Notes1: A direct follow-up to "the shards left around the edges of the mirror", although you don't really need to read that to understand this, unless you prefer a little more padding to the overall story.
Notes2: I've still yet to get around to playing the Overwatch open beta. It may or may not give me more inspiration since there's very little if any plot in the game itself outside the extended universe and some pre-game interactions.
Notes3: On a somewhat related - or unrelated, if you prefer - note, Nova's Widowmaker skin in HotS is giving me way too many ideas, ideas that would fit more with the upcoming "How Does It Even Work?" anthology. (I know you folks have been asking about "that" pairing. Worry not, I haven't forgotten.) Although I would much prefer Widowmaker to be her own hero rather than as a skin a'la Magni Muradin, this makes a particular chapter I had in mind that much more viable to work with.

It wasn't my intention to have him killed.

It's not my intention to let anybody die. Young or old, man or woman, human or omnic. They don't deserve to have their lives cut short like that.

I try to help.

I try to help the best I can.

Sometimes…I wish I were faster.

Sometimes…I wish the accident had been much worse than it had been. I wish technology were advanced enough for my friend to do something more with this—I tap the back of a pistol to the chronal accelerator to show you— so I can go back in time and help them. Save him.

Not just my time. The world's time. Then that way, everybody would safe and unharmed and Mondatta…Mondatta would be….

But that's beyond me now. You closed that door on me.

Not me.

I didn't do it, as you're claiming to be the case.

But if I could get through to you, if it's at all possible, even just a little, I would let you know that if I had the chance to replay that night all over again, I would.

I would. And I'd make sure he'd live!

I'd make sure I'd stop you! And if I failed that time, I'd do it again! Again and again and again, until I got it right!

I…I won't make that mistake again. You'll see! If not with words, then I guess the only other way I can see happening would be with my weapons. Mine against yours. A modern-day clash of swords.

I don't want to do it. It pains me to have to use these against someone. Hard to imagine, doesn't it? Silly ole Tracer, time-warping outlaw performing good deeds from the shadows. I know, I know, I surprise myself; happens to the best of us.

But I am a hero; I still am. I'm still that irrepressible force for good. I haven't forgotten that.

So I have to ask you…why? Why does it have to be this way?

Why do you keep doing this?

How can you be so cruel to want to endanger the lives of so many people—

But you don't let me finish. You cut me off by hefting your gun and shooting a single round at me. It buzzes by my ear like an angry hornet. It crashes into the wall of the rooftop door behind me.

A sly, languid smile graces your lips. Your eyes twinkle mischievously.

I feel my teeth clench hard enough to grind together and elicit a stab of pain along my jaw.

I can hear you. I hear you loud and well. You know I do, and that just makes this so much more infuriating. So much more difficult to…just give in to that part of me that's screaming at me to say 'to hell with it' and let loose.

Just.

Let.

Go.

I can outpace you. I can outsmart you. If I'm quick enough, I can surprise you and do away with all this. This…this battle of wills. This reverse psychology. All I'd have to do is be one, two, maybe three steps ahead of you, put the guns to your head, your neck, your knees, and….

And….

…The breath goes out of me. My pulse quickens. My blood, beating in my veins and drumming against my skull.

To my dawning horror, I realize I have my fingers ready on the triggers. That's not the part that scares me, though. What does is the fact I have them both trained on you, just as you have your gun trained on me.

What am I doing?

Blimey, what am even I thinking?

That's not me.

That's not who I am.

That's not the kind of person I wanted to be when I joined Overwatch. If I were any different…if I were anything like…like you…then I'd be ashamed of myself for smearing its name! I would not deserve to be a part of Overwatch!

So I remember where I am—high above the streets of Gibraltar, where the birds fly free and the only things I can scarce hear above the roar of the wind are your words and the distant, crystalline melody of some wind chimes.

They are beautiful.

They are melancholy.

They sound the signal of another battle in a violent cycle of yin and yang, the ever-hungry Ouroboros.

They remind me of the peace that I can still achieve for this part of the world.

They spell doom, for one of the other.

But I…I won't let it come to that.

I can't. So I remove my index fingers from the triggers and wrap them back inside the fists that hold the guns.

I watch you, study the way you hold yourself—tall, confident, proud. Loose yet patient.

I listen.

And silently, I agree. I can't let you go, just as I can't let go of Mondatta. I can't forget that.

I can't forget myself.

But I won't stoop to your level. God help me, I hope I never do. I hope it never comes to that point.

As I leap from the building and accelerate my time to reappear suspended in midair and guns popping left and right at the ground by your feet, as I imprint your wolfish grin and the lustful battle-light in your gaze to memory, I think to myself: I hope I never have to bring myself to taking a life with these hands.

I hope I'm doing the right thing.