Notes1: As per usual with the way my writing goes, this went on longer than intended. I should stop expecting my drabbles being so short when they wind up twice as big.
Notes2: This is another follow-up to the shards around the edges of the mirror and in the pit of the black hole, and while you needn't read both of those to understand what's going on, they serve as padding on a subject that's otherwise expounded upon in this. However, as I was typing this throughout the week (on top of the water tank home finally crapping out and the snowstorm that went through the area), I have considered the idea of presenting a storyline based off what's shown in these oneshots. It's really nothing concrete other than a (more or less) passing fancy. These are pretty much written when the mood strikes me and the timing appropriate.
Notes3: Sombra is an interesting character. She reminds me of my father in the way that they both go through their lives doing what pleases them and nobody else, regardless of who they piss off. That's about as far as it goes, because it'd be both hilarious, horrifying, and very hard to believe (to the point where I'd have to question his sanity, not that we in the family have much to begin with, given some of the stupid stuff we debate over) if my pops was half-computer, knew how to hack and manipulate people for his own gains.

"You know it's not safe to walk around alone at night, right?" A simple question of concern, but it's enough to get you to snap out of your reverie and turn around. The shadows of the back alley are long and deep, boxing us in on either side, but there's still a bit of light to cast that unpleasant scowl into relief.

"You again," you say, and I smile, nodding. You remember! "What, stealing from Winston wasn't enough, so you decided to try your luck in person? That's not how thieves work."

I hold my hands up in a placating gesture. "Now who said I was stealing? You know people how are; they just have to have the latest technology. Gotta be hip and up to date with the rest of society!"

"It's also a sin to tell a lie."

"Only if it's deemed necessary," I say, and the subtle movement of your hand catches my eye. "Whoa there, girl! There's no need for that. Do you realize where we are?"

You do, and the hand stops a hairsbreadth from ripping the gun from its holster. You scowl and straighten up, glaring defiantly…but that hand stays where it is, hovering, ready to draw. "If I could, I would," you say. "I'd risk it."

"I know," I say, "but you don't exactly trust yourself, do you? If I had a mirror on me, I would show you the person standing right in front of me. Trust me, the person I'm seeing before me is not the face of all that's good and lawful in the world." I frown. "Far from it. It's such a shame."

"What game are you playing at?" you ask. "What do you really want?"

"I'm not here to cause you harm, if that's what you're insinuating." I shake my head. "If that were the case, I'd have done in you right away. Death needs to have meaning; even something as simple as old age and natural causes is warrant for symbolism."

You harrumph and turn your nose up. That wild shock of hair falls in front of your eyes and you don't bother to brush those locks aside. It makes you look downright rebellious—so out of character—and it makes me wish for that mirror all the more. "Then if you're not here to kill me, what are you here for? Surely not for a midnight stroll, I'll take it."

"I'm just here to talk," I tell you, plain and simple.

"Bollocks!"

"Honest to God, I am! As with death, so does the most mundane activity have a sliver of purpose. That's why I'm here."

You put your hands on your hips, and although they're still too close to the guns the sight makes me breathe a little easier. "And what could you possibly tell me?"

I try not to smile—really, I do all I can to suppress it, but it slips forth and as a result your eyes narrow and your features become hard as stone. You'd have a right to be suspicious; I won't fault you for that. You're more or less aware of…well, 'some' would be grossly exaggerating it, but you've heard the rumors, the gossip, certain events that I may or may not have had a hand in, and even if I were a different, lesser person of more lenient means I still wouldn't divulge that kind of information to you. That's neither here nor there. They don't affect you. Not yet; that is far and away from now.

But just this one time, I feel a little more giving. A little more open than how I usually am. After all, I think you deserve to hear it from someone, because who in Overwatch is going to? Your best friend, Winston? Your field medic, Mercy? I highly doubt even Zenyatta, who wanders now and then between watchpoints with Genji, will say it outright to your face.

Maybe they think it's not their place.

Maybe they think it's for you to work out and overcome on your own.

Maybe they're afraid of the reaction you'll have if they do give voice to it.

Whatever the case may be, you're suppressing it, and it's affecting you. The way your back is much too straight and your shoulders much too squared, too drawn in on themselves like butterfly wings. The sluggishness in your steps when you walk. The coldness lurking in the depths of your eyes, like some dreadful monster of myth.

Sooner or later you're going to break, and whatever's left will eat you alive.

So who better to hasten the process than little ole me? Why not get it out of the way? I'm by no means a doctor, but if someone's going to do it…

Oh my. Tracer, chica, if you glower any harder, your face will break before your heart does. I want to say this—really, it burns!—but I am not so foolish when I'm outside my usual gallivanting. There's a time and place for everything.

So I quash the smile and school my own expression into an impassive mask and speak the words you don't want to hear: "Well, for starters, you're still hung up over causing Mondatta's death."

Sometimes I wonder if looks could kill. The way your eyes widen and your jaw slackens as though you've taken his bullet through the gut instead of through your body, away from the chronal accelerator shining upon your breast. I'll be the first to admit the suddenness in the change of demeanor caught me by surprise, if only for a split second. "I didn't cause—!"

"Yeah, you did," I say. "You could've forced Widowmaker out of King's Row and dealt with her then and there," and here I sigh and pity you. "Except you didn't. You showed off and traded blows in the sky where I'm pretty sure people suspected there was something afoot going on. You know, before you stupidly blinked out of the way and not take the killing shot for yourself. Something a real hero would do."

You take two quick steps toward me, finger pointed accusingly. "How dare you—!"

"I do dare, and all the better you hear it from someone straight out instead of a friend who'll just gloss things over," I say, never raising my voice. I swat your hand aside as if I'm dismissing some wayward insect getting too close for comfort, and from my periphery I catch it fall to the butt of the gun. I can't help but feel both the swell of pride and the deflation that comes with disappointment bloom in my chest.

"And how would you know what happened to Mondatta, huh?" You say, and with the other hand you all but jab me between my breasts. You lean in, try to push me off my feet to get away from you. I don't budge; I just glance it and keep my gaze locked with yours, enduring the heat. "Were you there when he made his speech? Were you there when Winston tipped me off? Were you there when Widowmaker…and all the people down there…and I…." You bite down on your bottom lip, and maybe I'm imagining things, but I think I see a bead of blood crop up, like a single red eye opening into wakefulness. "You have no right!"

'Right?' Since when was there a law preventing me from telling the truth?

I want to say this, but it would make my point needlessly padded and redundant, so I perish the thought and go with: "I wasn't there when Mondatta was killed, but Widowmaker loves to go into excruciating detail about things that catch her fancy. That's just about every assassination mission she's sent on. This one appealed to her more than the others. We both know why." And we do—tonight is young, quiet, but King's Row is just one part of London. Even here, in the darkness of the night, you can feel the tension thrumming everywhere, every which way you turn and right beneath the soles of your feet. Oh, that last part could be from all the omnics milling about in the Underworld, but it's like a cancer, festering and growing and becoming increasingly more agitated with each passing day. "You being there just made her night so much sweeter."

"So you know then," you growl.

I nod. "Of course. I have many eyes to see with, many ears to hear with, and many mouths to speak with. It's hard not to tune out Widowmaker; that woman just loves to gloat, did you know? No matter what Talon does, no matter how much she thinks she has complete control over herself, she's not so above it all."

You roll your eyes. "I can just imagine."

"And you wouldn't be far from the truth. But…there is one thing I agree with her on."

You throw your arms up in the air, exasperated but also somewhat lazily. "Other than me being responsible for the whole mess?"

"Yes," I say, and inclined my head at your guns. "You need to let go. Free yourself."

When you see where my gaze is directed at, you look down, then back up. Your teeth are bared in a snarl. "I'm nothing like her. Or you."

"I never said I was anything like her, nor did I say you had to be like us." I sweep an arm out, taking in the whole of the alleyway, the streets, the Underworld, beyond. "This world is sweet. This world is kind and beautiful and nurturing…but the world is also very cruel and unforgiving. Do you think your kind heart, your sense of justice, will be enough to save it from destroying itself? Do you think words alone will sway the darkness that lurks and ensnares others more tightly than others?"

I see the conflict warping your face: the confusion, the fear, the anger, the struggle to move past the total incomprehension of your black and white morality. I wait, watching the emotions flitter and twisting you like the colors and shapes in a kaleidoscope. "Not everything can be solved with violence," you say, almost pleadingly. "If I can try and talk to them—"

"Tracer," I say. "Get real. It didn't work the first time with Widowmaker. What makes you think it's going to work a second time? It doesn't have to be Widowmaker. It could be Reaper. It could be me. Maybe it'll even come down to one of your friends. Not everyone is susceptible to change, and not everyone is going to walk away unscathed. That's why you should be more careful in the future. I don't think either of us wants to know what'll happen if—when—your accelerator takes one too many pot shots," and I gesture to the device strapped to her chest.

You don't follow up on it. "I'll be fine."

"For now you are. Next time, you might not be so lucky."

"Then I'll make sure there isn't a next time."

"You'll be hard pressed to maintain that attitude when you're staring up the barrel of a gun."

"And if for some reason it does come down to that, someone else will take my place!" you exclaim, and safety and quiet be damned, your words echo loudly in the alleyway, for any and all to hear. "I have my friends! I have people who desire a better world and will do whatever it takes to make it happen! What do you have? Do you think your words are going to change my mind? Because you have another thing coming if you think that's the case!"

Your shoulders slump, your arms drop to your sides and dangle limply. You slouch over and your chest heaves, take in big gulps of breath as though you're sucking back in all the pent-up frustration back into tired, overworked lungs.

That light in your eyes remains, like the first star in the evening sky, the last star holding on at the brink of dawn.

I grin. "That's more like it, Tracer. That's what I want to see."

You scowl. "Does that make you happy?"

"Much," I say. "You have fangs. That's good. That's good. You're going to need them."

"I already have them," you say, and when I blink I see a gun in your hands, barrel pointed at me and finger ready on the trigger.

Another blink, and I step forward. I put my hand over the gun, close my fingers over the barrel, and let the cybernetics do the work. You press the trigger once, and all we get is an empty, resounding click. You press it again, and again, and again. Nothing comes out. You try lift the other gun, and I grab that and shut it down, too. I twist your wrist, and you grunt and watch as your muscles betray you and force you to drop the weapon. It clatters harmlessly by your feet.

With the same hand I cover your chronal accelerator, and your gaze falls toward it, transfixed on the lights playing in and out between the spaces of my fingers. "Don't even think about it," I say. "You run, and I end you right here." I frown. "Don't make me do that, Tracer. You're smarter than this."

"The world needs more heroes," you croak, "and you're not one of them."

I smile humorlessly. "No, I'm not, and that's probably for the best. Taking your tech is nothing compared to some of the things I've done. But, you know, that's what I do. I do my thing and you do yours. No two methods are the same, but the results are either one of two things: you win or you lose. And when you lose…well, you know how it goes."

"Not every death has meaning. Some lives are cut short." You clamp your hand over my wrist and throw my arm aside. I don't retaliate, just step back and watch her bend down and retrieve the fallen gun. Her eyes never leave me. "And when those lives are cut short, it just makes their efforts seem so—"

"Pointless?" I finish for her.

"Yes," you say, and snatch the weapon. "It's not fair."

"Life's not fair."

"People don't deserve to die so soon!"

"That depends on the circumstances." I shrug. "What crimes have they done to determine they should die? Would their deaths mean being a step closer to peace or further damnation? More violence? More protests? Would one person dying make them a martyr, and would it make the righteous cause they are fighting for become so twisted it would be unrecognizable?" I turn my head slightly, looking toward King's Row and its streets, making sure you never fully leave my sight. "You may think you know for sure what the outcome will be, but in reality it's a gamble. Never know what you'll get until the deed is done. There's nothing you or I can do about it."

"I'll try, though," you say, and there's a sliver of weariness creeping into your voice. Weariness from me, from the subject, or making sense of your ideals mixing and clashing against my own, I can't say. I arch a brow when you look up and add, "I'll try and make the world a better place, even if…even if people have to die along the way. I don't want to, but…I'm going to try."

"Even if it comes down to me getting in your way?" I ask.

You stare at me for a long time, gaze level and serious and trying so hard not to look pained. "Yeah," you say at last. "Even you."

"Then for better or worse, I hope you don't fail to disappoint." It is all the warning I can give you.

Whether you take it to heart or disregard it—that's on you, kid. No two ways about it. There's no right or wrong answer.

But I think we both know which decision you're going to make.