Note: Well, we're back. Sorry for the long wait. The world kind of caught up to us for a little bit. But to make it up, we've made this chapter twice as long, so that's something. Also-and this is probably a bad time to say this-we're going to have more infrequent updates of this story from now on. So expect the unexpected. But in the meantime, enjoy this horribly dark little chapter of ours.
New York City. A beautiful city full of beautiful people. Unfortunately for Tracer, standing on a rooftop in the dead of night listening to police radio chatter with an earpiece, it was also freezing cold, which made it rather difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. It was during times like these that she wondered why she chose only to wear a pilot's jacket over her uniform. Granted, her outfit was cozy enough for most occasions, and it suited her well in the desert, where she happened to spend an unusual amount of her time. However, it was not a particularly good night for her, primarily because her migraine had not faded as much as she liked, and—when coupled with the cold—it became very hard to keep focus. There was also the fact that it was her first solo mission since Overwatch had reformed, and not having her teammates around to protect her served as a constant reminder of her vulnerability.
The decision to leave on her own was not an easy one. She knew that there were far more advantages of working as a group than disadvantages, and keeping secrets from her team was probably not the best long-term strategy. However, she had her reasons; some were purely logical, while others were personal. Her logical reasoning was that her target would be less likely to know of her plans if she went alone, which would reduce the chance of escape. Her personal reasoning was that Winston would not have given her medical clearance otherwise, and she refused to lay down and wait as Angela suffered. She wanted answers, and after several hours of monitoring news networks and police reports, she believed she found a lead, which was how she ended up shivering on a rooftop wondering why she did not bring a thicker jacket.
It started with a police report. A thirty-year-old man attempted to murder his wife and son in a deranged fit, despite having no previous incidents of violent behavior. When interviewed by police, he claimed that killing them was a necessity for the good of the world, a phrase that Tracer was all too familiar with. And so, she listened intently to the radio, trying to hunt down any more details about the case. Of course, after spending an hour huddled on a rooftop by herself and getting nowhere, her mind began to wonder, as it did so often. She wondered if anyone had noticed that she was gone. It had been several hours since she snuck away, though it would take several more to discover her whereabouts. She thought about Angela, cramped in her cell, struggling to put together the scattered pieces of her memory.
However, what consumed her thoughts most was Emily. Tracer had treated her horribly over the past few days, and though deep down she knew it was not her fault, she still felt guilty. As she left the base, she stole Mei's cellphone, hoping to call her girlfriend and explain her problems. Yet, she realized far too late that given they were in different time zones, Emily would already be fast asleep, and the one thing she knew to avoid was waking Emily from her slumber. She planned to call her the next day, and hoped that the verbal throttling she received was not too severe. With some careful maneuvering of the English language, she was confident that she could reduce her sentence to only a single week sleeping alone on the sofa. Maybe. Potentially. If she was lucky, which given her recent history, she was not. Two weeks it was.
And then, she heard it: reports of screaming from the downtown area. Tracer steadied her hand, and went into action. Effortlessly, she zipped from rooftop to rooftop, moving at a quick yet steady pace. She was careful not to overwork herself nor the chronal accelerator; the replacement was still relatively fresh, and the last thing she needed was to accidentally warp out of space-time. She passed over the streets below, where the nightlife had only begun to take hold. Groups of smiling, laughing people strolled beneath her, unaware of the hero on her mission zipping by overhead
Within minutes, Tracer had arrived. As she leaned over the side of the building and looked at her target, she grasped her wrist firmly to stop it from trembling. The warehouse was miniscule compared to the skyscrapers that dotted the city's iconic landscape, but it was certainly large enough to hold numerous personnel. Its location was inconspicuous, dead in the middle of the city, away from the bustle of the nightlife, where no one would ever bat an eye towards it, yet close enough to the rest of the population so that it would not seem out of place. It was the perfect location to hide something, or more likely, someone. Tracer scowled, and drew her twin pistols from their holsters on her waist. She took a few steps backwards from the ledge, and squinted as she examined the distance between her and her destination.
Thirty meters, slight verticality. Easy.
Tracer dashed forward, building momentum before leaping off the edge, blinking twice through the air and rolling onto the effortlessly onto the rooftop. She scanned the area around her carefully. However, despite what she expected, there was not a single Talon guard in sight. Surely, there would be significant forces guarding the warehouse if there was something important within. Unless, she wondered, was it possible that whatever they were working on was so secretive that not even its own operatives could know about it? She walked slowly towards the center of the rooftop, where triangular panes of glass jutted upwards, serving as a window within. Cautiously, Tracer leaned into the glass, peering into the darkened structure.
The inside of the warehouse was dusty and barren, having long been stripped clean of all valuables. In the center of the emptiness, Tracer saw her: the multitude of glowing, red lights that encompassed her head, reflecting off the brilliant sheen of her violet uniform. The assassin strutted in the darkness, unaware she was being watched; she appeared completely alone, her eyes focused on the dirtied concrete beneath her boots. One hand held her weapon loosely at her side, while the other was pressed against her ear. She nodded, deep in conversation with an unseen force. Tracer leaned in closer, trying to hear her muffled voice through the glass.
"What are you doing here, Amélie?" Tracer asked under her breath. Widowmaker spoke quietly, almost as if she knew someone might be listening in to her conversation. Tracer groaned. She strained her ears as hard as she could, desperate to pick up the faintest sound. She could almost make out the words. If she could only get a bit closer...
Then, suddenly, the assassin stopped talking and became very still. Without warning, Widowmaker pointed her rifle up at the ceiling, aiming directly at the Overwatch agent. Her eyes remained fixed on the floor as she fired five rounds into the glass, each blast sending shockwaves through Tracer's skin. She did not have time to react; within seconds, the glass shattered, and Tracer tumbled through the empty whole, spiraling out of control. She landed on the hard concrete with a dull thud, her right shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. The pain shot through her like a rocket, but she pushed herself upwards, struggling to her feet. She only rose to her knees before she found herself staring down the barrel of a sniper rifle.
"I'm honestly not even surprised," Widowmaker mused, her face cold and emotionless. "You're like a cockroach. Just when I think I take you out, you somehow come crawling right back." She forced the gun further into Tracer's face, lining up her shot directly between her large, brown eyes. Tracer was unable to move, paralyzed with fear. "What's wrong? No quips? No witty comeback? You're usually so consistent with these things."
Tracer knew she needed to act quickly, but her muscles refused to respond. She was going to be shot. She was going to die if she didn't move. She needed to move. Move. Move, dammit, move.
Then, her muscles responded. It just so happened that the ones to do it first were around her mouth.
"Sorry to disappoint," Tracer said, grinning automatically. "I was just distracted by the unoriginality in your cockroach comparison."
Widowmaker scoffed. "Is that the best you could come up wit—"
In a flash of blue light, Tracer warped backwards through time, stopping herself several feet above the ground. She readjusted herself mid-air, and then blinked into Widowmaker, knocking the assassin to the floor. Widowmaker groaned, rolling on her side. Before she could raise her weapon, Tracer jumped on top of her. She straddled one arm, while pressing her knee into Widowmaker's elbow to prevent her from using her aiming her gun. She pressed her twin pistols against the woman's temples, and in a matter of seconds, the tables had turned.
"Good enough to take care of you, love," Tracer gloated. "Now, are you going to start talking, or am I going to have to put a hole in the side of your head?"
"As much as I love the idea of putting holes in heads," Widowmaker said, unafraid, "I believe you aren't going to get very far with them watching you."
By the time Tracer checked her surroundings, it was already too late. It was impossible for them to see them from the rooftop. The dozen people that hovered around her were entrenched in shadow, their faces concealed. They were not Talon operatives, but instead dressed in simple street clothes. She could make out distinct shapes among each of the figures: men, women, young and old. They approached her slowly, shuffling across the barren floor, their heads hung low, and an endless series of manic, unintelligible whispers emerging from their dry mouths. Tracer raised her guns in defense, but froze before pulling the trigger.
"Get back," she warned, panicked. The civilians continued to inch closer. They extended their arms, each punctuated with twitching, hungry fingers. "I'm warning you. I will shoot."
"You won't do anything to harm them," Widowmaker said with a sly grin of her own. "They—on the other hand—are very much looking forward to harming you."
Widowmaker made her move. With Tracer distracted, she threw her head forward, crashing her helmet into the speedster's unprotected skull. Tracer recoiled, stumbling off the assassin and directly into the path of a towering shadow. Before she knew what was happening, two massive arms wrapped around her torso, hoisted her off the ground, and began to squeeze. Tracer gasped as they air was carefully pressed out of her lungs. She desperately flailed her legs as the other mindless shadows surrounded her, reaching out with their wandering hands and grabbing whatever chunk of flesh they could find. They dug their claws firmly into her shoulders, legs and feet, pulling and twisting and crushing her with all their strength. She tried to raise her arms, but even if she could, she knew she would not be able to defend herself. How could she possibly fight back against innocent people?
Widowmaker rose steadily to her feet, brushing the dirt off her shoulders. "Do you like them? After the experiment with the doctor, we tried to tone down the aggressiveness… though I think she might have gone a little too far with this batch. Still, they are quite effective at what they do."
Tracer strained against the weight pressed against her chest. She thrashed her head, trying in vain to shake off the prodding fingers. A single digit entered her mouth, and she instinctively bit down hard, causing one of the hands to retract. The bitter taste of blood filled her mouth.
"What did you do to them?" she cried, wriggling in-between the oversized arms.
Widowmaker merely laughed. "Wouldn't you like to know? Now, as much as I'd like to stay and watch you die, I'm afraid I have more important matters to attend to. Have fun with your new friends." With a flick of her wrist, a grappling hook shot upwards, clinging onto the newly-created skylight. Tracer struggled as she watched Widowmaker ascend, disappearing into the night.
"Let go of me!" Tracer shouted. Her efforts were in vain. She was already in poor health before coming to the city, but now, her chances were getting slimmer by the second. She lacked the strength to free herself from the shadow's grasp, and she was too dazed from the lack of oxygen to use the chronal accelerator. There were too many scrambled thoughts in her head, too many hands grabbing her, too many things in the world to stay focused. It was hopeless. She couldn't free herself. None of her teammates knew where she was. She was going to die alone in that warehouse, without anyone by her side, any companion to help her. She never should have come in the first place. She shouldn't have tried to play the hero. She was a failure.
Dammit, Tracer, focus. She was fading, but she couldn't give in yet. She couldn't let Widowmaker escape. Angela needed her. She had to fight back somehow. Tracer sucked in as much air as possible, and with a forceful scream, pulled the triggers on her twin pistols. The recoil directed the weapons up, and the legs of the shadows were taken out from underneath them as a spray of bullets scattered around her. She was suddenly dropped to the floor, and without a moment's hesitation, teleported up the roof, narrowly avoiding the flurry of arms that swiped at her feet. She rolled to her feet before taking a deep breath, trying to regain her senses. The world slowly but surely came back into focus, and Tracer quickly began scanning her environment for any signs of the fleeing assassin.
Tracer saw her vaguely in the distance. Widowmaker was sprinting across the horizon several blocks away, moving further and further out of sight. Tracer regained the element of surprise, but she would have to work fast. She could handle fast. She blinked from building-to-building, bypassing any obstacle that got in her way. She pushed the accelerator to its limit, preventing it from cooling down. It was dangerous considering her physical state, but she did not have a choice. She had to move her legs faster, move her mind faster, faster, faster.
And when the moment to strike came, she attacked. Widowmaker was in mid-leap between buildings when Tracer blindsided her, charging into her shoulder-first. The two plummeted down three stories into the dark alley below, crashing into the walls as they tumbled uncontrollably. The sniper hit the ground first with a snap, and Tracer landed on top of her, using her as a cushion to soften the impact. Still, she did not escape unharmed; her ribs crashed into Widowmaker's helmet, and Tracer rolled onto her back, desperately trying not to cry out in pain. She did not need any unwanted attention from bystanders or the police. Luckily, from what she could see, there were no windows on the buildings beside her, and the only opening at the end of the alley led to an empty sidewalk. Widowmaker did not move. It might have been Tracer's only chance to get some answers.
Fighting past the agony in her chest, Tracer grabbed Widowmaker's limp body and sat her against the wall. The assassin was unconscious, unaware. Tracer grabbed onto her wrist, carefully pulling out the grappling hook lodged within. Like a rope, she carefully and snuggly wrapped it around Widowmaker's torso, pinning her arms tightly at her sides. By the time the sniper began to stir, she was firmly encased in her own weaponry.
"What… why can't I move…"
"You aren't getting away this time. No one is around to save you," Tracer stated. Widowmaker glared.
"You… how did you escape them?"
"I guess I'm just craftier than you think," Tracer said unamused. "Next time, maybe you should stay and watch the person die. Leaving beforehand is a really overrated trope."
Widowmaker strained against her restraints. "You are really a pain in my ass."
"Glad to hear it. Now," Tracer pressed the barrel of her pistol against Widowmaker's blue flesh, "you're going to tell me what I want to hear."
"If you're going to kill me, I suggest you get it over with," Widowmaker grunted. "I am not talking."
"What did you do to Angela?" Tracer asked forcefully. Widowmaker kept her lips sealed. "How were you able to control her? What are you planning?"
"It's pointless. Your struggles. Your goal of peace."
"Why did you join Talon?" Tracer continued, her superiority over her captive fading with every unanswered question. "How many more people did you control? How do you cure them? Why are you doing this to them."
"Overwatch is going to die a sad, painful death, and you are going to die with it."
Tracer let out a frustrated growl, and shoved Widowmaker's head with the end of her gun. The sniper remained unfazed. "Say something useful, dammit."
"I hate you."
Tracer angrily pulled the pistol away, and leaned against the opposite wall, hanging her head low. She tore the goggles off her face, and let them fall lightly to the ground. It was futile. The assassin's head rested on its side, and her eyes wandered the littered surface beneath her, uninterested in the hero. Of course, Widowmaker wouldn't tell her anything. She never would. Her mission was doomed from the start. As she rested in the darkness, she felt something float through her mind. A string of words, long buried, spontaneously bubbled to the surface, gliding to her foremost thoughts and suddenly placing itself on her tongue. Tracer closed her eyes, and the words simply came out before she even knew she was saying them.
"Do you even remember me?"
For a moment, there was a flash in Widowmaker's eyes; a flash of shock, confusion, or amusement, or perhaps some combination of the three. She snapped back to attention, straightening herself out.
"What are you talking about?" Widowmaker asked inquisitively.
"You said that you hated me," Tracer explained, meeting her with a broken gaze. "You wouldn't say that if you remembered who I was. I just… I need to know if you remember."
"I don't understand—"
"Yes, you do," Tracer said bitterly. She could not contain the venom in her words. Years of frustration, disgust, revulsion, and anger were pent up inside her, waiting to be unleashed. And it was only then, finally face-to-face with the woman responsible for it all, that they reached a boiling point, and overtook her like a tidal wave. "We used to be friends, you know. Not the greatest friends or anything, but dammit, we were something. We spent all our time together. You were like family to us. To me. Can't you remember any of that, Amélie?"
Widowmaker turned away. "Don't call me that."
"Why not? That's your name, isn't it? You know what those are, don't you?" Tracer said scornfully.
"Amélie is dead," Widowmaker said emotionlessly.
"No, she isn't. She's sitting right in front of me," claimed Tracer. "I know you remember me. I am Lena Oxton, and you are Amélie Lacroix."
"Stop it," Widowmaker said harshly. "Stop trying to change this. Stop changing me. The person you want doesn't exist anymore. It cannot be undone."
"It can if you let us try," Tracer stated. "Please, Amélie, come back to Overwatch. There's still time. We can still save you."
Widowmaker sighed. If Tracer didn't know any better, she would have said she seemed sad. "There's nothing left for you to save, Lena. Not this time. Maybe we would both be better off if we forgot."
Tracer was left speechless. Was Widowmaker being genuine, or as it all just another ploy? It was impossible to tell. Her mind wandered aimlessly. Yet, she managed to regain focus when Widowmaker spoke again.
"Talon has acquired a new asset," Widowmaker said bluntly. "A hacker from Mexico. We've been able to use her talents to further some of our long-standing projects."
"A hacker?" Tracer asked. "Who is she?"
"Have you ever heard of someone named Sombra?"
Sombra? Tracer was only passingly familiar with the name. She had heard it passed around in secret, a modern-day myth. She heard of her work, her infamous ability to disclose information previously thought to be unobtainable, but Tracer had always assumed she was nothing more than a legend, a figurehead created by a group of hackers to gain notoriety. It was impossible for someone with that level of skill to truly exist, or at least, that was what she had thought until that night.
"You're working with Sombra? On what?"
"Sombra remains mostly a mystery to me," Widowmaker said vaguely. "She often keeps to herself. I don't even know her real name. But there is something that she likes to tell me. She says, 'Everything can be hacked… and everyone.' Before, she meant being able to control people through the flow of information, carefully manipulating the actions of others behind the scenes. But recently, she has found a way to be far more direct."
"What are you talking about?" Tracer pushed further, a pit rising in her stomach. "Is that what happened to Angela? Sombra… hacked her somehow?"
"Angela was an accident," Widowmaker explained casually. "Sombra was meant to target the gorilla, but that girl couldn't be trusted to get the job done. Still, judging by the scarring on your neck, the doctor served her purpose well enough."
Tracer instinctively placed a hand over her throat, shamefully covering the wound. She shook away the embarrassment. Now wasn't the time. She needed to know more.
"Wait a minute," she said, cobbling together the ambiguous fragments of information she was being given. "The only time Angela and Winston were together recently was when they were at the—"
"Watchpoint," Widowmaker finished. The ghost of a smirk appeared on her face. "Maybe I remembered more things than you realized."
"But… but that's not possible," Tracer said, her voice filled with horror. "How was she able to infiltrate it?"
"The same way she's been watching you this whole time."
Suddenly, Tracer heard someone begin to laugh. The feminine snickering came from above her, and when she turned towards the source, she saw a figure start to form out of the shadows. What had previously been empty space morphed into the shape of a young woman, whose neon outfit illuminated the dark alleyway. Her mouth was contorted into a twisted grin, and she had a crazed, delighted look in her blue-violet eyes. She clung to the wall with one hand, aiming at Tracer's head with a submachine gun with the other.
"Hi."
Sombra fired wildly, forcing Tracer to dive for cover. The hacker leapt to the floor and, before Tracer could recover, kneed her in the side of her head, driving her to the ground.
Widowmaker leaned forward, trying to shake off her restraints. "A little help?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm getting to it," Sombra said, relaxed. She sauntered over and quickly went to work untying the knot that kept her bound. "I can't believe you got yourself captured. So unprofessional."
"I can't believe you didn't try to save me earlier," Widowmaker shot back. Sombra shrugged.
"Well, once I realized she wasn't going to kill you, I thought there was no point in waiting anymore. Man, this knot is really tight…"
Sombra finished her work, and Widowmaker shed the chord with ease. Sombra hoisted her to her feet, and then took her hand, dragging her towards the city street.
"Now, come on! We have to go," Sombra said eagerly.
"What are you doing?" Widowmaker protested. "We won't be able to outrun her. She's the fastest woman alive."
Sombra chuckled. "Oh, you don't think I was doing nothing while I was watching you talk?"
The two Talon operatives only took a few steps before Tracer recovered and—in a flash of blue light—appeared in front of them, guns drawn and ready. She was hurt, tired, and most of all, furious at being manipulated again. She could barely stand, but that didn't matter to her. Amélie had lied to her. Again. And she was sick of it. Sick of the endless chase. Sick of banter. Sick of Talon. Sick of Overwatch. She wasn't going to let them play games with her anymore. The time for being nice was over. She was determined to end it, once and for all.
"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!" Tracer shouted forcefully. Widowmaker took a step backwards, but Sombra held her ground, smiling proudly. She raised her hands above her head, and Tracer took another step forward. "I'm warning you. Don't move!"
"Relax, relax, relax," Sombra said smoothly. "You seem a little worked up, chica. Why don't we try this again…"
Sombra snapped her fingers, and suddenly, there was a flash of blue light, and Tracer reappeared in front of her, guns drawn and ready. She was hurt, tired, and most of all, furious at being manipulated again. She could barely stand, but that didn't matter to her. Amélie had lied to her. Again. And she was sick of it. Sick of the endless chase. Sick of banter. Sick of Talon. Sick of Overwatch. She wasn't going to let them play games with her anymore. The time for being nice was over. She was determined to end it, once and for all.
"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!" she shouted forcefully. Widowmaker stared at her, confused and unsure, while Sombra chuckled to herself. Tracer took a step forward. "I'm warning you. Don't—"
Wait. Something was wrong. Hadn't she already said that? Hadn't she felt that? Why was everything so familiar.
"How did…" Tracer stammered, "… how did I get—"
"Whoops. Try again," Sombra laughed. She snapped her fingers. There was a flash of blue light, and Tracer vanished and blinked back into focus, guns drawn and ready. She was hurt, tired and most of all, furious at being manipulated again. She could barely stand, but that didn't matter to her. She was determined to end it, once and for all.
"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!" she shouted forcefully. Widowmaker took a step forward, her curiosity peaked. She placed a hand on Sombra's shoulder, whose snickers had transformed into full-blown maniacal laughter.
"Did you… were you actually able to—"
"Mmhmm," Sombra nodded, pleased with her work.
"I'm warning you," Tracer threatened. "Don't move—"
And then, it hit her. She was doing it again. The same words, the same movements. Everything was being repeated. Sombra laughed hysterically, and it took only a few moments for Tracer's eyes to widen in horror, and the pit in her stomach to turn into despair. She lowered her weapons, as Widowmaker's words echoed in her mind.
"Everything can be hacked, and everyone."
Sombra inched closer, and Tracer backed away. Panic took over her senses.
"P-please," Tracer begged, "don't do th—"
Sombra snapped her fingers, and Tracer warped back to her original position, guns drawn and ready, all the panic that had overtaken her replaced with fury.
"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!" Tracer shouted. However, within seconds, the memories came rushing back alongside the terror, and she turned to run away. She sprinted down the empty sidewalk, running as fast as she could manage. Sombra hacked her chronal accelerator. She had power over her time. Tracer needed to escape. She couldn't possibly win against her. If she didn't leave quickly, then she would—
Snap. Tracer reappeared in the alleyway, her mind blank.
"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"
"So, your time completely resets whenever you do that, huh?" Sombra wondered aloud. Tracer recovered, and in a move of desperation, attempted to pull the trigger. Before she could, she vanished in a flash of light, and reappeared precisely where she already stood.
"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"
"Interesting. I wonder…"
"I'm warning you!" Tracer said, taking a step forward. Sombra snapped her fingers.
Tracer reappeared, her guns drawn and ready, except Sombra was waiting for her. The hacker dashed forward, ducking underneath her arms and slamming her shoulder into Tracer's ribs. In a single, fluid motion, she pressed the nozzle of her gun into Tracer's stomach, and without hesitation, pulled hard on the trigger. The bullets were met with little resistance as they passed through Tracer's flesh; not bothering to move around her vital organs, they merely pushed straight past whatever got in their way, effortlessly tearing up her insides like it was tissue paper. They exited her body as brashly as they entered, some barreling through her spine, destroying the unguarded vertebrae, while others opted to pass directly through the skin, blasting out large chunks in the process. Tracer remained draped over Sombra's shoulder as the hacker emptied the magazine of her weapon into her, her mouth wide open but incapable of producing sound. Her eyes were locked on Widowmaker's face, watching the assassin's own horror as her body was torn to pieces. When the chamber finally clicked, and the bullets had finished their job, Sombra rolled her shoulders, sending Tracer lifelessly spilling to her knees. The speedster reached down to her stomach with a trembling hand, trying to stop her intestines from spilling out of the open, bloody wound. She felt the emptiness within her body, her organs trying in vain to fit themselves back into place, but she did not feel pain. As the remnants of her blood poured out of her, the world turned dark, and her mind quietly shut down, accepting its fate.
Sombra snapped her fingers. There was a flash of blue light, and then Tracer reappeared at the end of the alley, guns drawn and ready, her wounds healed.
"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!" she shouted. Then, she remembered. The blood. The bullets. Her determination vanished.
"Wow!" Sombra said happily, leaning in close to examine Tracer's abdomen. "You are really shattering that fourth dimension, aren't you? I wonder what else we can get away with?"
Snap.
"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"
Sombra slid behind her, dodging a weak attempt at a punch, and snapped her fingers.
"Freeze! Don't move or—aah!"
Tracer yelped as Sombra crashed a knee into her kidneys, causing her to arch backwards. Sombra wasted in raising her hand, spreading out her claw-like fingers, and jamming them down into her soft, vulnerable throat. She allowed the blood to wash over her fingers as Tracer choked and sank to the floor, as they life quickly drained out of her body.
"You know, I'm not usually into this sort of thing," Sombra admitted, "but this is very relaxing: killing you over and over again. Since I can just reverse whatever I do to you, it's a great way to relieve stress. It's all of the satisfaction without any of the guilt."
Tracer reached for Sombra's face, lazily swiping her hand at the hacker, yet could not find the strength to fight back. Her hand fell limp at her side as her body grew cold, and she closed her eyes. Sombra sharply removed her fingers from Tracer's neck, and snapped the blood-soaked digits. Tracer warped back to position, but before she could speak, Sombra wrapped her arms around her, holding her in a full nelson.
"Come on, Widow," Sombra said gleefully. "I know you have some frustrations you need to take out." Widowmaker, however, did not move. She refused to meet Sombra's gaze, and spoke in hushed tones.
"You are sadistic, Sombra," the assassin muttered. "We need to get moving. Leave the girl alone."
"Aw, don't be so cold! You can pretend that she's me," Sombra teased. Widowmaker said nothing further. She stormed past them, and disappeared out of the alleyway. The hacker shrugged it off, and refocused on the hero struggling in her arms. "Well, I guess that just leaves the two of us, huh?"
"Ungh… let go of me," Tracer growled. Sombra pulled back tightly on her shoulders, and Tracer cried out in pain.
"Ah ah ah," Sombra said playfully. "You aren't going anywhere, Lena Oxton."
"How do you—"
"Know your name? Amiga, I know everything," Sombra said with a flick of her tongue. "I know you've been alive for twenty-six years, four months, and ten days. You were born in London, England. You were the youngest pilot inducted into Overwatch's experiment flight program, and an accident gave you the ability to change your own relative position through time. I know you like to eat Italian food, your favorite color is orange, and your favorite movie is It's a Wonderful Life. I know your home address, both your phone numbers, your credit card information, and all your relevant search history, some of which—by the way—I did not expect from someone like you. But you know what I don't know about you, Lena Oxton? I don't know who this is…"
Sombra free one of her hands, and extended it past Tracer's face. Her fingers danced, and before her very eyes, a holographic image expanded in front of her. Tracer took one look at the image, and her heart skipped a beat. It was a photo ripped from straight from her social media page: an innocent image of her and Emily sitting on their sofa, wearing matching, red sweaters. They each threw up a peace sign with their fingers, and she seemed to be laughing at something Emily had told her. Sombra leaned close to Tracer's ear, as Tracer helplessly stared at the photograph.
"Is that your girlfriend?" Sombra cooed. "She is so pretty. You two really look cute together. Say, do you think there is a chance you could introduce me to her? I could come to your home, we could have dinner together… or maybe I could just have you say hello for me. Of course, first I would have to make a few adjustments to you. I can picture it now: she opens the door after you've spent so long away from home, she reaches out to hug you, you pull out a gun and—"
Tracer had heard enough. With a ferocious cry, she shot her arm backwards, smashing her elbow into Sombra's nose. The hacker recoiled, releasing her from her hold, and falling onto the floor. Tracer turned towards her and jumped high into the air, aiming her foot at Sombra's head.
"Don't you dare talk about her!" Tracer screamed. She drove her foot downwards as hard as she could, but when she was mere inches away from landing the final blow, Sombra snapped her fingers, and she teleported once again, her back now turned to her opponent, aiming her pistols down an empty alleyway. "Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot… huh? Where did you—"
Sombra tackled Tracer from behind with a yell, slamming the hero face-first into the wall. The hacker rose to her feet first, a thin trickle of blood coming out of her nose. She lifted one foot, and began to mercilessly stomp on the back of Tracer's head.
"You sneaky, little bitch!" Sombra screeched, wrathfully ramming her boot into her Tracer's skull. She grabbed onto Tracer's hair, and pulled her face into view; her eyes were glazed over, and a notable trail of blood leaked from her mouth. "Here's a lesson for you, perra: Do not—"
Sombra kneed Tracer directly in the face, shattering her nose.
"—fuck with Sombra!"
Tracer fell lifelessly to the floor. Sombra took a deep breath, and wiped the blood from her nose. She was lucky the streets were empty; otherwise, she doubted she would make it out of the city. It did not matter. She needed to catch up to Widowmaker. There was still work to be done. But what to do with the Overwatch agent? She considered leaving her in the dirt, letting the authorities deal with her. But then, Sombra got another idea, and she gave a wicked smile.
"Time for me to go, chica," Sombra said plainly. "But just to make sure you don't follow me, how about I leave you stuck in a bit of a… how do you say it… a time loop. One that repeats, say, every three seconds. That should give you just long enough to realize what's happening to you each time, but not long enough to do anything. Well, I'm off to go pay your special friend a visit. Adios."
Sombra wandered out onto the city streets, and stretched her arms above her head. With nothing else to do, she pointed at Tracer, and snapped her fingers. There was a flash of blue light, and Tracer warped back to her feet, aiming her pistols down the empty alley.
"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"
Yet, no one was there. Tracer couldn't understand it. They were there a moment ago. Where could they have gone? Wait. Sombra. Emily. She was going after Emily. She had to do something, she had to act before—
"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"
The alley was empty. Widowmaker? Did she escape when she wasn't looking. Dammit, Lena, focus. She was repeating herself. Widowmaker was long gone. Emily was her focus. Sombra and Emily, remember Sombra and—
"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"
No one. Again. It was all happening again. Every three seconds. Every time she warped, her brainwaves reset to the precise moment they were before. The thoughts had to finish themselves, always. She couldn't escape it. There had to be some way to fight back.
"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"
Again. It was the same set of words again. Why couldn't she move? Why couldn't she think straight? Emily was in danger, wasn't she? Or was that something she had only imagined?
"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"
Again. What was she thinking about? Widowmaker. Angela. Widowmaker said something about Angela, but she couldn't recall what it was. Strange. Widowmaker just told her, but it felt like an eternity since she heard it last.
"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"
Again. Maybe if she ran. If she ran far enough, it would stop. It had to stop. It had to stop. It had to stop. Why was three seconds so short?
"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"
Again. Fight it, Tracer. Fight back. She could control it.
"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"
Again. Stop saying it. For the love of God, stop saying those stupid words.
"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"
Again.
"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"
Again.
"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"
Again.
"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"
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"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"
Again.
Again. And again. And again. And again. And then, all of a sudden, it stopped. Tracer waited for the next loop, except it never came. A strange beeping noise emitted from the chronal accelerator. Usually, it only beeped when it was low on power, but it took forty-eight hours for it to drain its battery. Then, Tracer looked around at her surroundings. What had before been a foggy night sky was instead a deep orange haze. Sunrise? No, she realized, the light was coming from the west. It didn't seem real. It had to be a dream. All a dream. There was no way two whole days could have passed by. It couldn't be.
Tracer fell to her knees, as the days' worth of exhaustion finally caught up to her. She stared down the darkened alleyway as the memories flooded back in full force. Every painful moment buried itself in the forefront of her mind, consuming her. The chronal accelerator's beeping started to accelerate, a sign that it was shutting down. Soon, Tracer would be cast off into the ether, to drift alone until someone came to rescue her. She didn't know if she could go through that again. She was so tired. All she wanted to do was rest. Wasn't there any way for her to get some damn rest?
Well, she thought, there was one way.
And perhaps it was the fatigue of spending two days reliving the same moment repeatedly, or perhaps it was the burning memories of her torture and repeated death, but to Tracer only one option seemed perfectly reasonable. And so, with little emotion or regret, Tracer pressed the pistol to the side of her head, and pulled the trigger.