While his past self may not have agreed, Reinhardt wasn't occupied with thoughts of fame.

Overwatch's recall should've been thrown to the trash, and yet he found himself among its ranks yet again. How could he not? He swore to live with honor, and that meant answering to those who discarded him with ease as long as he could protect the weak.

Its revival only meant that their names would once again be seen in headlines. He's not surprised when reporters and press swarm them after they successfully warded off yet another omnic attack. Most of the cameras were aimed at the likes of Tracer and Lúcio—young things who were brimming with energy.

Reinhardt's weary eyes watch them answer questions from afar, having taken a step back to inspect his armor and shield. It's good that others are still interested in Overwatch's cause; there'll be a new generation willing to fight for justice.

(If Ana were here, she'd chide him for being sentimental. She'd never use age as an excuse for these lingering feelings of inadequacy.)

A flash of a camera catches his eye. Though it's not unusual, he doesn't expect to see a curious little thing aiming a camera right at his unassuming figure. He almost jumps, resting his large hammer on the ground with a gentle clunk.

Away from the crowd, you and him stand there alone.

His head tilts to the side, a lone blue eye sparkling with mirth. "Oh?" Reinhardt muses, "This old dog has caught your attention? Haha!"