Author's Note:
Thank you all for the views, follows, favs, and reviews! Good feedback like that helps me to churn these out better and faster.
So, any basketball fans reading this fic? If so, what's you think about Durant? I've been in a kind of daze all week from it. For the rest of you who couldn't care less, sorry that this is technically out Friday for the majority of the world. Laptop gave out on me midway through the week and the guy I usually go to for computer problems (They happen a lot, I have a laptop from '07, don't judge.) is out of town. I was able to recover the file, though, so updates shouldn't be this late again. Cheers!
~fontsa
Her outrage was put on hold, if only for a moment. "A hospital? What? What's wrong with you?"
"No idea. Need an IV at least," Night responded
"How will they know what's wrong with you," Tracer asked.
"They won't. But they'll pump some meds into me, put me in intensive care. I can recover on my own from there. Really shouldn't talk. Physical exertion makes it worse. Just get me to a hospital." The man who'd brought the both of them through time allowed his eyes to shut. The grievances Tracer had planned to confront him over were filed away, momentarily replaced by worry. He couldn't die from this, could he? If he did, she was stuck thirty years in the past. Would she even live long enough to see her own birth? What if something in her Accelerator broke?
"No," she whispered, slapping herself. "Now is not the time for self-pity. Plenty of time for that later." She picked Night up and held his limp body as she looked around for help. A small town was visible in the distance. Maybe twenty miles away. Tracer took off toward it, blinking when she could. Night's breathing was shallow and erratic, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. The pair made good progress, as Lena was in peak physical form, easily able to solo the distance in around ninety minutes, and Night was at most 160 pounds, although she swore he was feeling lighter by the minute.
It was close to nightfall when she entered the town. She burst into the first shop she saw, gasping for air. "I… need an… ambulance," she choked out. "Man… might be… dying." The shocked shopkeeper quickly dialed 911, never breaking her line of sight to the abnormal duo. It wasn't every day that you saw a woman dressed in neon orange carrying a man easily six inches her senior.
She finished talking to the operator and said to Tracer, "They're on their way, sweetheart." She walked over to Lena, gently laying a hand on her heaving shoulder. "Are you all right? You look like you just ran a marathon."
"I'll live," Lena sputtered in response. But the reality of what she'd just done seemed only to hit her body when the woman remarked upon it, and like anyone who'd just ran twenty miles with over a hundred pounds of baggage, she blacked out on the floor.
Some time later, she came to in a hospital bed. Lena hated hospital beds. She hated blacking out, she hated headaches like the one that was pounding through her right now, she hated everything. This was not a mood most people attributed to the snarky Brit, and for good reason, as it was rarely one she felt or displayed. In times like this though, she was miserable. It had been years since she'd been in one of these moods, and she'd like nothing more than to sleep it off, but of course there was something she had to do; someone she had to check on. Sitting up, she saw the shopkeeper. Great. Oh well, she decided, it's probably better than having to deal with a nurse. "Hey. You," Tracer said rudely. "You see where they took the other one?"
"The man you carried in," the owner asked sweety.
"Yeah, that's the one," Tracer snapped.
"I don't think he'd appreciate me sending you his way right now," she laughed back.
"Real funny, love. Where'd they take him?"
"Down the hall, intensive care. They almost took you there. Why do you need to see him?"
"If he's dead, I need to know. If he's alive, I'm gonna kill him." With that, Lena stormed out of the room. Storming down the hall, a nurse got in her way, trying to stop her. A quick shove solved the problem. Eventually she found Night's room. He was lying awake and when she burst through the door, his head snapped toward her.
"Hey," he said faintly.
"Do you honestly think that this is going to be a casual conversation," Lena snapped back.
He sighed, and responded in the same voice, "A man can hope."
"If you weren't in a damn hospital bed, so help me, I would-"
He cut her off, "You would do what, hmm? I'm weak, sure, but you can't leave here without me. Watch yourself."
"Was that a threat," Lena growled.
"No, it was a reminder," he responded. "Now that that's out of the way, please, continue."
"You'd better be able to get me out of here," she whispered in as menacing a voice as she could channel. "Because if you can't, you'd better hope that God is merciful. Because. I. Won't. Be."
"Patience," he whispered back, "it benefits you none to kill me. In a week or two we can talk."
"We can talk right now. I haven't forgotten about the stunt you pulled back there. What was with that? And why did you take us so far back? Why not, like, a day or two before then?"
"You still existed two days before then. Less dangerous to take you sometime when you're the only one of you."
"And the cops? Would you have killed them?"
"Without hesitation. What we have to do is infinitely more important than two cops."
"Have you no respect for them? They kept us all safe for years!"
"None whatsoever. They kept you safe, not me. But that's a story for a different time. You should probably go." She did. Angry, yet intrigued with the man who hospitalized himself just to get them out of a sticky situation. He'd shown himself to be manipulative and perhaps a bit psychopathic, but he was good in a fight and he seemed to be genuinely open, at least to her. Contemplating this, she entered her designated room once again.
"How'd it go, dear," the shopkeeper asked, throwing Lena out of the contemplative trance she'd fallen into.
"Huh," the dazed woman asked.
"With your friend, in the other room? You just left a few minutes ago, remember?" Concerned, "You all right, dear? You seem out of it."
"No, no," she assured, "I'm fine. I was spaced out, and I never snap out of those quickly."
"Hmm," the elderly woman intoned.
"Really, I'm fine. And I didn't kill him. Yet."
"Good to hear," she chuckled. "I hear cleaning up a murder's a bit grisly. Hate to throw that on someone."
"You've heard right. Not fun for anyone involved. If you can avoid it, do so."
"I see. Well, you should probably get checked out so you can go. I take it you have to wait for your friend before you can go anywhere?"
"Yeah."
"If you don't have a place to stay, I can take care of you. I've had an extra room for a while now, and I ain't rich, but the coffee shop brings in more than enough to take a visitor for a while."
"That's very kind of you, but I couldn't… wait… I have nowhere to go." It was the first time in Lena's life she could honestly say that. This would hit her hard, that she was so utterly helpless as to not even have a place to sleep, she knew, but she'd lie awake over it later. "I guess I can't really turn you down then. Could I be of any help around the shop?"
"I suppose if you really wanted to, I could always use another pair of hands. It can get pretty hectic on a busy mornin'."
Tracer laughed. "I think you'll find I'm well equipped for hectic." She was her normal self again, bouncing on her toes. "How does a girl get out of this place?"
"I'll work out the papers." The shopkeeper hesitated a moment. "If I'm not intrudin', could I ask what that thing on your chest is?"
"You'd never believe me," Lena laughed, "if I just told you. I'll show you once we're out of here."
Several hours later, the duo were out of the hospital and in a truck, driving to the most remote location the elderly driver could find. "Tell me again why we need to go this far out," the old woman said.
"If someone else sees me, maybe records me, very, very bad things will likely happen," Lena responded. "Besides, the open ground is the best place for me to show you." The pickup ground to a halt, kicking up immense amounts of dust. Lena, coughing, opened the door. "Stay right where you are, love! Just watch me. I'll be back in, oh, probably two point oh-eight seconds." Tracer blinked through the door, ten meters away in an instant. Quickly changing direction, she disappeared, coming back into existence on the hood of the pickup. With a giggle, Lena waved at the shocked elderly lady and recalled. Immediately, she reappeared in the seat of the pickup. "Woo," she shouted, "that is a rush I will never get tired of! Well, enjoy the show, love?"
Her hostess was shocked. A moment later, her wits returned to her and she said, "I want a turn."
"Okay, love, hold on tight." Lena unfastened her seatbelt and gripped her arm. The two made the same journey the orange-clad Brit just had.
"I haven't felt that alive in thirty years," the old woman cackled. "Mind if I take the reins for one on my own?"
Tracer's smile faltered. "I'm afraid ya can't, love. It's very complicated, but I assure you that you wouldn't be able to use it, and it'd good as kill me."
"Oh well. Promise me that I can hitch a ride whenever and it won't be an issue."
"Not entirely sure about that. Out here, at night, just the two of us? Sure, that's not an issue, but don't expect a ride around town."
"Why are you so secretive about this? This is amazing! You could save lives!"
"And I will, in the future, but I doubt you'll live to see it."
"You're being purposefully vague here. I want to know the story. The whole thing." Despite Lena literally begging not to, she showed no signs of conceding the point. "Out with it. We aren't heading back until you tell me."
"If I tell you, this is a secret that you'll have to take to your grave. Can you promise me, unconditionally, that you will never share this information with another soul? Unconditionally in the strictest sense of the word." She nodded. "Very well. This is all completely true, so don't interrupt me claiming that something is impossible; it's not." Lena cleared her throat.
"Within the next few years, there will be a war on an unprecedented scale. This will cause the United Nations to form an elite group of soldiers, scientists, and the like. Skipping forward through a bunch of unnecessary information here, by the way. Thirty years from now, I will be born in London. Blah, blah, blah, bunch of childhood stuff, I grow up to be a fighter pilot, best of my generation. I'm contacted by the aforementioned group to run some test flights with a plane designed to be able to launch itself through time. Systems fail, the thing disappears into time itself with me in it. A while later, I come to in my original time, but incredibly sick. The particles that make time run properly don't work right for whatever reason for me now.
"Eventually I find my way back to the group I ran the test flight for and they're really confused about how to fix me for a while because, by and large, they have no idea how I got sick. After a while, a friend of mine figured out how to fix me." She tapped the Accelerator. "This thing right here. Like it or not, I can't take it off; my life depends on it."
"That's a shame, sweetheart."
Lena shrugged. "I make do, and time travel isn't necessarily the worst sickness I could have gotten." She received a pat on the back from the lady. "Let's head on back. Need a good night's sleep to keep the shop running, don't we?"
The other woman laughed. "I suppose so. You remind me so much of my daughter. So full of enthusiasm."
"Why, thank you. I try." A moment later, "You know, I don't know if I've ever gotten your name."
"I'm Martha. And you are?"
"I don't know how much I'm allowed to tell you. For now, though, call me Tracer. I've replied to it for ten years now." The rest of the drive took place in a comfortable silence.
Martha burst into the room early the next morning. "Rise and shine," she shouted. "Business is a' boomin, so we can't be a' sleepin!"
Lena was not a morning person, and something that sounded vaguely like, "Five more minutes," came muffled from under the covers.
"Oh, no, honey, no more sleep," Martha laughed. "Sun is shinin', birds are chirpin', the world's waitin' for you!" Still Lena refused to budge. "Would some coffee persuade you? Perhaps some pancakes or waffles? All homemade, I assure you!"
A head snapped up, albeit one draped in covers. Lena hurried to shove the sheets away from her face. In a sleepy voice, "Did… waffles?"
"Sure," Martha beamed. "I can make you some waffles if that'll getcha out of bed, ya lazy bum."
"Haven't had waffles since… long time," Lena mumbled. "Mum used to make them."
"They might not be as good, but don't tell me," Martha chuckled. "Come on, get up. I'll pour you a cup of coffee and start on those waffles."
"Got any tea? Real tea, I mean, not any of that cold, sweet stuff."
"Afraid not. I can pick some up between the breakfast and lunch rushes, though, if you'd like."
"It'd be much appreciated. Coffee for the time being, then." She ate slowly, savoring the taste of the waffles. "Homemade is so much better, you know? I mean, you can't expect much out of anything boxed compared to the real thing to begin with, but it's just impossible to compare."
"Agreed. You seem awake."
"I'm really not, but I'm a good actress. Functional enough, I suppose."
"Can you change out of the orange getup? It's fine if you can't, but it's just that it doesn't leave a lot to the imagination." Tracer's eyebrows raised, and Martha backpedaled. "Not that that's a problem or anything, because it's not. It's just that… augh." She buried her head in her hands. "Okay, what I'm trying to say here is that some of the guys here can get… a little handsy. And there's not a whole lot a little old woman like me can do about that. So the latex might be a problem."
Lena understood her concern and laughed. "I know thirty ways to sterilize a man faster than you can blink. I'll be fine. If worse comes to worst, I'm packing heat."
"Are you sure? Quite a few of these guys are armed themselves. This is New Mexico, after all. I'd rather not have a shootout in my kitchen."
"Don't worry about it. They won't get a shot off." Throughout the day, that reigned true. Around closing time, however, a man didn't take too kindly to Tracer's persona.
Pulling a six-shot revolver, the man said, "Do you know who I am? My name is James goddamned McCree. And I'm not goin' to take no shit from no goddamned Redcoat about what I can and can't do! Do you understand that?" Lena held her hands up and to her sides, eyeing the boy at James McCree's table, who was presumably the man's son.
"Sir, I'm just trying to say," Lena began.
"I don't give a damn about what you were tryin' to say! I asked if you understood me!"
"Yes. Yes, sir, I understand," she said.
"Good. Now you're goin' to come with me, and I'm goin' to teach you a lesson. And I'll shoot every damn one of you,"he waved his gun wildly around the room, "if any of you try to stop me." Lena no longer had a choice.
"I'm not keen on killing you in front of your son," she said, "but I will if you make me."
The man in the wide-rimmed hat burst into laughter. "You are goin' to kill me, James McCree? I don't think so!" Lena used the momentary distraction of his laughter to disarm him. "Oh, now you're just pissin' me off!" He threw a wild punch, which Lena easily ducked. The gun clattered toward the boy as the two fought.
A small voice called, "Stop it, lady! Or I'll… I'll shoot you! I swear I'll do it!" The boy had the gun aimed to her.
"No, you won't," Lena responded calmly, "because you'll miss. And then I'll kill your daddy, who I've got here on the floor under my boot." Evidently, the boy didn't believe her, and the room rang as the gun went off. Lena had been expecting this, and blinked out of the way of the shot.
"Damn it," the boy cried. "Just leave me alone! Don't kill me or my daddy!" Lena ran to him and wrapped him in a hug. What he didn't know was that his aim was so poor the Brit needn't have blinked. His shot hit his father's head, killing him. But the boy didn't need to know that. "Damn you," he wailed, beating on Tracer's chest. He couldn't have been more than six.
Some time later, after Lena was cleaned up, she headed to the hospital to check on Night. When she entered the room, Night said in a faint voice, "Hey. You look pretty awful. What happened?"
"I killed a man."
"That's rough."
"You don't know the half of it."
Night gestured around. "I don't see why I can't. We've plenty of time, don't we?"
"I really just want to forget about the whole thing," Tracer whispered.
"I can understand that. But memory's not selective very often. Whatever you did, I've done worse, and I promise you, no matter how you go about it, it'll stick in the back of your head. Unless you make peace with it, you'll never live past it. But you already know that, don't you?" Lena left the room.
