Dr. Winston pulled another lever, and with a flash of light that had the pair squinting, the machine whirred to life. When the light subsided, they saw her: curled limply on the hard floor of the chamber was the body of one Lena Oxton, still in her flight suit, and faded as if a ghost, though visible to the naked eye.
"Is she…?" Winston started, "Angela, wait—!"
But Mercy was inside the chamber the moment she sensed an injury, leaving the door ajar behind her.
"Miss Oxton," Angela said, "Lena, please wake up." She tried to touch the girl, but her hand passed through her, as though she were made of water.
Unable to check her pulse, Mercy opted to watch her chest for its rise and fall. When she didn't see it, everything seemed to freeze.
But then, like a miracle, Lena took a deep breath and she stirred. She groaned softly, flexing her limbs and twitching her fingers.
"Hey, don't move. Take it slow, alright?"
Lena didn't respond. She winced at the sound of Mercy's voice and sat up carefully, hugging her knees and backing up against the wall, her eyes squeezed shut.
"Hey, Lena," Angela said quieter, "Can you hear me?"
Tracer shook her head desperately.
"Well now I know you can hear me," Mercy said with a small smile, "since you just answered my question. How do you feel?"
Lena opened her eyes slowly. "Angie?" she muttered.
Angela furrowed her eyebrows, for while she was delighted to hear Lena speak, she was unsure why the pilot she'd only met a handful of times would refer to her by such a colloquial nickname.
"Uh—yes. Well, Dr. Ziegler," Angela said, "You can call me Angela if you like. We met a few times before your flight."
"My flight." Lena repeated, "Dr. Ziegler…"
She did not continue, so Mercy asked: "Can you state your name, rank, and service number?"
Lena looked at her blankly, "Huh?"
"Standard protocol after a head injury. Or… whatever this is."
"Tracer…" Lena said.
Angela smiled, "That's a start. Name, rank, and service number. Can you remember?"
"Did I hit my head?"
"Come on, Lena."
"Cadet Lena Oxton, Royal Air Force 01091337."
"Ms. Oxton, you're not a cadet. You're a flight officer, and have been for some time."
Tracer didn't answer.
"Who is the Prime Minister of England, Lena?" Mercy asked.
After thinking for several moments, Lena shrugged, "Sorry, Doc."
"Do you know what year it is?" Asked Mercy, taking diligent notes inside her mind.
"Are you a doctor?" Lena asked dazedly.
"Yes. You just called me Doc…"
Tracer blinked, "I did?"
"Lena, stay with me," Mercy begged, "What year is it?"
Lena thought hard, and then: "It's 2076, isn't it? Wait, no—2067. No, is it still the 50s?"
"Do you know how old you are?" Mercy asked.
"I'm in my thirties, aren't I?" Tracer started, rather frantic, "Twenty-six, I mean. No, am I younger? I'm not a child. My forties?" She shook her head in frustration.
"Hey, Lena—look at me," said Angela, "I just need you to stay with me for a few more minutes, then you can rest. What can you remember from the accident?"
"The accident?" Lena asked.
Mercy sighed, "Alright—just forget about that for now. Are you in any pain?"
Lena paused, "Yes. I mean, I think so."
"Can you tell me where?" Mercy asked,
Tracer's eyes darted around the room, half-focused, "Where's Emily?"
"Who's Emily, Lena?"
"Who?"
"Alright Miss Oxton—listen to me very closely. The year is 2069. You are 19 years old. You were testing the Slipstream teleporting jet for Overwatch. The plane malfunctioned and you have been missing for six months. But you are safe now. We still need to work out what type of condition you are in. For now, can you try to rest for me?"
"Can't," Tracer muttered.
"Why not, Lena?"
"Are you a doctor?" Lena asked slowly.
Mercy cocked her head to the side, concerned but even moreso curious, "Yes, Lena. And I cannot help you if you don't tell me what's wrong."
"What happened to me?"
Mercy sighed, "You were testing an aircraft and there was an accident. Can you remember me telling you that a moment ago?"
"No, that's not what happened…" Lena said, "Did you catch Doomfist?"
Mercy cocked her head. "Sorry Lena, what?"
"Sorry. I'm…" Lena stuttered, "Are you a doctor?"
"Lena-"
But Tracer cut her off, "I do know you, don't I?"
"We met before your flight," explained Mercy, slowly and carefully, "For your physicals."
"No," said Lena, shaking her head in frustration, "From… from the field."
"Miss Oxton, I'm not a field agent. I'm a physician with Overwatch."
"Overwatch," Lena repeated, eyes wide with recognition, "I got a letter from them. They want me to test an aircraft…"
Mercy took a deep, deep breath. She took a moment to observe the girl, who she noted was no longer wearing her flight helmet—it must have been knocked off. Her flight suit was scorched and tattered. Her nose seemed broken, and blood had dried beneath it. Angela was unhappy to see more blood leaking from a wound somewhere underneath her hair.
"How did I get here?" Lena asked slowly.
"Dr. Winston saved you," Angela said, "Do you remember Dr. Winston?"
"Of course I do!" exclaimed Lena, "Can I see 'im? I could do with a gorilla hug!"
Angela smiled warmly, and hearing this Winston approached the chamber.
Seeing him through the glass, however, Lena's eyebrows furrowed and she eyed him with confusion, "Is that a gorilla?"
"That's Winston, Lena," Mercy said, trying to hide her exasperation.
Lena stared between the two of them for a moment, "Who?"
Winston frowned and shied away back to his equipment. Mercy gazed hard into Lena's eyes, finding them glazed and unfocused, filled with confusion and fear, but also trust. Trust and familiarity that Mercy usually only saw from patients whom she'd saved from death multiple times over many years.
And perhaps she hadn't saved Lena before. But she certainly would now.
"Don't worry, Lena," she said softly, "We will help you."
