She wondered if everybody could just shut the bloody hell up.

Alarms screeched in her ears; panicked voices begged her, rather hypocritically, to stay calm; the plane itself seemed to be whining, the whirring of technology apparently protesting her attempt to bend space-time. It was an understandable reaction, she figured.

And, of course, her raw throat told her that she was probably screaming, too.

And then, suddenly, as though she were floating in the sea, the sounds in her ears dampened and she felt weightless. She considered closing her eyes and allowing the too-strong waves to take her.

But as quickly as she'd left, she came back to herself. She glanced around, confused, the ruckus returning tenfold so that she thought her ears might bleed. The various alarms and voices seemed to her like a tune stuck in her head. She wondered how long this had been going on for—days? No, that couldn't be right.

"Tracer! Oxton, report," someone screamed at her. She winced at the sound, as though the radio static physically shocked her and the harsh treble of the comm link reverberated against her nerve endings.

"Here, Commander," came Tracer's panicked but still optimistic voice, "Think somethin's wrong, luvs." Did she say that already?

"We know. We have tried disabling the teleporter remotely, but we aren't getting results. We've got the scientists on it," said Commander Morrison, though Lena found she could not remember his name. "Turn around immediately; land as soon as it is safe."

As she worked the controls and spun the plane around, trying to ignore the increasingly irritating and now fully excruciating alarms that were pounding through her brain, Tracer's heart filled with failure—and then panic once again as the plane lurched and she felt her forehead smash against the control panel. Again, something—that force, those waves—hit her and she blacked out for a moment—or maybe it was longer, or not at all. A loud ringing in her ears now pierced the cacophony of beeps and screams

She groaned in pain as the head wound she could not remember getting slowly bled.

"Tracer, do you copy?" the voice came again.

"I think something's wrong, luvs," Tracer repeated, although she had no recollection of saying it the first time. She groaned again and tasted blood as it dripped from her nose.

"What was that?" another voice interrupted, "Ms. Oxton, are you hurt?"

"Ziegler, you can't just-" Morrison started.

Then a third voice, this one booming and kind: "Lena, get back here now . I can't lose you."

"Oxton," Morrison said as he regained control of his command center, "He's right. Forget landing—scientists say get outta there. Eject and deploy your parachute, we're sending a team out to recover you."

Lena took a deep breath and slammed the eject button—although there was no slam. Her hand passed right through the controls. She looked at her arms in panic as her fingers seemed to grow translucent. She felt dizzy.

"Jack—wait, no—Sir. Commander, I mean. I can't- agh-" she clutched her helmet in pain, "Can't touch it, sir,"

When no response came and the plane jerked again, her lightheadedness grew with her panic.

"Sir? Anyone? Slipstream to… to…" Who had she been talking to?

Still no response. She tried to hold her ears as the ringing grew louder, but her helmet blocked her.

She looked down at her legs and found them seeming to fade as well. She frantically attempted steering the plane from its descent, but her fingers passed through the controls like water. She watched helplessly as the plane hurdled downward, losing altitude quickly but not quickly enough to end her pain.

Her optimism finally wavered, "Someone tell Emily I love her…" Wait, who?

She was hit by another wave of the unknown, and, as it pulled her out into a brilliant blue sea of time and space, she finally relented.