Lena Oxton, 26, otherwise known as Tracer. An alias taken up and retained beyond her stint as an Overwatch agent. To Lacroix, the name has no meaning until she crosses paths with the woman again, and again. Precisely none of their encounters are of her own making. The British woman simply never fails to trace her footsteps.
"Hey," Tracer says, hands raised in an offering of peace, "maybe we can hash this one out, yeah?"
"No," Lacroix replies.
Her hands rise silently, bracing the gun against her shoulder. Tracer pleas that she wait; Lacroix curls her finger around the trigger and fires. She misses. The fact does not surprise her. Tracer is gone, vanished. Motes of blue light linger in the spot where she stood. Lacroix whirls through 180 degrees at the sound of scuffing boot heels. Her finger hits the trigger and Tracer blinks out of existence.
"Missed me, pet!" the woman calls out.
Lacroix's face pinches as fading laughter lingers in the air. "Don't call me that."
"Don't get your knickers in a twist!" Tracer says, flipping backwards over a volley of fire. She disappears before landing. Lacroix starts as a finger suddenly prods into her backside. "You even got knickers on under this, pet?"
Lacroix thrusts a raised heel into the woman's face. Her own pinches harder as Tracer vanishes once again. "I am not your pet."
"You're someone's, luv'!"
She is not angry, merely irritated - if even that. Impatient. No, what she is, Lacroix tells herself, is concerned only about the success of the mission. Talon will accept no more failures of her. She has returned to him twice now with clean hands. All because of Tracer. But the woman does not matter, only the mission. Only the target. Lacroix will not fail; she will take her shot.
Tracer dances through volleys of suppressing fire. Dances. Lacroix can't hit her. She isn't trying to. She walks forward whilst pressing the woman further back. She's moving into position. The visor snaps closed over her eyes and the HUD begins to recalibrate. Meanwhile, Tracer is laughing, leaping, taking pleasure, so it seems, in goading her with that moniker and all its supposed implications. It's not important; she is not important. Only the mission. Lacroix lays down a burst of gunfire as she reaches for the switch. Tracer blinks out of the bullets' path. Lacroix is already turning to point her sniper rifle at Gunther Siegel's office window. She tilts her head, aligning her eye with the scope.
And that's when Tracer reappears, sailing through the air with a leg extended.
"Hiyah!"