline, glinting an angry red off the Korean girl's skin.

Tara's voice cuts sharply through the quiet, ambient city noise. "I really thought you were pulling my leg, y'know?"

Amin makes frantic gestures at the sleeping girl- Tokki- whispering "Lower your voice!"

Tara reluctantly complies, but sounds just as wrathful with a hushed voice than without. "Amin. Seriously, though. Another one?"

"This one was in grave trouble," whispers Amin somberly, but Tara won't have any of it.

"You keep taking in strays like this, and it'll backfire on you one day. I'm telling you, it'll all come crashing down," hisses Tara as she stalks across the room towards Tokki. Presumably to wake her up and have a one-sided shouting match with the poor thing.

Amin seizes her arm as she passes, putting a little more pressure into her grip than is necessary.

"Tara," she says softly. "She was covered in blood."

Tara flinches, her hard stare flickering from Tokki to Amin and back. "What?"

"I said, please keep your voice down." She lets go of Tara's wrist. "She was covered in blood, lost, confused and tired-"

"All the more reason to let her be, then," snaps Tara, making no attempt at keeping her voice down. Tokki stirs a little in her sleep, and Amin catches the word dumplings somewhere in her incomprehensible mumbling.

Tara's face softens. Just for an instant, but Amin still notices it. Amin notices a lot of things.

Within Tara's shell of cold indifference, Amin knows there is something very soft and emotional. Very much like Tokki herself, in fact. She's sure that the two will get along eventually. That's all that she's worried about, really. Troubles came and went all the time, whoever it was that she was sheltering.

"Be reasonable and go fetch a blanket," she says. Tara again reluctantly complies, as she always does, muttering near-silent curses as she trods off towards the closet.

Amin turns to Tokki. She's curled up on her side, legs dangling off the side of the couch. The sullen mask of independence on her face is gone, replaced with a look of serene contentment.

Amin is uncomfortably aware of the fact that she's made of cold, hard materials as she tries to pick the girl up as gently as possible. The girl's frame is light, and her temperature readings indicate a slight fever. Poor thing.

She silently thanks the Iris when she realizes that the girl is in too deep of a sleep to awaken now, however clumsy Amin's efforts are.

Instead of continuing on to Tara's room, Amin just stands there. For a long moment, she's hit by a deep sense of nostalgia that's both unexpected and very pleasant. Given the fact that it's been more than four years since she'd last held Tara like this, and the fact that she has no touch receptors to make the feeling humanly 'genuine', she's a bit surprised that she remembers this feeling.

Humanly 'genuine' and not genuinely 'human.' Feeling. Amin feels, she's sure of it. She feels anger, she feels sad, she feels a sense of loss when she looks upon Tara and remembers the little girl she once had been.

For all of her snappy words and flinty temperament, Tara made her feel- Tara made her feel a lot of things, but most of all, she made her feel like Amin had accomplished something with her life. Her worthless, Omnic life.

"Sleep safely," she warbles, voice low, to the sleeping girl.

Tokki does say something imperceptible under her breath now and again, though. Amin hopes that whatever she's dreaming about, it's something peaceful. God knows this girl could use some peace.


The first thing Daddy does when he returns home is sweep her off her feet in a tight hug.

She squeals as he spins her around, as delighted as she is confused. Daddy rarely smiles, and she can hardly remember the last time he laughed. "Daddy? What's going on?"

He sets her down on the carpet as Mom sticks her head out from the kitchen, hair done up in a messy bun. The smell of her world-famous (or so Hana likes to think) fried dumplings wafts out enticingly. "Yuhbo? You're back early today?"

Daddy breaks into the brightest smile Hana's ever seen, and for a split second, he's even more beautiful than her lovely Mom. "Honey, I got promoted!"

Hana's not sure what that that means, but apparently Mom is. She drops her pair of charred chopsticks, mouth open in surprise- in an instant, she becomes a blur of a red apron and black hair-

-and then-

-and then-

-and then the three of them are sinking to the floor in a many-armed hug, all laughing and giggling and crying out triumphantly- Mom's arm is wrapped tightly around Hana's face, Dad's knee is somehow pressed against her shoulder-

Hana doesn't know what's going on, but in the end, she finds that she doesn't care. She giggles and buries herself deeper into the warmth of Mom and Daddy.

As long as they're happy, does it even matter what they're happy about?


EDIT: I fixed it up a bit.

I know I'm uploading at quite the ungodly hour, for which I am very sorry.

There was a storm where I lived, and the power cut out for a couple days. Therefore, I could not write much during that time. That is why this update is late. I haven't read last chapter's reviews yet, either, but I'll do that as soon as I can! This chapter is a total mess, as I had to scramble to get it done. I'll probably fix it up later, when I have time. Again, my apologies.

Some good news for this fic, though- I commissioned the incredible Moony to do a full color sketch of Amin and Tara, so you'll be able to see what they look like, soon! I know it's difficult to visualize non-canonical characters.

Translation Notes:

-nim- Suffix denoting respect. Translates to 'Mr.' or 'Ms.'

Yuhbo- What wives call their husbands, literally means 'husband.' Considered a term of endearment.