As far as being a former member of a disbanded global defense program goes, Tracer supposes someone could do far worse than Overwatch.
While most of their technological and financial assets had been redistributed amongst the world's nations, and their major strongholds either razed or repurposed, most of the smaller satellite bases had managed to fly under the radar. The less-frequented locations, (with the exception of Mei's favorite base on the southernmost tip of Argentina), had gone quietly into the night with no protestation from the now-splintered team.
Tracer is grateful beyond measure that the safehouse in Nice has stayed more or less the same. It was always her favorite base to visit, whether it was for an assignment or simply to relax. She supposes it's stayed put because everyone feels much the same.
Perhaps the least ostentatious of Overwatch's properties, it's a squat, peach-hued two story building perched a couple hundred paces out from the sea. Nothing about the tenement's exterior betrays what goes on inside, and Tracer likes it that way. Nice was one of the very few towns on Earth that doesn't need heroes.
Tracer loves being a hero. But Tracer also loves being Lena Oxton sometimes.
She can go outside here. She can wear trainers. She can visit cafes. She can wear a sodding tee shirt without worrying about hiding her chronal harness beneath it. And as long as she layers smartly, the glow of her chronal accelerator, ever present on her chest, is almost undetectable.
She could lay sprawled on a threadbare couch and leave the windows open without fear of a certain someone lighting her up from a distant rooftop.
Lena cracks her bare toes, arching her back as she stretches for good measure. She revels in it, allowing herself a small, satisfied grunt as she feels something pop along her spine. From the first floor, there is a loud CLANK as Zarya, (who else could it be), drops her weights on the floor of the designated gym area. In an adjacent room, she can hear Mercy murmuring to herself idly as she reviews their former companion's monthly health updates, sent per her request. Or, more accurately, thinly-veiled demand.
It's rare to have even two former Overwatch agents in one place at one time, three is damn near unheard of. It feels as close to old times as it would get, these moments when they all just happened into the same place at the same time.
She sighs, folding one leg over the other. Fishing in the pocket of her loose cloth shorts, the pads of her fingers graze a meticulously over-folded piece of paper. Trapping it between her index and middle fingers, she slides it out, unfolding it with the deftness that only comes with practice. Lena gazes at the picture, breath caught in her throat.
It feels as close to old times as it ever could get.
She meets her own gaze, captured in the photograph as she mugs shamelessly at the camera. Her hair was shorter then. Neater. Her face a little rounder. Her chronal accelerator gleams proudly on her chest. Beside her, a man with neatly coiffed dark hair, thick glasses, and a smile wider than the grill of a sixteen-wheeler has an arm wrapped around a woman. Her smile is softer than her companions', close lipped but somehow warmer for it. Her hair, blacker than a crow's wing, is braided and thrown over one shoulder.
Her ochre eyes, the only thing that looks the same these days, are piercing beyond what ought to have been captured by a camera. Her heart thumps, like it always has. Lena traces the straight line of Amélie's nose with the tip of her pinky, the softest of sighs whistling through her lips.
God help her, but she misses that woman.
"You are upsetting yourself again." Warns a stern voice from behind her.
Lena tips her head back to get an eyeful of a cross-looking, upside-down Angela Ziegler. She holds the picture up for the healer to get a closer look at.
"You took this picture didn't ya, Merce?" She asks, waving it for good measure. Angela purses her lips, her eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly.
"Yes." She says, voice tight. "Why do you carry it around with you, Lena?"
The small Brit rolls onto her backside, placing her bare feet on the hardwood floor.
"It's important to have a reminder, innit?" She asks softly, cradling the aging photograph like she would a baby bird. Angela heaves a weary sigh and practically floats to sit beside her. Lena takes this as a sign to continue.
"I swear to ya, Merce. I made progress with 'er the last time I saw 'er. In London." She says, sitting a little bit straighter. "I mean, she got right pissed, but innit that something for someone who can't feel anything?"
Angela makes a skeptical-sounding noise in the back of her throat, and Lena trains her gaze on her sharply. Heat flares under her cheeks.
"You got somethin' to say, then?" She asks. Angela shakes her head, folding her hands in her lap.
"Not anything I, or Zarya, or Winston, or , or Reinhardt, or anyone hasn't said to you a thousand times before." She says softly, but there is a slight edge to her tone. Lena takes one last look at the photograph before folding it up and stuffing it back in her pocket.
"Right-o, then." She says briskly, zipping to her feet in a blink. Of course it would be this conversation again. Angela doesn't stand with her.
"You deliberately put yourself in danger every second that you spend with Widowmaker, Lena." The Swiss woman says firmly. "And for what purpose?"
Lena's jaw clenches as she flashes to her duffel bag, sitting in the corner of the room. Unzipping the bag tersely, she digs through its contents until she finds a pair of black jeans.
"You know better'n anyone else for what purpose." She snipes back. Angela finally rises to her feet, crossing her arms as she watches the shorter woman trip as she tries to hop out of her shorts.
"And I know as well as anyone that Amélie is gone." She says, softening her tone. "What Talon did to her cannot be reversed. Winston and I both ran diagnostics when we had her in our custody."
Lena jams one spindly leg into her pants, then the other.
"You don't know 'er like I do, Angela." She says, gritting her teeth as she buttons her jeans.
"I know you two were close, but-"
"This isn't because we were close." She hisses. "I mean… we were. But this isn't just about 'er."
Lena's brows knit together as she bends over and fishes the photograph out of the pocket of her discarded shorts. She turns it in her fingers, the familiar wrinkles of the paper soothing her.
"I promised 'im somethin'."
She turns her gaze back to Angela, whose stern expression has all but fractured, and shakes her head. The healer watches her cross the room, sliding the picture back into the pocket of her jeans, and pick up her slip-ons. She slides the worn shoes over her narrow feet and grabs her wallet off an end table. Her eyes prick, suddenly feeling hot.
"He had no way to know what she'd become." Angela says, almost too quietly to hear.
Lena pauses, already one foot down the stairs. She bites her lip. A breeze rolling in from the sea causes the whole house to creak.
"Either way, Merce. I owe 'im."
And with that, Lena is gone, warping forward through time and out into the sunset-washed streets.
Nice doesn't need heroes. Lena needs that right now.