Tracer loved sleep. Any place, any time. Her friends often found her sprawled across floors or tightly tucked into compartments on ships. If the woman wasn't moving at lightning speed, she wasn't moving at all. Her life was a constant whirlwind; sometimes passing out for a few random hours in random places was the only rest she was going to get.
Waking up in the unfamiliar room therefore did not alarm her, and she was pleased with the fuzzy sensation that came from a successful, deep sleep. Her left arm tingled, and upon closer inspection, she found the limb mostly healed; she could rotate and twist with minimal pain. The woman patted her chronal accelerator affectionately, and stood up to examine her surroundings with a stretch.
Then she realized she really had to use the loo.
The room consisted of four small beds, each with a nightstand, and a door that led to the basics in regards to toiletry. After completing her business, she tested the sink to find it functioning and the water clean, making a mental note to ask Athena how the station's overall water supply was.
She instinctively looked up to inspect herself in the mirror, noticing the boxy shape likely indicated the mirror itself was the front opening of a cabinet. That door was slightly opened.
She opened the cabinet, expecting it to be empty. Pills, bandages, and a tube of toothpaste rested on the small shelves inside. She poked the tube, finding the contents rather firm, likely dried out. With a frown, she returned to the room, glancing around at the furniture. On one nightstand rested a simply decorated box. The bed's comforter was overturned; this was not the bed Tracer had slept on.
Her stomach growled angrily, and she decided to worry about oddities of the base later. After all, Tracer also loved food. Moving faster than time itself required a lot of energy, and so she left the room to return to the galley and the stockroom with hundreds of cans.
All those cans were troubling. If the base was properly decommissioned, supplies would have been taken back to Earth along with the crew. Gibraltar theoretically served as a storage facility after the Petras Act. Overwatch leadership could not have assumed a return to space would be feasible if the program was shutting down. Nor had the United Nations found the base, swept in, and confiscated it. So why was it all still here?
She sighed, moving forward with the task at hand. After perusing her limited options, she selected a unique breakfast of chicken noodle soup, heated it up in the kitchen, and proceeded down the hall with her food to the control room.
After contentedly sipping her meal and running a few reports (and admittedly checking to see if her clearance had magically changed overnight), Tracer felt satisfied they had the food and water necessary to survive. Air supplies were fine. The base was cloaked once more and operating normally.
She would worry about the locked doors and the reasons why the crew seemed to leave everything behind after their ship was fixed. However, the thought still made her a tad jumpy.
With a satisfied burp, she lowered her goggles across her eyes and marched to the transport wing, ready to seize the day. Opening the door to the hangar produced the image of a dramatic streak across the floor and a rather withered looking ship sitting the in the corner.
"Really botched up this one, Oxton," she muttered as she walked up to assess the damage. After investigating the cockpit and finding the controls unresponsive, she returned outside to connect the vessel's computer to the nearest docking station in the wing so Athena could talk with it.
Tracer eyed the blackened, charred exterior as she stood next to the docking station's computer.
"How bad is she?"
"Auxiliary power is offline. Bay area and stern took direct hits, and hull sustained minor damage. Engines are, however, intact."
"Long as engines made it, we can fix her," Tracer declared triumphantly, turning away from the ship, "Would be wicked if you had some tools and a spot of fuel for me though."
"Last inventory inspection suggests availability."
A small section of the wall across the wing slowly began to rise, revealing a garage.
And so, with her signature smirk, Tracer went to work.
Hours sped by as Tracer blinked back and forth across the room and around the ship, focusing on repairing the exterior, physical damages first. The task was almost enjoyable; in the face of all that had happened in her life recently, sitting down to fix up a ride relaxed her.
She excited sung as she worked, "Through adversities we'll conquer—go Athena!"
"Blaze into the stars," the computer contributed without adding the least bit of musical finesse.
"A trail of glory," Tracer continued histrionically before dissolving into a whistle, popping off an exterior panel to get a better look at the fuel tanks.
There was a sudden noise behind her.
She whipped her head around at the sound, immediately drawing a pistol and pointing it towards the unknown interruption.
Widowmaker paused in the process of pulling a chair through the doorway, lifting an eyebrow. Tracer lowered her weapon with a sheepish, apologetic grin. The woman standing a few feet away merely tilted her head. Without breaking eye contact, Widowmaker proceeded to drag the chair with exceptional slowness, drawing out the obnoxiously loud scraping sound of the chair's legs grinding across the hanger's floor. Once she found a spot that suited her, she pointedly positioned her chair at a particular angle and then carefully stepped around to take her seat.
"Tick-tock, agent."
Tracer snorted, turning back to her work. She made sure to whistle extra loudly in the vast wing, producing a shrill echo.
"All right?"
The room remained silent except for the clinking of forks against plates.
This was their third meal together. Everyday, Tracer would wake up and work on the ship. Widowtracer's attendance was sporadic at best; the pilot was at least grateful she appeared to be staying out of trouble. After a day of labor (and cursing), she would make a hot meal with some of the cans in the kitchen, enough for two, and Widowmaker would show up.
Then they would sit in silence for the entire meal.
For two nights, Tracer had managed to endure the quiet, her leg bouncing underneath the table, not losing heart whenever the woman sitting across from her ignored her light attempts at conversation. But blast it all, if she was going to make this woman some food, the least they could do is bloody talk.
"Maybe next time Athena can play us some music, yeah?"
Widowmaker ignored her remark and deposited the fork directly next to her empty plate.
Before she could get up, Tracer asked, "Want the rest of mine?"
Eyes looked down at the offered food. "That is from your half."
"Yeah, and I'm seeing if you want it," Tracer stated firmly, not understanding why the other woman refused to just answer the question.
The Brit expected her dinner partner to ignore at her or snap at her in annoyance, but she instead received an attentive stare. Her eyebrows were slightly wrinkled as if she were puzzling over a riddle.
"I have already had my half," Widowmaker replied slowly.
Either she was a terribly good actress or she wasn't being intentionally difficult.
"We have enough to last years. Don't expect to be here that long," the younger woman tried casually, "You're allowed to have more. You seemed to eat the vegetables faster than the other bits, so I thought maybe that means you like 'em. Do you want more?" she asked again, sliding her plate towards the woman across from her.
But she still received no answer, only stares.
Fine.
Tracer stood with a sigh, and left the galley, the door swinging behind her like a pendulum. Widowmaker glanced back at the food now sitting before her.
What did she want? It was a foreign concept, and she lacked an answer. Was there an aspect of joy or preference in eating one was supposed to consider?
Choices. Wanting. The officious little Overwatch agent was continuously presenting her with alien concepts she did not fully comprehend. There was the mission. The chase. Feeling alive when she claimed a target. Everything else was just an inconsequential, insignificant blur.
Until the overtly chipper, spunky little girl entered the scene. An annoyance. A naive 'hero' who saw the world in black and white. Widowmaker had been so ready to pull the trigger, had stalked her prey so carefully to that ship. The pilot would unknowingly aid in her escape of the burning base, and when they landed at destination, she would end her. This time she finally would.
But who could have predicted that the last gasps of Overwatch's pathetic remains would be a mission beyond Earth? Now she was stuck. Her tracker would not work across the distance of space to summon Talon.
She kept telling herself that was why a bullet did not rest between the girl's eyes. Certainly the girl would not simply eliminate her; she lacked the constitution to have cold blood on her hands. Now she had to withstand her aggressive cheerfulness for an indeterminate amount of time.
However, even annoyance and irritation were emotions, and now she was intrigued.
Wow, that's something, innit?
You always have a choice.
Do you want more?
Now there were more emotions besides annoyance that felt much warmer.
It had been eleven days since her last treatment. They told her side effects would begin to occur on day nine if she went beyond the weekly schedule. She could push herself a little more through the fog spreading in her head, could she not? Just a taste of what emotions felt like before she retreated back to the emptiness. A test of endurance.
You're allowed to have more. Widowmaker reached out for the plate with the remaining vegetables.
The very next day, Tracer spent the morning and afternoon alone in the hangar. When her stomach alerted her to dinnertime, she was exhausted from her work but overall satisfied with the progress. As she had done every night, she prepared enough for two people, but she found the usual chairs still empty; the Talon agent, if not present during the day, usually emerged from wherever she hid for a meal.
She grabbed one of the plates and exited galley, trusting her feet to taker her where she hoped to go. Someone that preferred the shadows would be tucked in the back, right? As she maneuvered to the back of the barracks hallways, she discovered a single door was open at the corner.
Her fingers brushed against the door in a light knock, but she was already peeking her head through the opened door.
"Brought your—" Tracer paused, "What's that?"
Widowmaker's visor was sitting on the bed beside her. She leaned over the edge, hunched over, inspecting a small case that rested in her hands.
A long needle reflected the dim light of the room.
Widowmaker did not look up from the item as she stoically answered, "A syringe."
"I can see that."
Her eyes flickered up to meet the woman standing at the door. The skin beneath them was a deeper shade of purple than the lavender of her skin.
"A gift from Talon," she said almost too evenly, "If I am unable to return for weekly reconditioning treatments."
"Oh."
Tracer suddenly felt awkward standing there, holding a plate of food. She did not know how to respond, and Widowmaker merely stared as the room went silent once more.
"Did you know her?" the woman on the bed tentatively murmured.
Tracer quickly asked, "Know who?"
The glare she received gave her chills. Widowmaker tilted her chin regally. Challengingly.
Her.
"Yeah," the Overwatch agent mumbled, shuffling her feet, "Not well. More like acquaintances, really. "
The next question was a whisper, "What was she like?"
"Stubborn. But very kind. Constantly volunteering in the hospital ward," Tracer recalled, leaning against the doorframe, "If she didn't hate guns, she would have made a great agent. She was our biggest fan, far as I could tell."
An empty chuckle. "My condolences for your loss."
Angela had told her what they did to Amélie. Her heart was slower, her body was colder, her memories were gone, and her soul was numb to emotion. But when their faces had been inches apart that night in King's Row, when she had really looked into those eyes, she had begun to wonder. Tracer bit down her tongue on the unasked question that had been nipping at her brain like an itch for weeks.
But the woman sitting on the bed saw the query written across her face.
"She is dead. Her memories are ghosts."
"You still have them?"
Her gaze returned to the object in her hands. "When I am away too long."
The young woman's hand not holding the plate lightly touched her vest.
"I understand."
"I do not need your sympathy!" Widowmaker suddenly snapped fiercely, shooting up from the bed, posture rigid and aggressive. Her fingers clung tightly to the syringe.
Shock slowly bled into her veins at her own loss of control. Her eyes dropped to the floor while the new, sharp sensations washed over her. The silence screamed in her ears.
Tracer slowly walked deeper into the room, her shoulders slack with exhaustion. Neither looked at the other.
"You're not the only one with ghosts, you know," she rasped softly before depositing the plate on the foot of the bed and exiting the room.
Widowmaker crumbled back onto the bed; her chest ached. It still felt empty, her heart slow and sleepy, but was it stirring? What was waking up inside her? Her eyes darted back to what lay in her hand.
A choice.
She closed the small case that housed the needle and quietly returned it to the hidden slot of her metal bracer on her arm.
Once again, Tracer spent the day alone tinkering with her ship. She did not sing. A wrench fell into the hull never to be seen again, the electricity still wasn't working, and at one point the whole bloody thing almost fell on top of her. By then, she was throwing her work gloves on the ground and stalking down the hallway to the galley for an early dinner.
But when she opened the door, the stovetop was already in use.
Gloveless, slender hands adjusted the knobs controlling the heat, flexing a webbing of tattoos on a toned forearm. Eyes of gold moved from a pot to the new arrival.
Tracer's mouth fell open at the image of the assassin delicately stirring what appeared to be soup.
Widowmaker stood a bit taller as she firmly stated, "I wanted to try this one," gesturing towards the empty can now on the counter bearing the label 'cream of mushroom.'
"Works for me, love," the brunette replied softly, a grin etched across her face.
She walked up to the counter as the other woman began to spoon the meal into bowls. When one bowl passed between them, their hands brushed, and Tracer felt the chill of Widowmaker's cold skin.
This time, the silence at the table as they ate didn't feel so maddening to the young woman.
After a few moments, Widowmaker asked, "What are your food preferences?"
Tracer frowned deeply in confusion, stopping her spoonful of soup in midair. "What, like, outta the cans we have?"
Her companion's eyes narrowed slightly in thought, while a hand errantly tucked a piece of hair that had escaped the tie behind her ear.
She then clarified, "When your choices are not restricted."
Tracer sighed dreamily, her mouth watering as she pictured the perfect meal, "Nothing beats fish and chips with a pint."
The other gave a firm nod, but offered no other response.
"What about you?" Tracer asked with a grin. It was not just the meal making her feel warm.
Widowmaker paused the stirring of her soup and replied with a small, almost unnoticeable smile, "Yet to be determined."