It was an Overwatch romance that was never meant to be, that nobody asked for. Her, a pro gamer turned mech pilot with attitude. Him, a cheap Party City Halloween costume possessed by someone’s dad. Both of them controlled by cruel gamer gods with a thirst that no amount of Mountain Dew could quench.


They clasped hands (and guns) as I looked on from afar. “Oh, my beloved,” I imagined D.Va saying as the seconds counted down to the battle that would destroy them, “even if we’re separated—or... worse—we’ll never be apart. I’ll always be with you in the vacuous pit of contrived darkness and 1980s Metallica tracks you call a heart.”

For what felt like an eternity despite being a sliver space between seconds—perhaps because they’d only known each other for about one minute—Reaper stared into D.Va’s mech suit. He took a deep breath as if to speak, but the words got caught in his throat. He said nothing even as D.Va’s expectant eyes beckoned him. Finally, he spoke:

“My ultimate is charging. My ultimate is charging. My ultimate is charging.”

It was all she needed to hear.

Until she realized he was maybe talking about his erection.


Kotaku senior reporter. Beats: Twitch, streaming, PC gaming. Writing a book about streamers tentatively titled "STREAMERS" to be published by Atria/Simon & Schuster in the future.

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