Note: Welllllll, it's been a while hasn't it? Aside from the fact that work and education has pretty much been taking up all of our free time, there is actually another reason why this chapter took so long. The original chapter (and it's followup) were all pretty much set in stone, and were ready to be written down. Then, just as the finishing touches were put on it three weeks ago, we had a very good thought, and decided to REWRITE THE ENTIRE ENDING FROM SCRATCH. Now, you might say, "That's a terrible idea for a time-travel story entirely dependent on future events," and you'd probably be right, but to be honest, this is not the first time this has happened to us. None of this was planned from the beginning, and we've pretty much been making it up as we go along. Hell, Sombra and Emily didn't even exist when we started writing this. No joke. Check the dates. The fact any of this makes sense at all is a miracle. But, we finally have the end all planned out, and the next/final chapter (hopefully) will be finished before the world ends. To make up for the long wait, we doubled this chapter's length. Fair enough? Good. Also, try not to cry. It's only a story. If you do cry, tell us in a review how much we made you cry so we can feel bad about it.
"Why aren't you wearing your costume?"
Widowmaker did not grant her the courtesy of eye contact. The assassin was preoccupied, scanning the surrounding blocks from the vantage point atop Tracer's building, where the Overwatch agent stood in her pyjamas, and her hands gripped loosely onto two twin pistols. It appeared to be a challenging task; the building was not particularly tall, and heavy clouds had set over London, mixing together everything on the horizon in a dark grey patch. Tracer shivered; before she fled the house in a mad, confused panic to help the woman she often considered her greatest enemy, she had thrown on her flight jacket and her favorite pair of pink slippers. Though the jacket helped, it did not provide nearly the same level of protection and comfort as her bodysuit, and her feet shifted awkwardly in their new shell. Emily tried her hardest to stop Tracer from going, and her arguments were perfectly reasonable. She was sick, wounded, and horribly ill equipped for the task at hand. But Tracer couldn't keep away, and they both knew that. The only thing that would stop Tracer was death, a prospect that was quickly becoming all too likely.
"Hey, are you listening to me?" Widowmaker asked louder. Tracer snapped back to reality.
"Sorry. Lost in thought. What did you need?"
"I need to know why you aren't wearing that stupid costume," Widowmaker repeated.
"It's not a costume," Tracer said adamantly, "and I don't have it."
"You have your guns."
"I have more than set of guns. I only have the one suit, and I left it behind."
"Did you leave behind your mouth, as well? Or do you only ever talk when you're fighting someone?"
"I haven't in much of a talking mood lately, to be honest."
"I noticed," Widowmaker stated. "Your voice sounds strange, too. Considering that you are here instead of with your team, and you mentioned leaving things behind, I assume you're sick."
Tracer held back a morbid laugh. "Sick" was not the word she would use to describe her current state. The implications that word brought were too temporary and too innocent for her liking. When someone had a mild case of the sniffles, they were sick. When she was bedridden with unspeakable agony, unable to so much as think because of her condition, with her body slowly shutting down organ-by-organ, nerve-by-nerve, she was dying.
She brushed the thoughts away. She did not have time to think about such grim, depressing things, nor the long-lasting consequences associated with the grim, depressing things, nor the endless line of questioning the assassin would undoubtedly begin to unleash upon her if she were to become aware of the grim depressing things. So, she quickly changed the topic to something far less unsettling: the potential end of the world.
"What is Sombra planning anyway?" Tracer asked pointedly. "She mentioned she was heading to the Shard. Why?"
"It's the highest point in all of London," Widowmaker explained. She put away her sniper rifle, and began to fiddle with the grappling hook attached to her wrists, her fingers dancing outside of Tracer's view. "The observatory at the top is the perfect location for her to detonate the bomb."
"Bomb?"
"Chemical bomb," Widowmaker clarified. "She's been working on it for weeks. It's roughly the size of a football, but is packed with millions of airborne nanomachines. With enough height and enough force—"
"She can infect everyone in a several kilometer radius, turning them into her own personal army."
"And since we don't have a way to break people free from her control—"
"We need to stop the bomb from going off at all costs."
"Precisely. Well, the coast is clear." With a flick of her wrist, the hook shot forth from Widowmaker's arm, flying across the street and sticking into the ledge of the opposite building. She turned to Tracer, and gave an approving nod. "How fast do you think you can make it to there if you run?"
Tracer froze. With everything happening so quickly, it had slipped her mind completely. But suddenly, Winston's words came back to her, and she stammered awkwardly as the helplessness set in once again.
"I… I can't use my powers," she admitted timidly. Widowmaker tilted her head, staring unsurely as the speedster nervously wiped beads of sweat from her forehead. The grappling hook detached from the wall, and hastily retraced into the compartment on Widowmaker's wrist.
"You can't use your powers? At all?" Widowmaker asked, a hint of anger rising in her voice.
"See, my chronal accelerator is experiencing a temporal breakdown—"
"I don't know what any of that means," Widowmaker spat. "What powers of yours can't you use?"
Tracer gulped. "The useful ones."
"So, you are telling me," Widowmaker ranted, "that you aren't able to do anything to fight Talon?"
"I can still shoot at them," Tracer explained hastily, "but if I use anything that manipulates time, my accelerator would kill me."
"I'm about to kill you," Widowmaker grunted. She stormed away from the ledge and threw herself in Tracer's face, her usually calm demeanor morphed into a furious scowl. "We are facing the most important fight of our lives, and you decide to wait until just now to tell me that you are essentially dead weight?"
"I'm not dead weight," Tracer responded sternly. "I'm not able to fight as well as I usually can, but you still need me if we're going to save Overwatch."
"And you are going to have to remind me why that's a priority," Widowmaker growled.
"Because if we don't save them, they either end up killed and we lose our best allies to fight against Sombra, or they end up joining Sombra's army, and they'll turn on us just like—"
"Me," Widowmaker said solemnly. Tracer blinked, and pursed her lips.
"Angela," she said uncomfortably. "I was actually going to say that they would turn on us like… Angela."
Widowmaker took a step backwards, momentarily stunned. It might have simply been Tracer's imagination, but she could have sworn she saw a flash of red in the assassin's cheeks.
"So, how do we save your friends?" Widowmaker asked hurriedly, returning to her naturally controlled state.
Tracer thought hard, reflecting to her days as a trainee. She had run so many simulations with her team, detailing the precise moves they would make in any given hostile situation. After the disaster at King's Row, they became extremely meticulous in their methods for infiltrating an enemy-controlled area, and Jack had personally recruited her to map out key entry points for London, given her natural familiarity with the area. Though her strategies were never utilized before Overwatch's collapse, they were thoroughly drilled into the minds of each individual agent, and she reasoned that even though they were never formally adapted, if the newly assembled team was ever going to need a plan, they would stick with something they all knew very well.
"Brixton," Tracer said with confidence. "Standard infiltration procedure states that they'll arrive in Brixton via cloaked carrier helicopter. From there, they'll move on the rooftops to wherever Talon is."
"Assuming Talon is not already waiting there for them," said Widowmaker unenthusiastically. "If that's standard Overwatch procedure, it means everyone on your team knows it, including the doctor. Which means—"
"We need to go," Tracer concluded, grabbing onto Widowmaker's arm, and dragging her towards the edge of the roof. "Angela already has a head start. We've wasted enough time as it is."
Widowmaker, startled by the actions of her companion, dug her feet into the floor, causing Tracer to stumble. "What do you think you're doing?"
"I can't run, and I don't own a car," Tracer said. "If we're going to get there quickly, you need to carry me."
"No. I don't think so," Widowmaker said dismissively. "You can just tell me where in Brixton they are going, and I can take care of it myself."
"No. I don't think so," Tracer responded in kind. "You didn't save my life so I could serve as your GPS. We do this together, or not at all. My friends are in danger, and I don't have time for this. Come on."
Tracer could see the effects of Widowmaker's thought process play out on her blue face. The assassin's features morphed from outright disgust, to tepid contemplation, and then finally to reluctant acceptance. Still, despite the begrudging moans the former Overwatch agent released as Tracer wrapped her arms around her neck for support, she felt relatively safe under the assassin's care. Their mutual animosity which each other was something that both were constantly aware of as Widowmaker flung herself of the edge of the structure, the skinny Brit dangling from her back and flopping around like a sack of potatoes. It was entirely likely that Widowmaker planned to shoot her in the back of the head after all was said and done. But Tracer didn't feel endangered, and the simple fact that Widowmaker allowed her to do such a ridiculous and bothersome thing at all was a sign that something was changing within the other woman. It was something small, Tracer was sure, but it was something positive, and if it remained, it was something that could keep them alive to see another day.
As Widowmaker zipped from one building to the next on her grappling hook, swinging around and bouncing off walls like a second-rate superhero, Tracer couldn't help but cast her eyes down at all of the pedestrians beneath her, moving about their daily lives blissfully unaware of the danger that lurked high in the city skyline. People of every age, gender, color, and creed walked about the streets of London, each trying their best to make the most out of the lives they were given, each trying to carve out a little piece of the world as their own. None of them were like her, but each was special and valuable in their own way, and each of their lives—no matter how normal—was worth defending. Her mind wandered back to the normal person waiting inside of her home, with bandages carefully wrapped around her shoulder and tears in her eyes as she prayed for her friend to come back alive. It helped put things into perspective. If she didn't stop Sombra, all those lives, including the one most precious to her, would be snuffed out. She couldn't let that happen, and as Widowmaker carried her into Brixton, and her eyes became fixated on the Shard, glistening in the afternoon sun as it broke free from the confines of gravity and erupted from the horizon, she knew she save them. All of them. Even in her broken condition, she was a member of Overwatch. She was a hero. And she would not let them down.
Then, there was a sound of thunder, and the chord snapped.
Fear overtook them, and the two women plummeted. Twenty feet down they went before crashing violently into the hard-paved walkway, their forward momentum sending them tumbling into the swaths of bystanders. Widowmaker nearly landed feet first, but the second body struck her forcefully, knocking the air out of her lungs and plunging her left leg into the ground, causing it to twist sharply at the knee. Tracer landed no better—she slammed off of her ally and rolled chaotically upon impact, scratching and tearing her barely protected limbs. She came to a full stop in front of a dozen odd tourists, who stared at her with wide eyes and slacked jaws. They probably had not expected to see such a thing on their visit to London: a woman in PJs and a metal harness falling out of the sky with a blue lady in revealing latex right behind her. It would probably be something to tell their children about, and the thought of those perplexed kids was enough of a positive thought to distract Tracer from the fact that she was pretty sure her arm was broken.
Widowmaker tried to rise to her feet, but upon putting pressure on her leg, she let out a pained scream, and fell helplessly to her knees. Tracer heard another gunshot, and her eyes darted to the middle of the road. The pedestrians began to flee, but through the crowd she could easily make out the contorted, monstrous shadow as it made its way towards them, a massive shotgun pointed high in the air.
"Had a feeling you would turn on us, Widowmaker," Reaper growled. "You were questioning the goddess too much for my liking."
"I didn't turn on anyone," Widowmaker said with a groan. "That woman is controlling you, Reaper. She's got inside your head. You don't want to do this."
"Of course, I do," Reaper responded, taking his time as he hovered towards them. "I'm taking Overwatch for good. You're the one turning your back on Talon in their time of glory."
"Glory?" Widowmaker asked, hobbling to her feet. "You've never been one to speak poetically. Can you even control your own mouth anymore, or has that bitch taken hold of your tongue as well?" She tepidly applied pressure to her injured leg, hissing as she tried to stand.
"This is why you have to die, Widowmaker," Reaper explained, taking aim with his oversized weapon. "You need to learn respect."
"And you need to learn how to keep your mouth shut." Without warning, Widowmaker pulled the rifle from her back, and with one hand, fired wildly at the shadow. The bullets traveled along the ground and raced up Reaper's body, tearing easily through his distorted mass and striking the buildings on the other side of the street, narrowly missing the panicked civilians. Reaper recoiled, but did not fall; though his arms briefly fell numb, his body already began to repair the damage, and within seconds, Widowmaker knew he would be ready to strike. Desperate, she sprang to her feet, and charged towards him, ignoring the pain shooting through her body. She jumped towards him, skillfully wrapping her legs around his torso, and swinging underneath his bulky arm and around his shoulder. Before he could react, she pressed his gun away from her, and with her free hand, shoved a venom mine directly into his face, detonating it in a massive cloud of green smoke. Reaper screamed and thrashed around, clawing at the assassin as she narrowly dodged his reach.
As Tracer started to recover from her injuries, she looked onto the battle happening just a few feet away. She could barely make out their figures in the cloud of toxin, only the outline of a violent struggle. The cloud drifted towards her, and she hastily covered her mouth with her arm, knowing firsthand what would happen if she breathed in the foul substance. She groggily rose to her feet just in time to hear a high-pitched cry ring out from within the smoke.
"Go! Save your friends! I'll hold him off!"
Tracer instinctively stepped towards the action, but was cut off by the poison. Without proper gear, it would kill her in seconds. Widowmaker cried again.
"Leave, dammit! I'll be fine!"
Tracer looked deep into the cloud. If she fired shots into the cloud, she would undoubtedly hit the assassin, and she was a liability in action without her gear. Widowmaker was holding on, but she was losing control. In truth, the choice was easy to make, but that did not ease her pain as she turned away, and began to race down the empty street. Widowmaker was right: Overwatch needed her, and if they fell, she would never forgive herself. She moved quickly, and as she rounded the corner, she looked back over her shoulder one last time. In the distance, the smoke started to dissipate, and she saw the events clearly: Reaper grabbing Widowmaker by the head, and harshly throwing her down against the pavement. Widowmaker cried out, and for a brief moment as the assassin writhed on the ground, their eyes met. In that one, singular instant, Tracer did not see the cold, heartless monster that had hunted her for years. The dead skin and costume were gone, and all that Tracer could see was Amélie Lacroix, terrified and alone. Tracer wanted to run back, but her legs had taken over from her mind, and they kept pumping, carrying her towards the place she was needed most. She turned away, and in the corner of her eye, she watched helplessly as Reaper took aim at his immobile prey, and placed his finger on the trigger.
She rounded the street corner, and listened in horror as a loud bang echoed through London, and silence filled the air.
Her mind became scrambled, overwhelmed with stimuli, and in the panic, it readjusted itself towards one goal: finding her team. All other thoughts were removed; the lucid past of Amélie, the terrorized citizens trampling each other as they fled the ensuing violence, and even the previous haunting seconds were swept from her mind, airbrushed out of existence. She could not let the one chance escape her, and she ran furiously towards the one location sticking out of her mind. Overwatch would be there. She was certain of it. Once she found them, and explained what they needed to accomplish, everything would be fine. They could hurry to the Shard and stop Sombra, and she would be able to rest her broken body. They would win, like they always did, and London would be saved. Sombra would be thrown in a cell for the rest of her life, never harming another again. It would be fine, she repeated under her breath. It would all be perfectly fine, but only if she kept moving. Despite the pain, and the guilt, and the fear, she would be a hero if she kept moving.
Yet, as Tracer rounded the corner, and she cast her gaze upon her surroundings, her legs stopped working, and in the middle of her stride, she ground to a halt. The familiarity tore through her like a bolt of lightning, and realized how foolish she was. It was a place taken directly from her memory, laid out specifically how she had described it so many years ago. The drop-off zone was precisely as it should have been, and how she had never connected the dots before, she did not know. The details were so clear it was impossible not to notice them: the perfectly rectangular buildings, the half-broken street light, the chipped walkways, all lined up exactly where she remembered them, meeting on a four-way intersection. It was a place she had visited twice before in dreams, but standing there live made her realize that she was stuck inside of a nightmare. The dark clouds and panicked screams were the same, though the road was not yet shattered like she had foreseen. And, in the center of the road where destiny intersected, twenty feet away, stood a single woman, her back turned. A black hoodie covered her well, but Tracer could see from her body language that she was unafraid. In her right hand, she held a pistol, small yet powerful. In her left, she carried a belt packed with a dozen hand grenades.
"Angela!" Tracer called out. The woman, recognizing the label, turned and looked at the battered and bruised woman. Her face was concealed in shadow as she spoke.
"Lena. It's good to see you. I thought you were dead," Angela said solemnly. "This is the place. You recognize it, correct? Overwatch will be here any moment now. They'll descend from the sky, just like we planned all those years ago."
Tracer took a cautious step forward. "Angela… you need to stop this."
"Stop what? My destiny?" Angela asked curiously. "You know what is about to happen, and you know that it can't be stopped. Time will not allow it. My goddess will not allow it."
"Sombra isn't your goddess. She isn't anything," Tracer said forcefully. "She's controlling you. You came to me because you knew that this would happen, and you wanted me to stop it."
"I wanted you to stop my pain," Angela explained. "I was hurting, and you did not help me. Sombra healed me."
"She brainwashed you."
"She set me free. Yes, she hurt me, but it was all to make me understand."
"Understand what?"
"That the world is broken," Angela said assuredly. "We've known it for a very long time, both of us. There is all this suffering going on around us. War, famine, disease… these are problems that are systemic, problems that we cannot fix as long as we are part of that same system. I am a healer, and I cannot allow myself to participate in a corrupt system that continues to destroy humanity from the inside out. Sombra showed me that. If we are going to heal the world, we cannot continue this fantasy that Overwatch makes it any better when they contribute only violence and suffering."
"You don't believe any of that," Tracer said, stepping closer. "You've always had problems with Overwatch, sure. But you've never wanted to hurt anyone."
"And I was naïve. It's impossible to heal the sick without killing the virus. I should have known better."
"Overwatch is not a virus. They are your friends."
"I don't need any friends," Angela moaned. "I have my goddess."
"For God's sake, listen to yourself!" Tracer shouted. "Can't you see what she's done to you? How she's polluted you? You are literally saying the exact same things as her. If you go through with this, you won't be healing anyone. You'll be damning the world to the rule of an authoritarian psychopath who will kill off anyone she thinks is unworthy."
"And that will be for the best," Angela said with quiet confidence.
"Then I know that's not really you in there," Tracer grunted. "The Angela I know never believed a single life was expendable. She found the good in everyone. We called her 'Mercy' for a reason."
Mercy sighed. "That's a strange way to say that. You make it sound like we're not even the same person."
"You're going to hurt my friends. As far as I'm concerned," Tracer stated, drawing her weapons, "you're not."
"Then what are you waiting for?" Angela asked. She extended her arms outwards, leaving herself defenseless. "You know how this ends. The only way to save Overwatch is to strike me down. So why won't you do it?"
"No, no, no," Tracer said angrily. "We are not having this conversation again."
"You know it's the only way."
"I'm not doing it," Tracer said adamantly. "You are going to drop your weapons. You are going get on your knees, and you are going to let me fix you."
Mercy bowed her head. "There is no fixing me. What is done cannot be undone."
And suddenly, Tracer snapped. All of the pressure that had been building for months reached a boiling point, and the floodgates opened, releasing every harsh, pent-up emotion in one frustrated yell.
"Do you all take the same damn philosophy course?" she asked furiously. "Every time, they give me the same stupid answer. Winston tells me that I can't change the future. Amélie tells me I can't fix the past. And now you are telling that I can't help you, either. Well, you know what? I am sick of it. I am sick of being told what I can and can't do. My whole damn life, I have had people telling me that the world would not let me do what I want. My military told me I wasn't allowed to be a pilot. My government told me I wasn't allowed to exist as a part of Overwatch. My own damn mother told me who I was and wasn't allowed to fall in love with. And each and every time, I went against them, because it was what I wanted to do, and because I knew I could do it. I care, and I try, and for them, that was always too much. That is the problem with this world, Angela. Not that it's broken beyond repair, but that not enough people are brave enough to try and fix it. But I don't care, because I'm trying. I am going to stop you, and I am going to find your goddess, and I am going to kick her goddamn teeth in, and there is nothing you can do to stop me. So…"
Tracer took aim with her twin pistols, her hands steady and her eyes locked on her target.
"Drop your weapons, and get on your fucking knees. I am fixing you, whether you want me to or not."
Angela said nothing. She did not move a muscle. Perhaps she was stunned; after all, Tracer had just said more curse words in the past two hours than she had her entire life. Or, perhaps, she was buying time. Reaper would be on his way soon, if he was not already sneaking up behind her. In any case, she needed to get moving. She stepped quickly towards Angela, her aim held true onto the medic's legs. A shot there would only immobilize her, and with their technology she could be healed within a day. She rushed forward, and was only a few feet away, when Angela finally opened her mouth.
"I know you, too," she said confidently, "and you would never hurt somebody you loved."
Tracer froze. Within a second, Angela acted. She pulled her arm sharply forward, and without aiming, fired three shots at her now-still enemy. The first two missed wildly to the right, but the third hit her in the gut. Her cotton clothes offered little shielding. The bullet passed through her abdomen at an angle, bursting out of her near her side, leaving a thick wound in its place. Tracer collapsed with a small yelp, falling face first at Angela's feet. She managed to stop her head from smacking against the pavement, saving her from a concussion, but she immediately wished she had not. The pain caught up with her, and with a violent scream, she rolled onto her back, staring up at the doctor, who looked upon her with regret and pity.
"An… Angela…" Tracer begged through strained teeth. She desperately reached up, her fingers twitching as they traced over the outline of Angela's distant features. The doctor merely shook her head.
And it was then that Tracer heard them. Her eyes shifted past the doctor, into the heavy grey sky, where the faint yet steady noise of an engine broke through the echoed screams. She saw only the distortion it caused as it's cloaking system blocked out all attention from those it did not wish to attract, but she recognized its shape. It descended slowly from the heavens, and Tracer wanted to tell them to turn back, to shout at the top of her lungs and ward them off. But even if she could speak, they would not hear her, and they could not see the doctor patiently waiting beneath them, looking up at their craft with a sly grin.
"Right on schedule," the doctor smirked. She carelessly brushed Tracer's hand away, and turned her back, and stepping towards the oncoming danger. "It's time to finish this where it started."
"Angela… please…" Tracer cried. She rolled over onto her hands and knees, dragging herself after her friend, leaving behind a trail of blood as the ship lowered to the ground. "Please… we can fix this!"
"Overwatch! You've found me!" Angela shouted proudly. Only several meters off the ground, the ship hovered in place as the large panel on its side began to slide open. As it folded outwards, Tracer could see them: the tip of Winston's fur, the height on Reinhardt's crowd, the fuzz of Mei's jacket. Angela reached down to her belt of grenades, looped her fingers through, and with a single, satisfying pluck, yanked free multiple pins, scattering them onto the floor.
The door creaked open inch-by-inch.
Tracer pushed herself forward, only fingertips away from Angela's legs. She could make it. She just had to push harder. She was so close.
Angela wound back her arm.
Tracer grazed the back of the doctor's feet. She just had to pull herself up, and knock away the explosives. She had to stand up. Stand up. Stand up.
Angela flung her arm, and the grenades flew.
Tracer opened her mouth. Move! Close the door, she wanted to scream. But as her voice began to escape her lips, the bullet wound screamed instead, and all that came out of her mouth was a pathetic, dry wheeze.
The grenades struck the door.
And, in a flash before Tracer's eyes, the world caught aflame. The explosion was vibrant, and Tracer found herself flying backwards through the air, tumbling out of control. She heard no cries of pain, only the sickening whirring of the helicopter losing control, and freefalling onto the streets. They hit the pavement together, she believed; through the blinding light and the overwhelming sound and the inescapable agony, everything blended together until it formed a thick sludge of constant sensation, too powerful for her single damaged mind. When the dust finally settled, and she was able to open her eyes, the first things she saw were the many distinct cracks in the makeup of the road. She groggily lifted her head, and her heart stopped.
The wreckage seemed endless. Within the crater of what used to be the road were raging fires and hundreds of chunks of burning metal, each a different shape and size. There was so much smoke, more smoke than she had ever seen in her whole life. It forced its way into her mouth and her nostrils, clogging her, consuming her. She coughed violently as she struggled to her feet. Her ears were ringing, and she wobbled off-balance, but she managed, somehow, to stand in the haze of madness, and in that haze, she looked down on at her feet.
Winston was broken. The blood was everywhere, coating his charred and bruised skin. Tracer's eyes scanned him, taking in his mangled limbs, and his twitching toes, and his ruined armor, and his ajar mouth expelling thin, clear fluid, and his eyes, wide and shocked, permanently fixed onto a point of nothingness in the distance, and as Tracer looked him over, her own eyes began to water, and her knees shook to the point of collapse, and she fell over, confused, frightened, reaching outwards to him with one trembling, desperate hand.
"Winston. Winston! Winston!"
Tracer gently petted his face. He had to wake up.
"No. No no no no no no no."
She shoved him, pushing his limp and empty mass with her weak, feeble arms. She had to wake him up. He was going to wake up. He was going to wake up any moment.
"Get up, Winston. Please, get up. Get up. Get up. You have to snap out of this."
She furiously pushed against him, pounding on his unmoving chest. This wasn't happening. This wasn't happening. This wasn't happening. This wasn't happening. This wasn't happening.
"Come on! Please! Please, get up, Winston. You can't die. You… you can't be dead. You're not dead, so get up. Dammit, please, just get up."
She brushed her hand over his face. He didn't respond. He couldn't respond.
"Please… please, no. No… I don't… I can't lose you… please, stop this and just get up."
Tracer looked around, tears clouding her vision. Their bodies lined the streets. Shattered. Bloodied. Empty. They would never again console her, or joke with her, or insult her. They were simply bodies, rotting on the side of the road. Tracer watched helplessly as the doctor stepped into the mass grave, and surveyed her work. Tracer could not see her face, and could only try in vain to understood what she felt at that moment. Relief? Regret? Disappointment? Did it matter? Did anything really matter anymore?
Suddenly, a hand shot forward, and grabbed the doctor by the ankle. Pharah dragged herself out of the wreckage, clinging to the last bit of life she had left in her. She looked up pathetically at the doctor, her face bright red and oozing.
"How… how could you do this to us?" she choked out. "You… you were supposed to be our friend…"
Angela removed her handgun from her back pocket, and placed it against the Egyptian's temple. She pulled back her hood, and sighed.
"I'm so sorry about this," Angela said, each word punctuated with a thick, Swiss-German accent. "I really am."
There was a harsh bang, followed by a splatter of blood and stuff, and then Pharah was no more. Tracer did not even flinch.
Angela surveyed the damage, and with a sad nod, she made her way over to the last hero remaining. Each footstep echoed in the empty streets as it landed with a squish, pressing against discarded chunks of human matter. She approached slowly, ten meters away, then five, then two, then one, until she was face-to-face with Tracer, still hovering over the ape's remains. She did not bother to make eye contact as she lined up her final shot.
"It's a shame about all of this," Angela mumbled. "We could have made the world a better place."
Tracer closed her eyes. She was not afraid. There was no part of her left to be afraid anymore. It had been dispersed over the city streets with the rest of her friends. It was over. Sombra won. Widowmaker was dead. Overwatch was dead. Soon, London and the entire world would be under her control, and there was no one to stop her. She couldn't do it. Despite her best efforts, despite trying harder than she ever had before, she couldn't save them. It was just like Winston said: time was like a book. The pages could turn front and back, but the text never changed. The future came true, and she had failed everyone. Her very reason for living had been stripped from her, and Angela pressed the gun against her head and cocked the hammer, she felt the strangest sense of relief. Soon, she knew, the pain would disappear, and her troubled memories would disappear, and her name would disappear, and she would disappear. She did not deserve to live any longer. She did not even deserve to exist.
Tracer's eyes shot open. She didn't deserve to exist. And she did not have to.
In a flash of blue light, Tracer vanished. Angela spun around, only to see Tracer quickly teleport away again, appearing beside the body of what used to be McCree. Angela took aim, but within a second Tracer blinked again, and then again moments later.
"What are you doing?" Angela asked. She took a shot that Tracer dodged easily, moving to Mei's body, and then Genji's. With each blink, Tracer felt something shift within her chest, but she did not care, dashing quickly from body-to-body, the intervals shortening between each blink. She moved in a pattern: Winston, McCree, Pharah, Mei, Genji, Reinhardt, until she was moving between each hero so fast that she could hardly keep track. She touched Genji for the fifth time when she suddenly lurched backwards, and without realizing it, recalled back to Pharah, materializing in mid-stride. However, she threw off the bizarre sensation, and went back to work, ignoring the horrific warning signs her body was sending her. Angela fired wildly at her, always half a second behind where she needed to be. The blue flashes morphed into blue streaks as Tracer shifted her pattern, getting into close contact with everything piece of scrap metal and chunk of flesh around her. She knew she had to keep going, despite the fire burning in her legs, and the fact that her heart felt like it was going to burst from her chest, and her mind would turn to ash.
Another recall hit her unexpectedly, consuming her in a larger flash of blue, and sending her back to Winston. For a moment, she froze in place, and looked at Winston, holding onto the faintest hope that she was right. That was when she saw it. The movement was brief, but she noticed it right away: Winston's arm jumped up several inches, before collapsing back to the floor in the precise spot it was just in. And with all she needed to know, Tracer ran.
"Stop moving," Angela grunted, trying in vain to track down her prey. "You can't stop us anymore."
Tracer ignored her, picking up speed. She pushed her body to its limits, straining against the revolting accelerator as it burned uncontrollably. She changed her pattern again, bouncing between heroes like a rubber band. Another recall struck her, but the blue light was larger than ever, consuming the center of the street. When the light faded, Angela took aim again.
"Stop moving," she grunted. "You can't stop us—"
Angela looked down at her hand, stunned. Tracer grimaced. Her head was about to split open, and every atom in her body cried out in rebellion, but she increased her pace still. Bullets flew past her, but she ignored them, blocking out everything to keep her legs furiously pumping. Her fingers began to go numb, and her mouth ran dry. She felt like she was about to faint. But, no matter what happened, she would not stop.
Recall. Tracer looked around her. The bodies and scraps of metal were hovering in mid-air, only a few inches off the ground, before slamming hard into the ground with a burst of flame. Angela recoiled from the explosion of the chopper, but Tracer remained in place, staring at the carnage surrounding her. She did not understand why she did not travel back, until she looked at her hand. The tips of her fingers were broken; not twisted, but fractured and hovering around her hand, flickering with blue energy. They did not hurt, though, and as Tracer looked to the spot where she used to be, she saw them, dancing in and out of the foundations of reality many meters away.
Winston was right. He was always right. The chronal accelerator was breaking down from overuse, and she was breaking down with it, scattering herself across space-time. Her molecules were separating from themselves and relocating to everywhere she had ever once been. They called it the worst-case scenario, but as she looked at her hand, damaged and unusable, she breathed a sigh of relief. As the accelerator broke, so too would its field of effect. She had always been able to alter her own time. Now, she could alter theirs. It wasn't over yet. She could undo everything that had happened, even if it meant undoing herself.
Recall. The bodies were thrown from the helicopter as Angela watched with glee. Tracer's hand vanished from sight, as bits of her mind returned to where they used to be.
Time, after all, was the one thing she never had to worry about. Time did not work for her like it worked for other people. Whereas most people would panic incessantly upon being violently thrown out of a thirty-story building, she could allow her mind to wander to wherever it sought to go without having to worry about how little time she had left before she splattered against the city streets. There were so many things to think about that she did not know what she would possibly do if she couldn't manipulate time while freefalling to her imminent death. Of course, there was the aforementioned philosophical discussion of the long-term effects of prolonged exposure to being violently thrown out of a thirty-story building, but there was also the reformation of Overwatch, the arduous process of locating as many former members as she and Winston could find and convincing them to rejoin the team, as well as attempting to find new recruits, which was, admittedly, significantly harder than she originally anticipated. She thought about how it was one of their first missions back together, how the Vishkar Corporation had continued their development of hard-light technology, and how they had followed Talon to Utopaea to prevent them from stealing a new prototype of unknown power. Her mind hopped between each of these thoughts like an introspective frog, jumping from lily pad-to-cognitive lily pad, never resting for more than a moment before moving onto the next.
Recall. The helicopter spun out of control. Tracer's vision went dark, and her foot vanished out from under her, but she kept running.
Lena swung her legs off the side of her bed, clutching the edge of her mattress. Her soft, cotton pajamas clung to her skin, and the hum of the chronal accelerator filled the room as the device hung on her chest, a sensation to which she had long since grown accustomed. With a sigh, she groggily jumped to her feet, stuffed herself inside her soft, pink slippers, and left her room with her hands shoved into the pockets of her pajamas. Even though the outpost was practically her second home, it still felt bizarre roaming its stainless metal halls. She was, after all, traveling through an underground bunker, and though she tried her best to make her personal quarters feel less alien, every reverberating footstep reminded her of the inhumanity of the structure, the purpose of her mission. Overwatch as not her family, despite what she liked to think; they were her comrades in arms, and the hollowed shell she called home was their base of operations. Nothing more, nothing less.
Recall. Where was she? Who was she? She had a name, right? Emily, was it? No, that couldn't be right. But then why did that name sound so familiar, and rest so comfortably in what little fragments remained of her mind?
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?"
Recall. "Overwatch! You found me!" a woman shouted proudly. Run. Keep running. Never stop running, even if she didn't know why.
"No. No excuses," Lena said, shaking her head. "I know you're afraid of what's going to happen. I'm afraid too; more afraid than I've ever been my whole life. Those visions showed me things I never wanted to see, and I honestly don't know if I can do anything to stop them. But that fear didn't stop me from getting out of bed each morning, putting my gear on, and fighting my ass off trying. I'm not going to let you stop fighting, either. You are strong, so much stronger than you realize. You've been through warzones and burning cities, and I have fought through hell and back with you to make this world a better place. We can beat back those urges in your head together, because as long as I have your back, we are more powerful than anything they can throw at us. So, you are not going to harm anyone. You going to stick by your oath. You are going to rise up, you are going to get better, and right now, you are going to calm the fuck down."
Lena was never one for speeches. She always thought they were hokey, bland, and uninspired. Whenever she and Emily watched a film together, and the protagonist gave a rousing speech to spur his followers into action, she always began to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. She never understood how a hero could know the precise words to say to inspire others, how they could instantly produce such lofty phrases off the top of their heads. Perhaps her doubt came from the fact that she never thought she was particularly good with words. She could pretty easily come up with a quip or two, but keeping a single train of thought was challenging, and she never believed that she could maintain focus long enough make any comprehensive or meaningful point. She had long accepted that it was her actions that affected others, and her words were empty and better left unspoken.
Recall.
Angela stood with her arms outstretched. She could see them, far away in the sky. Soon, Overwatch would be in range, and she could complete Sombra's will. The burning in her head would stop then. The guilt would stop. She was so close.
Suddenly, she felt something trickle down the back of her neck, and she spun around, dazed. Had she done this before? It seemed so strange, but she could remember being in that exact spot, feeling every emotion precisely the way she had before. She looked down at her feet, but saw no one there. Something was wrong. Someone was missing, plucked right from the spot without her noticing. She was just talking to someone, but who was it?
She looked up in a panic. Overwatch was getting close, too close, in fact. The side panel on their ship began to open, and she reached to remove the pins from the grenades. She only had one chance. She could never defeat them on her own, so she could not afford to miss. However, as she fumbled with the weapons, there was a crack of thunder, and a powerful blast knocked the belt from her hands, scattering the still-loaded grenades onto the pavement. Angela turned around, only to be greeted with the butt of a rifle cracking against her face, knocking her unconscious. As the ship landed easily in the middle of the intersection, the members of Overwatch poured out, only to come across the most unusual sight: Angela sprawled out on the floor, with a battered and bruised sniper standing over her, blue arms raised in the air as a sign of peace.
"Amélie?" Winston asked, hurrying out of the carrier to check on the doctor. He crouched beside Angela and caressed her face. She was injured, but she would survive. Widowmaker rolled her eyes.
"You're welcome, by the way," she said with a sneer.
"You're welcome?" Pharah asked with disgust. "What did you do to her?"
"She was under Sombra's control. From the looks of it, she was about to kill you all," Widowmaker explained, pointing to the pack of grenades lying harmlessly off to the side. "I saved your lives. As much as it pains me…"
McCree walked over to the explosives, picking them up and loosely examining them. "She was going to do this to us?"
A cloud of silence hung over them. None of them wanted to talk about the strange sensation in the back of their mind, the feeling that they knew everything Widowmaker was saying to be true, and they had been there before. None of them wanted to say aloud that they felt like they had all been dead.
Winston quickly changed the topic. "What happened to you?"
"Reaper," Widowmaker said with a sigh. "He's been taken care of. You should probably contain him before he wakes up."
"You fought Reaper off all by yourself?" Winston asked, surprised.
"Don't underestimate me," Widowmaker scoffed. "Now, where's Tracer? We need to regroup before we go after Sombra."
The heroes simply stared at her, dumbfounded.
"Lena? Isn't she at her home?" Mei asked worriedly.
"What? No," Widowmaker said, confused. "She came here to meet with you. She was running here just a few minutes ago. She couldn't have gone far."
The assassin looked around the city streets. Overwatch had no idea what she was talking about, but she knew. She would never just run away. She would never abandon her friends. But as she took in her surroundings, the truth became very clear, and despite every one of her senses telling her that it did not make sense, she was forced to accept it: Tracer was gone.