Tracer's not too sure where the momentum comes from, but she sure does feel it when Lacroix's shoulder cracks under her boot and the Frenchwoman goes flying. Doesn't help that she goes sailing after her, right off the flippin' roof.
It's a long way to fall and Tracer's flailing about in the air. Lacroix's rifle is a grey pinprick tumbling to the ground far below, and the woman herself looks barely conscious. Well, Tracer can't have that now, can she? Didn't come out 'ere to kill the poor lass. She moves like a blur, wrapping her arms 'round the woman's waist, and the sudden shift in directional momentum throws them both through the glass of an office several stories down.
Tracer barely remembers the moment of entry. Head's gone all mushy like and her goggles are cracked. She pulls 'em off and lets it rest on top of her hair. Then she realises her arms are empty and Lacroix's gone. Casts an eye about to find her and winces when her harness starts whining. Not a pleasant sound, that. She looks down while pushing herself up and sees the bright blue light flicker. Tinkling glass catches her ear and Tracer sees Lacroix rising from behind an upturned desk. She grins.
"You alright, pet?"
The woman doesn't seem too pleased. Which is something. Tracer thinks Lacroix is almost halfway to a proper miffed look as she finds her feet. "Soz' about that," she says, pointing at Lacroix's limp left arm, "and your gun. Gonna be a righ' pain to find that again."
Her visor busted, the woman's eyes visibly narrow. "I've had enough of you."
Wearing a crooked, cocky smile, Tracer's about to reply, but then Lacroix's right hand moves to her thigh and she pulls out one mean looking combat knife. And to top it all off, in the same moment, the flickering light of her chronal accelerator winks out entirely. Tracer looks down, then back up. Her eyes are wide.
"Oh, bloody hell."
Lacroix's on top of her in three strides. Slashes across Tracer's massive arm guards when she brings them up in front of her. The knife hits like it weighs a ton and scrapes down her armoured wrists. Tracer's never been trained in close quarters combat, hasn't needed to when she can be wherever she wants whenever she wants. But that luxury's not to hand right now. She's on Lacroix's turf and the woman doesn't play around. And then there's a moment of distraction - so brief, a cry of 'aha!' as Tracer's harness flares back to life, its neon-blue core whirring with restored power.
And that's precisely when Lacroix gets her.