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Chapter Text

She wondered if everybody could just shut the bloody hell up.

Alarms screeched in her ears; panicked voices begged her, rather hypocritically, to stay calm; the plane itself seemed to be whining, the whirring of technology apparently protesting her attempt to bend space-time. It was an understandable reaction, she figured.

And, of course, her raw throat told her that she was probably screaming, too.

And then, suddenly, as though she were floating in the sea, the sounds in her ears dampened and she felt weightless. She considered closing her eyes and allowing the too-strong waves to take her.

But as quickly as she’d left, she came back to herself. She glanced around, confused, the ruckus returning tenfold so that she thought her ears might bleed. The various alarms and voices seemed to her like a tune stuck in her head. She wondered how long this had been going on for—days? No, that couldn’t be right.

“Tracer! Oxton, report,” someone screamed at her. She winced at the sound, as though the radio static physically shocked her and the harsh treble of the comm link reverberated against her nerve endings.

“Here, Commander,” came Tracer’s panicked but still optimistic voice, “Think somethin’s wrong, luvs.” Did she say that already?

“We know. We have tried disabling the teleporter remotely, but we aren’t getting results. We’ve got the scientists on it,” said Commander Morrison, though Lena found she could not remember his name. “Turn around immediately; land as soon as it is safe.”

As she worked the controls and spun the plane around, trying to ignore the increasingly irritating and now fully excruciating alarms that were pounding through her brain, Tracer’s heart filled with failure—and then panic once again as the plane lurched and she felt her forehead smash against the control panel. Again, something—that force, those waves—hit her and she blacked out for a moment—or maybe it was longer, or not at all. A loud ringing in her ears now pierced the cacophony of beeps and screams

She groaned in pain as the head wound she could not remember getting slowly bled.

“Tracer, do you copy?” the voice came again.

“I think something’s wrong, luvs,” Tracer repeated, although she had no recollection of saying it the first time. She groaned again and tasted blood as it dripped from her nose.

“What was that?” another voice interrupted, “Ms. Oxton, are you hurt?”

“Ziegler, you can’t just-” Morrison started.

Then a third voice, this one booming and kind: “Lena, get back here now . I can’t lose you.”

“Oxton,” Morrison said as he regained control of his command center, “He’s right. Forget landing—scientists say get outta there. Eject and deploy your parachute, we’re sending a team out to recover you.”

Lena took a deep breath and slammed the eject button—although there was no slam. Her hand passed right through the controls. She looked at her arms in panic as her fingers seemed to grow translucent. She felt dizzy.

“Jack—wait, no—Sir. Commander, I mean. I can’t- agh-” she clutched her helmet in pain, “Can’t touch it, sir,”

When no response came and the plane jerked again, her lightheadedness grew with her panic.

“Sir? Anyone? Slipstream to… to…” Who had she been talking to?

Still no response. She tried to hold her ears as the ringing grew louder, but her helmet blocked her.

She looked down at her legs and found them seeming to fade as well. She frantically attempted steering the plane from its descent, but her fingers passed through the controls like water. She watched helplessly as the plane hurdled downward, losing altitude quickly but not quickly enough to end her pain.

Her optimism finally wavered, “Someone tell Emily I love her…” Wait, who?

She was hit by another wave of the unknown, and, as it pulled her out into a brilliant blue sea of time and space, she finally relented.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 2

Winston, Overwatch’s most esteemed theoretical physicist and its only lunar representative, had been rather excited for the “theoretical” in his job description to become “practical,” but now he wished he had not worked on the Slipstream project at all. Of course, had the project been entirely under his supervision, none of this would have happened, he was sure, but Overwatch’s scientific community was large and full of conflicting opinions. And even larger were its strategic combat and weapons departments, which rushed the Slipstream’s completion and scheduled the test flight for earlier than Winston would have liked.

He worked tirelessly to find the girl who piloted the Slipstream. Tracer, as she became known in the RAF, and as the world surely would have known her one day when she became the greatest pilot it had ever seen. Or Lena, as Winston knew her. 

As he explained to her the technology she would be testing, Ms. Oxton seemed less than attentive. But her bright smile won Winston over, and they became fast friends in the months Lena spent on the Overwatch base in Gibraltar, training and undergoing medical tests and background checks and interviews and training and training and training. It seemed unnecessary, Winston thought. He had seen her records—joined the Royal Air Force at 17, completed training and at 19 was deployed to Italy to help quell a small uprising of some bots from an Omnium in Sicily. After five months based in Naples, she returned to the UK with seventeen confirmed kills. Of course Overwatch had heard about this hotshot pilot and wanted her to test their fighter. Surely it seemed to her like an opportunity. It was a death sentence.

He grunted in frustration, his efforts leading him to more dead ends.

“Dr. Winston?”

The gorilla jumped a little in his seat, for he rarely had visitors, “Commander Reyes. What can I do for you?”

“I didn’t want to be the one to deliver this news,” Commander Gabriel Reyes started, “You know how there has been Talon activity in France,” 

“Erm, I suppose…—”

“Well, you see, Blackwatch is requesting further funding to take them down. You understand—before it becomes something bigger than we can handle.”

“Alright. Commander, I really don’t see—”

“Funding that Overwatch doesn’t have. You heard how one of our investors at Volskaya pulled out?”

“I suppose. I’m not watching the news much these days—”

“Doctor, we are re-allocating resources from the Slipstream project. Unless you make progress in the next two weeks, you will be cut off.” He paused, “I’m sorry, Winston.”

“And Jack is okay with this? This girl is MIA and it is our fault!”

“Jack doesn’t like it,” Reyes said, “but an organization like ours has to make sacrifices every day. For the greater good.”

“ The greater good . It’s all because of you and Lacroix that this even happened in the first place! Blackwatch demanded we push the deadline up, so that you all could use the technology as soon as possible to fight your petty terrorists. If my team hadn’t been rushed, Miss Oxton would still be here.”

“Dr. Winston, the girl was in the military. She was an active soldier before we hired her. She knew there was a risk of death. I am sure she accepted that before she went down. It’s time for you to accept it too."

“There is no evidence that she is dead.”

Reyes sighed, “Two weeks, Dr. Winston.”

As the commander shut the door behind him, Winston roared and slammed his fists on his desk.

“I don’t understand,” Winston muttered later before a large monitor in his lab, “I’ve scanned the entire flight path and its surroundings inch by inch for any sign of spatial anomalies. Heck, I’ve scanned for this stuff all over the planet—I’ve used every one of Overwatch’s satellites. If she is not here, then something must be! Whatever happened to her—she can’t be gone ! Wherever she is, she would have to have left behind some sort of… residue. Energy . And yet there’s nothing ! I’ve scanned for teleportation markers; spatial inconsistencies; dark matter ! Nothing. It doesn’t make sense!”

“Winston,” said Mercy quietly from the doorway, “Are you talking to yourself?”

“Huh?” Winston cleared his throat, “No! Of course not. I’m talking to Athena.”

“You should get some sleep. It’s nearly two o'clock in the morning.”

“I can’t. Did Reyes tell you? They will shut down the program in two weeks if we don’t make any progress. 12 days now.”

“I wish I could help, Dr. Winston. Metaphysics aren’t exactly my expertise.”

“I don’t need your help, Angela. I know I can do it. I just need more time !”

There was a silence as Winston seethed and clenched his fists. But then his fingers relaxed and his eyes widened.

“Dr. Winston?” Mercy asked cautiously.

“Oh my god,” Winston said.

“Winston - what ?”

“ Time !” Winston began typing frantically, “Athena—let me see the schematics for the Slipstream’s Teleportation Engine.”

“Winston, tell me what’s going on,” Mercy said, growing agitated.

“The Slipstream, as you know, was meant to teleport,” Winston explained as he wrote out equations on a chalkboard, “Now, to travel through space, you see, one must also travel through time. Like how it takes time to walk from one side of a room to another.” He stepped back from his equations and examined them, before erasing bits and starting over, “Now, to bend space, allowing the plane and the pilot to teleport, we also had to bend time . I don’t know why I didn’t think of it—I was so concerned with where Lena had gone, I didn’t think to wonder when !”

“So… Winston, what does this mean?” Mercy asked.

“I have been searching for various types of spatial disturbances, and never once came across any remnants of the Slipstream or Ms. Oxton. I didn’t think to search for chronal disruptions! If I modify the scanning technology I’ve been using to detect disruptions in space to instead detect disruptions in time, maybe I can find something.”

“How long do you think it will take?” Mercy asked, herself excited.

“Two days to modify the scanners. Another to conduct the search.”

“And then what…?”

A pause again.

Winston cleared his throat, “Let’s find her first.”

So Winston modified the scanners. And with caffeine provided by the good doctor herself (she was rather unhappy to give it up, and certainly suggested that the gorilla get some rest, though she hadn’t herself), he did not sleep and thus his work only took a day and a half. He spent a third and fourth day hypothesizing, and then the fifth and sixth building a chamber that he hoped would be able to contain the energy of someone otherwise absent from this timeline.

And then it was time to conduct the search.

“You see,” Winston explained to Mercy, scientists bustling about the lab the morning of that day, “I had originally searched the flight-test sight with a drone equipped with sensors to detect tears in the fabric of space. Now, I’ve modified the sensors—well, replaced them completely, I suppose—to detect chronal—time-related, that is—anomalies instead. Using the same sorts of calculations that we used to create the Slipstream jet itself.” Winston took a deep breath, “So I’ve sent the drone back to the test sight. If we don’t find it—the plane, I mean—and Lena there, then we may have to conduct a planet-wide search using satellites. That may take longer…”

“What can I do to help you, Dr. Winston?” Angela asked with a hand on his back.

“If we find her—well, I’ve already created a system that should be able to lock onto her, well, her presence, regardless of whether or not she is in our timeline, and anchor her weakly to our plane. You see, there’s a sort of… an energy signature, if you will, that—”

“Winston?” said Mercy.

“Yes, Angela?”

“Your team knows this, yes? Tell me the details later. For now, every second that we spend not looking for her may mean she is in pain. Just tell me what I can do.”

“Yes well, you are here because... Well, if we find her… if she is… well, I don’t know if she is injured, we don’t know where she’s been. If the plane crashed outside of our timeline. What any of this has done to her. Someone with your… medical expertise will be essential.” He paused and looked at a screen, “The drone has just arrived at the site. See how the screen is all blue? That means the drone is not sensing any chronal anomalies.”

He flew the drone past the runway and over the water. Mercy prepared for hours of slow searching, but it only took a few minutes before they found something, just below the spot the jet had gone down.

“There!” Winston said as the drone approached an orange blob, vaguely plane-shaped, resting under the water, “It works! That must be the Slipstream. It is bursting with chronal energy, must be existing somewhere between timestreams. Perhaps if we can recover it…-”

“Winston.”

“Ah, yes. Right. Lena may still be inside the jet. Remember what I said about the signatures? Well, if I have the scanner ignore the signatures of the Slipstream and its components…”

He pressed some buttons, and the shape of the Slipstream disappeared, leaving just blue.

“Nothing’s there,” said Angela.

“Perhaps she exited the jet. Or she ejected. She must be somewhere…” He hit those buttons again, and the shape of the Slipstream returned.

“Keep looking.” Mercy said.

So he did. He drove the drone across the water, occasionally diving underneath but deeming it unnecessary as the drone could pick up chronal signatures at the bottom of the ocean.

For hours they searched, and they were beginning to lose hope. It grew late, and many of Winston’s scientists went home.

“Okay—we may have to try using the satellites. They will be less accurate, but if she teleported—”

“Winston! What’s that?” Angela pointed to the edge of the screen, where the tiniest bit of orange just poked into the field of view.

Winston moved the drone closer and, sure enough, what they saw was this: a ball of orange, curled on the beach as waves crashed around it against the shore.

Their hearts raced.

“It could be a… a piece of equipment from the plane.” Winston said. He turned off the scanner and the form disappeared from their view. He turned it back on and there it remained.

“There’s only one way to find out, right?” Mercy said, “Now what?”

“Now…” Winston typed furiously, “I can lock onto the signature, and pull it in here. Whatever it is.” He pointed absently to the hastily constructed chamber behind him. Then he looked Mercy in the eyes, “Listen. If it is her… well, she’s been trapped between timelines for 6 months. Maybe longer for her. We don’t know… Well, prepare for the worst.”

Dr. Winston walked over to the chamber and pulled a lever. The orange figure disappeared from the screen—but nothing else seemed to change.

Winston held up a tablet to the chamber, and through its screen one could now see the orange form on the hard floor.

“She’s here,” Mercy breathed.

“Okay, Dr. Ziegler,” Winston said, “Be ready.”

Chapter Text

Dr. Winston pulled another lever, and with a flash of light that had the pair squinting, the machine whirred to life. When the light subsided, they saw her: curled limply on the hard floor of the chamber was the body of one Lena Oxton, still in her flight suit, and faded as if a ghost, though visible to the naked eye.

“Is she…?” Winston started, “Angela, wait—!”

But Mercy was inside the chamber the moment she sensed an injury, leaving the door ajar behind her.

“Miss Oxton,” Angela said, “Lena, please wake up.” She tried to touch the girl, but her hand passed through her, as though she were made of water.

Unable to check her pulse, Mercy opted to watch her chest for its rise and fall. When she didn’t see it, everything seemed to freeze.

But then, like a miracle, Lena took a deep breath and she stirred. She groaned softly, flexing her limbs and twitching her fingers.

“Hey, don’t move. Take it slow, alright?”

Lena didn’t respond. She winced at the sound of Mercy’s voice and sat up carefully, hugging her knees and backing up against the wall, her eyes squeezed shut.

“Hey, Lena,” Angela said quieter, “Can you hear me?”

Tracer shook her head desperately.

“Well now I know you can hear me,” Mercy said with a small smile, “since you just answered my question. How do you feel?”

Lena opened her eyes slowly. “Angie?” she muttered.

Angela furrowed her eyebrows, for while she was delighted to hear Lena speak, she was unsure why the pilot she’d only met a handful of times would refer to her by such a colloquial nickname.

“Uh—yes. Well, Dr. Ziegler,” Angela said, “You can call me Angela if you like. We met a few times before your flight.”

“My flight.” Lena repeated, “Dr. Ziegler…”

She did not continue, so Mercy asked: “Can you state your name, rank, and service number?”

Lena looked at her blankly, “Huh?”

“Standard protocol after a head injury. Or… whatever this is.”

“Tracer…” Lena said.

Angela smiled, “That’s a start. Name, rank, and service number. Can you remember?”

“Did I hit my head?”

“Come on, Lena.”

“Cadet Lena Oxton, Royal Air Force 01091337.”

“Ms. Oxton, you’re not a cadet. You’re a flight officer, and have been for some time.”

Tracer didn’t answer.

“Who is the Prime Minister of England, Lena?” Mercy asked.

After thinking for several moments, Lena shrugged, “Sorry, Doc.”

“Do you know what year it is?” Asked Mercy, taking diligent notes inside her mind.

“Are you a doctor?” Lena asked dazedly.

“Yes. You just called me Doc…”

Tracer blinked, “I did?”

“Lena, stay with me,” Mercy begged, “What year is it?”

Lena thought hard, and then: “It’s 2076, isn’t it? Wait, no—2067. No, is it still the 50s?”

“Do you know how old you are?” Mercy asked.

“I’m in my thirties, aren’t I?” Tracer started, rather frantic, “Twenty-six, I mean. No, am I younger? I’m not a child. My forties?” She shook her head in frustration.

“Hey, Lena—look at me,” said Angela, “I just need you to stay with me for a few more minutes, then you can rest. What can you remember from the accident?”

“The accident?” Lena asked.

Mercy sighed, “Alright—just forget about that for now. Are you in any pain?”

Lena paused, “Yes. I mean, I think so.”

“Can you tell me where?” Mercy asked,

Tracer’s eyes darted around the room, half-focused, “Where’s Emily?”

“Who’s Emily, Lena?”

“Who?”

“Alright Miss Oxton—listen to me very closely. The year is 2069. You are 19 years old. You were testing the Slipstream teleporting jet for Overwatch. The plane malfunctioned and you have been missing for six months. But you are safe now. We still need to work out what type of condition you are in. For now, can you try to rest for me?”

“Can’t,” Tracer muttered.

“Why not, Lena?”

“Are you a doctor?” Lena asked slowly.

Mercy cocked her head to the side, concerned but even moreso curious, “Yes, Lena. And I cannot help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“What happened to me?”

Mercy sighed, “You were testing an aircraft and there was an accident. Can you remember me telling you that a moment ago?”

“No, that’s not what happened…” Lena said, “Did you catch Doomfist?”

Mercy cocked her head. “Sorry Lena, what?”

“Sorry. I’m…” Lena stuttered, “Are you a doctor?”

“Lena-”

But Tracer cut her off, “I do know you, don’t I?”

“We met before your flight,” explained Mercy, slowly and carefully, “For your physicals.”

“No,” said Lena, shaking her head in frustration, “From… from the field.”

“Miss Oxton, I’m not a field agent. I’m a physician with Overwatch.”

“Overwatch,” Lena repeated, eyes wide with recognition, “I got a letter from them. They want me to test an aircraft…”

Mercy took a deep, deep breath. She took a moment to observe the girl, who she noted was no longer wearing her flight helmet—it must have been knocked off. Her flight suit was scorched and tattered. Her nose seemed broken, and blood had dried beneath it. Angela was unhappy to see more blood leaking from a wound somewhere underneath her hair.

“How did I get here?” Lena asked slowly.

“Dr. Winston saved you,” Angela said, “Do you remember Dr. Winston?”

“Of course I do!” exclaimed Lena, “Can I see ‘im? I could do with a gorilla hug!”

Angela smiled warmly, and hearing this Winston approached the chamber.

Seeing him through the glass, however, Lena’s eyebrows furrowed and she eyed him with confusion, “Is that a gorilla?”

“That’s Winston, Lena,” Mercy said, trying to hide her exasperation.

Lena stared between the two of them for a moment, “Who?”

Winston frowned and shied away back to his equipment. Mercy gazed hard into Lena’s eyes, finding them glazed and unfocused, filled with confusion and fear, but also trust. Trust and familiarity that Mercy usually only saw from patients whom she’d saved from death multiple times over many years.

And perhaps she hadn’t saved Lena before. But she certainly would now.

“Don’t worry, Lena,” she said softly, “We will help you.”

Chapter Text

Lena was only experiencing half of the world.

Half of the present , at least. For in fact, while sounds were muffled and low and colors were desaturated and dull, and although she could not taste or feel or smell and edges were fuzzy and blurred despite her having never needed glasses, it seemed to her that memory and reality were indistinguishable.

She closed her eyes and listened to her heartbeat, which seemed unsteady, out of sync. Like it was following a tune, a melody, rather than the steady tick of a clock, pounding with an imagined chorus and fluttering with a verse.

Opening her eyes again, she looked around the lab. Scientists—or were they doctors? They had white lab coats on, regardless—bustled about. She watched them absently, envious of their assuredness, lost in her own confusion.

She eyed a clock on the wall. It made her stomach turn, filled her with a sense of wrongness. She watched it carefully, followed the second hand with her eyes. Then she blinked.

-x-

“Dr. Winston, it’s like she’s got some sort of…” Angela searched for the word, “Well, some sort of dementia. But she’s like a ghost. I can’t get her in for medical tests, brain scans…”

“It could be temporary,” said Winston, “The confusion, I mean. Trauma, stress, or a physiological effect of—”

“—of what happened to her. You well know, Dr. Winston, neurology, psychotherapy—none of it is my expertise. I am not sure how much I can help her in this state.”

“Overwatch has afforded us more time, given this miracle. Perhaps I can convince Morrison to afford us some more doctors as well.” Winston grunted, “I will work on boosting the chamber’s power—certainly with enough, she might be able to maintain a semi-solid form, at least temporarily.”

“In the meantime,” said Angela, “I will continue to speak with her. See what is happening in her head. She’s so young, poor girl. I just wish—.” She signed, and glanced up at the monitor that showed the chamber in the other wing of the lab, “Where’s Lena?”

In fact, the girl was nowhere to be seen. The duo rushed into the room, Mercy bursting into the chamber looking for any trace of the pilot.

“Dr. Winston,” said Mercy, exasperated anguish permeating her voice, “We lost her. Oh my god, we lost her.”

-x-

Immediately did Winston begin working on a new way to find Lena, when his temporal anomaly drone came up unhelpful. And it was four days after she’d disappeared that Lena was suddenly back in the chamber, as though she’d never left.

“She’s back!” Winston declared into his comms at 3AM when he blinked to find the girl back in the lab. Mercy entered the room faster than Winston could even stand, and flew into the chamber without hesitation.

“Lena!” said Angela, “Lena, what happened?

Tracer turned away from the clock and looked curiously at Angela, “What happened when?”

“Lena, you disappeared. You’ve been missing for four days.”

She heard the words, of course, but Lena found them hard to believe. She felt panic rise in her chest, “Really?”

Mercy nodded, “Miss Oxton, how are you feeling? What do you remember?”

Lena glanced at her, dumbfounded, “Remember from when?”

“From when you disappeared.”

“Which time?”

Mercy help back a frustrated grunt, “Lena, tell me the last thing you remember.”

Tracer thought for a moment, but didn’t answer.

“Look,” said Mercy, “Lena, I’m trying to help you. I know it’s hard. I know you’re confused.”

“I don’t feel like I was gone for four days,” Lena said slowly in a brief moment of lucidity, “I feel like I blinked.”

Chapter Text

Mercy took careful notes on Lena’s condition, speaking with and observing her daily. She found out several things, each one puzzling her more than the last.

Lena’s ability to estimate the passage of time was mediocre at best, and nonexistent at worst. Indeed, Angela found that a short conversation might feel like hours to Lena, who quickly lost interest, and that ten minutes to the girl could sometimes feel like seconds.

So Angela began to help rehabilitate her ability to tell time. She would sit outside the chamber (for clocks, Winston explained to her, would malfunction if inside) and ask Lena to count seconds with her, “One Mississippi, Two Mississippi,” or else she would sometimes have her patient complete small exercises.

“Okay Lena,” Mercy said as she began one of these tests, “I am going to start this clock, and I want you to tell me when you think a minute has passed. It doesn’t have to be exact. Just guesstimate. Okay?”

Tracer nodded, eyes hard and focused, and Mercy started the clock.

Barely ten seconds had gone by, though, when Tracer said, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“That was a minute. Wasn’t it?”

Mercy glanced at the clock, “Lena, that was eleven seconds.”

Lena cast her gaze downward.

“That’s okay, Lena. You are getting better—remember when you simply forgot we were counting altogether?” Mercy smiled softly, “See this clock on the wall? I want you to use it, whenever you are confused, or scared, try to look at the clock. Alright?”

Tracer nodded, smiling sadly. And it was this uncharacteristic quietness that upset Angela the most when regarding her patient, who by all accounts was before this incident a right chatterbox.

Additionally, it seemed that Lena’s sporadic disappearances were completely random, and upon reappearance she would sometimes awaken as if from a nightmare, but other times continue an interrupted conversation as though no time had passed at all.

And she seemed to imagine things, would suddenly spout nonsense, or briefly insist things were true that were not. Mercy thought she seemed delusional, though when the delusions passed Lena could rarely recall them, and even more rarely explain what they meant.

As the next month passed, Tracer did seem to be improving very gradually, falling into bouts of confusion and delusion that only became more occasional with time. Soon she would gab happily with Angela or Winston for hours at a time before her language became muddled as she unknowingly told stories out of order or even pronounced words backwards, or in other cases she would eventually steer the conversation towards events or characters that to Mercy seemed imagined. Still, lucidity was becoming Lena’s norm and a smile regularly graced her face again.

“And then I got her the scarf!” Tracer finished one day, after Mercy asked her to tell a story as an exercise.

Angela smiled warmly, though the story made little sense, and it seemed like Tracer expected her to know who this “Emily” character was.

“I miss Christmas,” Tracer lamented as Mercy glanced at the small Christmas tree in the corner of the lab, “I mean real Christmas. When I’m not a secret lab experiment, and I can hug my friends, and eat turkey. I love to think about people home with their families, eating pie, being happy. It’s a grand old time, it is. You ‘n Jack ‘n Winston. Even the bad guys. They outta have families too, right? Like Reaper. What do you s’pose he does for the holidays?”

“Oh, Lena,” Mercy said concern rising in her voice, “It’s perfectly normal after a traumatic or near-death experience to believe you saw something like an after-life, or a Grim Reaper-like figure leading you to—”

Tracer burst into laughter at that, “‘Grim Reaper’? Are ya kidding? That edgy wannabe? He wishes.”

“Lena, what on Earth are you talking about?”

After searching desperately in Mercy’s eyes for a spark of recognition, Lena’s jokey assuredness was replaced with confusion. She looked to Winston, watching her from farther away, equally bewildered. She somehow felt a chill run through her unfeeling bones.

“Lena?” Mercy asked, “‘The Reaper’?”

“The what?”

“You were just saying. The Reaper. ‘Edgy wannabe’?”

Lena stared blankly, confusion in her eyes, “I’ve heard that before. Where have I heard that before?”

Mercy opted not to remind her patient that she’d heard it from her own mouth just moments ago, knowing that the conversation would continue in circles.

And on top of it all, no one could touch her. Tracer was a ghost, and it was only those surfaces that were permanent fixtures of the building that offered her any physical resistance (another peculiar feature of her condition that begged more research).

It was a puzzle, to say the least. A miracle, to say the most, that she was there at all. But puzzling to both Dr. Ziegler and Dr. Winston, though experts in their fields.

When Tracer’s improvement seemed to stagnate, the two scientists were at a loss. Each time that Tracer would disappear, they could lose days or weeks of work and she seemed to regress in her rehabilitation.

“Please, please help me!” Tracer cried as she suddenly appeared back in the chamber after one absence of thirty-three hours, “Please!”

“She’s back!” Winston called, as had become nothing short of a routine for the doctors. He and Dr. Zeigler quickly approached the chamber, Mercy entering as soon as she saw Lena’s distress.

“They think I’m insane. I’m losing my mind. It’s not worth it, it’s not worth it.” Lena shouted over silent noise, “Please, it’s not worth it.”

“Lena, you’re fine. You’re safe," Mercy said.

“Please, you have to help me,” Tracer begged, “ever since I got out… I’m not the same as I was!”

“Since you got out of the Slipstream?”

“No, no. Since I got out of the lab. Since I got out. This place. Here.” Lena gestured wildly at the chamber around her.

“You’re here, Lena. You’re here in the lab, you disappeared but now you’re back.”

Something in Tracer’s face told Mercy that Lena wasn’t talking about being lost in time again, but she had no clue what she was talking about, and a moment later Tracer had no clue either.

“Count with me,” Mercy said, “Look at the clock. One Mississippi, Two Mississippi…”

Tracer did not count audibly, but she did calm down. For the rest of the day, though, she retreated into herself, muttering nonsense, clutching her hair like she was trying to put together an impossible puzzle.

And it was that day that Winston and Mercy sighed in unison, glanced at each other, and said:

“We need help.”

Chapter Text

So, after much bureaucracy and a passive-aggressive reminder to Overwatch’s board that the last thing the financially-strapped organization needed was a lawsuit from the damaged pilot, Winston and Mercy were granted access to Overwatch’s most prestigious doctors and scientists to help them help Lena.

For several weeks, various esteemed thinkers were introduced to Tracer. Experts on time, space, and physics were called in; psychologists, neurologists, and doctors of all kinds would speak to her, taking mystified notes; even ophthalmologists and otolaryngologists investigated Lena’s self-reported dulled vision and muffled hearing. Her continued (though gradually lessening) confusion and her non-solid state, however, meant all of these brilliant scientists could get barely farther in their studies of the girl than Mercy and Winston had themselves.

One morning, though, when Mercy entered the lab as dejected as she’d been the day before, she was shocked out of her pre-coffee stupor by the gorilla dancing excitedly at his whiteboard.

“I called him!”

Angela looked around in confusion, “Called who?”

“There’s this physicist,” Winston said, “I’m a big fan. He’s from The Netherlands. He doesn’t work for Overwatch but yesterday Morrison gave me permission to contact him about Lena. You see, I was thinking about Lena’s case the other night, you know how we can’t really help medically until we can fix her physically. So I was doing calculations—surely it’s all got to do with time. Then I realized—What has the power to bend time?”

There was a pause, and Mercy felt briefly stupid. Then she mentally berated herself when the answer seemed obvious: “Gravity?”

“Gravity!”

Mercy nodded slowly, “So this physicist…”

“Is the number one expert in his field. Gravity. The situation is quite complex, obviously. But I really think he can help us. Help Lena. He’s coming today. Should be here within the hour.”

Angela chuckled, “Calm down, Dr. Winston. You are acting like a fanboy.”

Winston scrambled to make his office presentable, and Mercy began her day by looking over her notes. It was, indeed, less than an hour later that there was a gentle knock at the door, “Excuse me,” an accented voice said, “I am here for a Dr. Winston.”

Winston nearly jumped out of his fur as he went to the door, “Angela,” he said, opening it, “I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Siebren de Kuiper.”

-x-

Winston and Dr. de Kupier chatted for several hours about science that Mercy could only vaguely understand before the gorilla invited him to briefly meet Lena and observe the phenomenon of her ghostly form in person.

“You can talk to her,” said Angela, “but please be patient. She’s had to speak with a lot of doctors lately; I think she prefers a friend.”

Sigma nodded, peering into the chamber and seeing Tracer, who was sitting cross-legged, rocking back and forth on the floor and lost in her own thoughts.

“Lena!” said Winston, “This is Dr. Siebren de Kuiper. He specializes in gravity. I think he can help us make you, erm, solid again.”

“Brilliant!” said Lena, bouncing up to greet them, “Can I eat food again, then? I’m dying for some chips.”

“I will see what I can do,” said Dr. de Kuiper, “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Oxton. I’ve heard about you—you are very brave. I can’t imagine going through what you’ve gone through.”

Lena’s gaze shifted to Siebren, and her goofy smile turned into a confused frown, “Sigma.”

He cocked his head, “Excuse me?”

Tracer approached the glass of the chamber, aiming to rest her hand on it but collapsing to the floor when it phased through. She backed away again until she was fully inside the room. “You hear it too, don’t you? After what happened to you.”

He, too, backed away slowly, glancing at Winston and then back at the patient, “Hear what, my dear?”

Tracer’s gaze turned hopeless, her heart filling with loneliness, “I don’t know. Nevermind.”

“I’m sorry,” said Mercy as she entered the chamber to try and comfort Lena however she could manage, “I am sure Winston informed you, Dr. de Kuiper, that on top of her physical condition Lena is also suffering from delusions. Actually, that’s why it is so important that we have you here—once we can interact with her physically, we might be able to figure out what’s wrong. And how to fix it.”

It was all Dr. de Kuiper needed, seeing Lena fall through the glass and onto the floor, and he and Winston were able to jointly develop theories related to Tracer’s condition. They realized that the few objects that Lena could touch, such as the floor and the building’s wall, were those surfaces that had been in a particular location for the longest amount of time (parts of the building, Winston noted, were at least a century old). The amount of resistance an object gave her would only decrease as objects became less permanent, her body phasing through other people or new items.

This, they theorized, had to do with Lena being scattered physically through multiple instances of time. And so Dr. de Kuiper came up with an idea that would use gravity, which was one of the few forces with the ability to bend time itself, to pull her body into the present.

The scientists began working to modify the chamber to incorporate Siebren’s theoretical device, but after two weeks of work Dr. de Kuiper was reluctant to inform Winston that he was shortly to travel to space to study a black hole, and that he needed to return home to prepare.

“Good luck, Dr. Winston,” said Siebren on his final day at Gibraltar. He turned to Lena, who was playing with strands of her short hair, humming to herself, “Good luck, Lena.”

Lena stopped humming and looked at him hopefully.

“No, keep singing,” Siebren said, “It’s a nice tune. I like it.”

She smiled softly at him—had she been singing? She was filled with dread for his departure. She was sure it was just because she was losing a new friend.

“Keep in touch,” said Lena, pushing the dread away, “Can you send letters from space?”

So Siebren went away, but he left Winston with enough to finish building the gravitational device that would help pull Lena into the here and now.

So, when that day came that all the math added up perfectly and all the pieces fit together, Winston fit the new device onto the chamber and the team prepared to power it up.

“Now Lena,” said Winston, “Don’t be afraid. We’ve tested this on scraps from the Slipstream we were able to locate. Once I pull this lever, your body should become solid and you should regain your senses.”

“Chips?” asked Tracer.

“Sure,” Winston said, “We can get you some chips.”

“Well, let’s get to it already!” Lena said, bouncing on her heels.

“Lena, settle down,” said Angela, “I want you to take deep breaths. This might shock your system. Your body hasn’t ‘existed’ for months.”

“I know. It’s worth it, though. Chips! And hugs. I’m ready.”

“You should lie down for this, Lena,” Mercy offered.

“I’m more comfortable standing, Ange,” said Tracer, “I’m too excited!”

“Okay. Deep breaths,” said Angela, “I can’t be in there will you while we activate the device. Tell us when you’re ready.”

“Ready!” said Tracer, almost immediately. And Winston pulled the great lever, though the only indication that he did was a brief sucking sound.

The ground beneath Lena’s feet suddenly felt wrong, and the air felt too heavy to breath. The whirring of computers and the tick of the clock were deafening in her ears, and the dim light burned her eyes. Her knees buckled when her returning muscles felt weak.

“Lena,” said Mercy, teetering on her feet until Winston gave her the nod that it was okay to enter the chamber.

“Ohh,” moaned Tracer as Mercy quickly approached her, “Prolly shoulda laid down.”

“Hey, Lena, can you hear me?” Mercy asked.

Tracer winced at that, which was answer enough for Angela.

“What is it? Too loud?” 

Lena nodded, tears forming in her eyes, moving to cover her ears.

Ever so cautiously, Mercy moved to touch Lena. She put a hand on her shoulder, gentle as ever, but pulled it away when Lena flinched in pain.

“Winston,” said Mercy, “can you lower the lights in here? I think it’s hurting her eyes. And turn off anything you can that’s making noise. She’s overstimulated.”

Winston did as he was told, opting not to speak for fear that his booming voice would hurt Lena more.

The lights went down and some of the machines stopped buzzing, though the tick of the clock and the whirring of the chamber itself remained, “Is that better, Lena?” Mercy asked. “Try opening your eyes.”

And, when she did, Tracer found that even in the darkness colors were brighter and more vivid than she’d ever remembered them being. She looked at Angela’s face—edges seemed sharper, and she felt like a veil had been lifted from her senses.

She could smell the metal in the air, Winston’s bananas. Angela’s flowery perfume stung her throat like poison.

Her body ached, and chills ran up and down it like they were running a marathon. She shivered, the metal floor on her bare feet for the first time seeming unbearably cold. Even so, her skin seemed to burn. Hypersensitive, even her own fingertips digging into her palms felt like they were irritating a wound.

When Mercy had touched her, her nerve endings lit up like fireworks. Intense, terrifying, but beautiful—like, well, fireworks. Human touch. It was foreign, but so familiar. She was scared that it hurt.

“Lena?” Mercy asked, and Tracer blinked back into reality, wondering how long she’d escaped to her thoughts, “Lena, can I touch you?”

Tracer bit her lip in fear, but before she could answer pain shot through her head and she doubled over, “Oh, bollocks.”

Mercy sent caution to the wind, then, and kneeled before Lena without hesitation. She placed a medical kit beside her and grabbed Lena’s head gently in her hands, apologetic but not deterred when Tracer winced again and tried to pull away, “I’m sorry, Lena. Let me see your head.” She felt around her head gingerly, finding the tender spot where she must have hit it so many months ago.

“Is she okay?” Winston asked, frowning when Tracer groaned at his voice.

“She’s overstimulated and she’s got injuries from the crash,” Mercy said, “You did your job beautifully, Dr. Winston. It’s time for me to do mine.”

Mercy began to reach for her medical supplies, but was stopped by a hand on her arm. She turned to see Lena, eyes wide in awe. Lena looked from her own hand to Angela’s eyes, amazed at her own ability to to feel another person’s skin, and let out a pained, “Thank you…”

And then she passed out.

Soon a bed was wheeled into the chamber and Mercy went to work caring for Lena’s wounds.

“Clearly these haven’t healed.” Mercy said later when Lena was awake and any immediate danger had passed, “Do you think they will now that she is tangible, Dr. Winston?”

Winston cleared his throat, “Theoretically, yes.”

“Ow,” Tracer said as Mercy cleaned a wound behind her hair, “This isn’t making me love feeling again.”

“Sorry, Lena,” Mercy said, “Do you remember hitting your head?”

“Doc, I can barely remember what I had for breakfast this morning. Oh yeah, nothing. When can I get some food?”

Angela sighed, “Winston, can you grab her something from the commissary?”

“Chips, please!” sang Lena.

Winston chuckled, “I’m a scientist! Not a butler. But fine. Anything for you, Lena.” And with that he left.

“How hungry are you, Lena? Does it feel like you haven’t eaten in months?” asked Mercy.

“Normal hungry,” Tracer said, “Like I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

Mercy nodded thoughtfully, “How are your senses?”

“Still too bright,” Lena admitted, “Still too loud. Skin still burns.” She smiled lightly, “But better.”

“How else are you feeling?” Mercy said as she bandaged Lena’s head.

“Little dizzy,” said Tracer, “It’s cold.”

Mercy frowned—they’d turned up the heat for Tracer, and the doctor was sweating through her coat.

Glancing at the monitors they’d hooked up to the now-solid Tracer, Mercy’s frown deepened.

“What?” Tracer asked, noticing the look.

“Nothing,” said Angela, “Your vitals aren’t exactly normal. I suppose that’s to be expected.”

It was true; her body temperature was cold and her heartbeat was irregular. Her blood pressure was low and several numbers didn’t seem to add up.

Angela shined a light into Tracer’s eyes and had her follow her finger. “Your concussion is minor. And you don’t need stitches. Say ‘ahh’,” she said, sticking a tongue depressor into Tracer’s mouth. 

She had Tracer hold out her arm and Mercy started taking as many vials of blood as she thought the girl could handle, hoping to run as many tests as she could think of.

“Okay. Dizzy, dizzy,” Tracer said, and Mercy immediately capped off the last vial and removed the tube from Tracer’s arm.

“I think I stuck enough needles in you today, anyway.” Mercy chuckled, “Thank you for being so patient.”

“Where’d Winston go? I never got my gorilla hug.”

Mercy felt a familiar dread again, “He left just a few minutes ago. He’s getting you food, don’t you remember?”

“No, I already ate. He got the wrong kind of chips.”

Mercy rubbed Lena’s back soothingly, “Winston hasn’t come back yet, Lena.”

Lena felt insane, but all she said was: “Oh,”

Tracer flinched away from Mercy’s soothing hand, started rocking and humming. She was playing with the blankets on the bed, picking loose strings out of them.

Mercy did not know what to say, for with all of their progress these moments of confusion were still far too common. All she could hope was that, now that Lena was tangible, brain scans and medical tests could bring them to an explanation and, hopefully, a solution.

It was then that Winston returned, and he frowned seeing Lena no longer happily gabbing with the doctor and instead humming anxiously to herself. He carried a tray of beef, mashed potatoes, and three bags of potato chips.

“Winston!” Mercy said as he passed the tray to her to take into the chamber to Lena.

“What?”

“Winston, these are crisps. Not chips. She meant french fries.”

“Oh. Sorry. I can go--”

“No, it’s fine. It’s not that. It’s just… something she said.” Mercy took the tray and brought it to her patient, “Here, Lena.”

Lena stared at the food long and hard, clenching her fists, tears forming in her eyes, feeling insanity creep into her mind. Hadn’t this happened before?

Winston panicked, “What’s wrong? Is this about the chips? What happened while I was gone?”

Silently, Lena took the tray and started eating, unable to help the blissful smile that overtook her taste at the flavor that to anyone else would be mediocre at best.

Mercy smiled back, leaving the chamber to the next room, where Winston followed her.

“What was that about?” said the Gorilla, “I’m sorry about the fries.”

“It’s nothing,” Mercy said, “Winston, we’ve solved one issue. But we still have another, bigger one on our hands.”

Chapter Text

Tracer’s brain scan did not answer any questions, but it rather posed new ones. Indeed, to Mercy and the neurologists she had look at the data, the activity in Lena’s brain did not remotely match what they would expect from a dementia patient or an amnesiac. In fact, activity seemed increased beyond what was normal and it forced a shrug on the doctors’ shoulders.

But there was one specialist, called in more for her overall intelligence than for her particular field of study, that seemed to have a plausible theory.

Indeed, Mercy never liked Overwatch geneticist Dr. Moira O’Deorain, but, desperate to help Lena, she handed the doctor several hours of footage recorded from Lena’s interviews and sessions, as well as her brain scans and test results and asked her if she had any ideas at all.

And the only thing Dr. O’Deorain liked more than a fascinating case study was a challenge, so after reviewing the footage and brushing up on her knowledge of space and time, she came to Mercy with a rather outlandish albeit fascinating idea.

“It seems so obvious,” she started, Mercy huffing in annoyance and Winston tapping his foot impatiently beside her, “I mean, here you are looking for existing medical explanations for a completely new condition! I thought better of you, Doctor.”

“Pardon me, Dr. O’Deorain, but can we... get on with it?” Winston said, for though he hardly knew the geneticist Mercy had warned him of her snobbishness.

“You know,” said Moira, “the subject—”

“Please don’t call her that,” Mercy muttered.

“Apologies. The patient,” Moira continued, “She suffers from delusions, confusion, short-term and long-term forgetfulness, temporary memory loss.”

“Yes,” said Mercy, “Some psychiatrists have diagnosed her with schizophrenia, but others insist that she suffers from some form of dementia.”

“How silly!” said Moira, “I don’t think she is delusional at all.”

“Of course she is,” said Mercy, “Did you watch the footage? She will suddenly ramble about hackers and reapers, and she looks at me like I should know what she’s talking about. Minutes later she cannot explain any of it.”

“Listen to me, Dr. Ziegler,” said Moira, “It will all make sense in a moment. I don’t think that she has dementia. In fact, I don’t think she is suffering from any memory loss at all.”

Mercy opened her mouth to argue, but Moira shushed her.

“The problem with you is that you are looking at the girl like a patient, not like the result of a science experiment. Putting her condition into the context of what happened to her, plus examining those behaviors in your footage that are inconsistent with her psychological diagnoses, I have been led to believe that she is not experiencing her reported symptoms because of memory loss, but because she remembers too much.”

Mercy and Winston stared at her dumbly, as though expecting more.

“She was lost in time,” Moira explained, sighing in exasperation. “What is memory but the way that humans interpret the past? This girl, the subject. The patient. I believe what you and Dr. Winston describe as ‘delusions’ are simply memories. Memories of things far in her past. And things that have not happened yet.”

“So you think…” Winston started.

“...You think Lena is telling the future?” Mercy finished.

“Precisely!” said Moira, “But perhaps she doesn’t know it. Who knows how that could affect the mind?”

“It…” Mercy sighed, “Look, Dr. O’Deorain. Sometimes when I speak to Lena, or when I look into her eyes, it seems to me that we are missing a piece of a puzzle, a piece that she has but we cannot see. It’s certainly drifted into my mind that she’d developed some sort of precognition, but I never could invent a theory around it, not without more evidence or conducting experiments. But what you’ve said—I do think it makes sense.”

“Excellent.” Moira smirked proudly, “So, when may I speak to her?”

“Speak to who?” Mercy asked.

“The sub— the patient. Lena.”

Mercy blinked, “I’m sorry, Doctor. I really don’t think that would be a good idea. She’s in a fragile state and you can be…”

“Cold.” Winston finished.

“Doctors, of all of us here I may be the first one to actually be able to understand what is going on inside that girl’s mind. It is only fair that you give me a chance.”

Winston and Angela glanced at each other, and Mercy bit her lip in thought before reluctantly uttering the word: “Fine.”

So, three days later when Lena to Angela seemed stable and in good spirits, the scientists invited Dr. O’Deorain to come and speak with her.

“Lena,” Mercy started as she entered Tracer’s chamber with Moira in tow, “I want you to meet a colleague of mine. This is—”

“—Dr. O’Deorain,” Tracer finished, automatically, perhaps unconsciously.

Moira cocked her head to one side, “Have we met, Miss Oxton?”

Tracer looked at her dazedly for a moment, then shrugged.

“Lena, Dr. O’Deorain is just going to ask you some questions,” said Mercy

“Yeah.” Tracer smiled lightly, “All the docs you got coming in ‘n out, I know the drill.”

“Actually, Dr. Ziegler,” said Moira with a huff, “Could you leave us?”

Mercy bit her lip, “Oh, I don’t think—”

“Doctor, I cannot possibly work with you hovering.”

Mercy sighed, “Is that alright, Lena? If I step out?”

Tracer regarded Moira for a moment, filled with unexplained dread. And yet she knew that it was unexplainable, so she said: “I’ll be fine, Ange.”

Mercy clocked the unfamiliar nickname again—if Moira’s theory was correct, could this mean the two would one day grow to be close friends? “I’ll be right outside, watching with Winston on the monitors.”

After some hesitation, she backed out of the chamber, leaving Tracer alone with Moira.

“Remarkable,” said the geneticist, “Miss Oxton, is it often that you guess names correctly?”

Tracer shrugged again, the inexplicable distrust she felt only growing.

“These doctors all think you are sick,” said Moira, “But I think you are a scientific marvel. Why don’t you tell me what happened on that flight?”

“Can’t,” said Tracer.

“Why not?”

“Can’t remember.”

“See,” said Moira, “I think you can remember. I think you can remember a lot of things,”

“No, I’ve already tried with Mercy and Winston,” said Tracer, “My memory’s shot. My brain doesn’t work right anymore.”

“What happens when you try to remember?”

“Remember what?” Tracer asked.

“The flight. Anything.”

“It’s confusing. My head hurts. Frustrating.”

“Why is it frustrating?” Moira asked.

“It’s like, it’s there. On the tip of my tongue. But I can’t catch it. It’s there somewhere. Like when you know the word you are thinking of, but you can’t remember it? Or like when you forget a dream.”

“So you don’t remember what you did yesterday?”

“I think I do,” said Tracer, “Somewhere. I sometimes remember stuff, but I don’t know when I’m remembering from. Or if it’s real. Does that make sense?”

“Do you remember the beginning of this conversation?” 

Tracer shrugged.

“Miss Oxton,” said Moira, “Does it surprise you when they tell you that you are only nineteen?”

“A little,” said Lena.

“Why?”

“‘Cause there’s too much in my head, I guess.”

“Lena,” said Moira, “can you remember the day you were born?”

“What?” said Tracer, “Of course not. No one can.”

“I think you can,” Moira pressed.

Tracer felt anxiety rise in her chest, but she still wasn’t sure why, “No. Doc, that’s impossible.”

“Don’t you remember sliding out of a dark, wet tunnel and seeing the world for the first time? Do you remember your own wailing?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Tracer said quickly, hand reaching for her collarbone, “I couldn’t breath. Something was around my neck.” 

“So you do remember,”

“No,” said Tracer, “I must be remembering something else. I don’t know. I…”

“Look at me, Miss Oxton. Tell me, can you remember what happens tomorrow?”

“What?” said Tracer, feeling flushed and nauseous.

“Come on, Lena. You can remember the future, can’t you? That’s how you knew my name.”

Tracer shook her head frantically, “No. Angie must have told me. Or Winston.”

“Why do you call her Angie, Lena? You haven’t known her that long.”

“We’re friends.”

“Can you remember tomorrow, Lena? Can you remember ten years from now? Can you remember the day you die?”

Tracer covered her ears at this point, shutting her eyes and stumbling backwards, “Stop it. I can’t, I can’t…”

“We are just trying to help,” said Moira, “But we need to understand what’s going on inside your mind. What do you remember, Lena?”

Tracer breathed in deep gasps, tears threatening to spill from her eyes, “I don’t know. It’s like everything is happening right now. I can’t tell what’s real, I think I make things up sometimes. I have these memories, but I can’t put them in order. I can’t tell if things are happening or if I’m remembering ‘em. I’m sorry, Doc. I wish I could help ya out. I can’t tell you what’s gonna happen tomorrow. I can’t tell tomorrow from yesterday.”

“Fascinating,” said Moira, “So has this happened before?”

“Has it?” said Tracer, “I’m sorry. I repeat myself a lot. I get so confused. I remember doing things I never did and forget I said stuff I already said. At least that’s what Dr. Ziegler tells me. I think I’m losing my mind.”

“No, Lena!” Moira strode uncomfortably close and bent down to look directly into Lena’s eyes, “Your mind is the most amazing part of this puzzle. I would love to bring you to my lab one day once you are out of here. Do tests…”

Lena flinched away from the scientist, “Get away from me.” Tracer scurried as far from Moira as the chamber would allow, “You’re a…— You’re a monster.”

“Miss Oxton, it’s me. It’s Dr. O’Deorain with Overwatch.”

“I know who you are,” said Lena, “I’ve seen what you’ve done. The tech you’ve stolen. What you did to Am—”

“Lena,” said Dr. O’Deorain, “You’re confused.”

Even Moira was beginning to grow uncomfortable with the situation when Mercy burst through the door, “That’s enough.”

“I don’t know what happened,” said Moira, “But I think my theory is right.”

“Lena.” Mercy ignored the geneticist, “Hey, I know she’s a bit of a witch, but Dr. O’Deorain won’t hurt you,”
 
“Yes, she will,” said Lena, watching her own fingers tremble.

“Is that something you remember?” There was a delicate hesitancy in her voice.

“Is what something I remember?”

Mercy let out another breath, “Lena, relax for a moment. Look at the clock. I’m going to speak with Dr. O’Deorain in the next room.”

And that she did, and as soon as the door shut Moira spoke like it physically pained her not to do so, “Well I don’t know what the girl is talking about. My methods aren’t as wholesome as yours but I certainly wouldn’t harm a human subject. On purpose.”

“Clearly what she relays to us aren’t so much predictions as confused flashes. Memories, as you put it. Biased, perhaps more emotional than factual.” The gears in Mercy’s mind picked up speed, “I wouldn’t put too much stock in it.”

“We can’t put too much stock in it,” said Winston, approaching the women, “Any, actually. If Dr. O’Deorain is correct and she has memories of the future, we must take care not to heed any warnings she may have for us. This is all theoretical, of course, but we don’t want to mess with our own timeline.”

“Dr. O’Deorain,” said Mercy, “Do you think…?”

“Do not worry, Angela,” said Moira, “I will keep this a secret from Jack and the rest of Overwatch.”

“Thank you,” said Mercy, “Who knows what they might try to do with that sort of power? Just for now, of course. Until we can understand her more.”

“You have my word,” said Moira, “Corporate noses in Miss Oxton’s business will only make it harder for us to make fascinating scientific advancements regarding her condition. I will be on the base, Dr. Ziegler. Please give me a ring the next time you are in need of any assistance with your… patient.”

And with that Moira left, Mercy feeling stressfully like she was now somehow in the geneticist’s debt.

Chapter Text

Winston, apparently, had lost contact with Dr. de Kuiper, with whom he had been communicating regarding the creation of a smaller, portable chronal field for Tracer. Still, he cast his worries about his new friend aside and focused on the design that he thought was promising to say the very least.

And in the meantime Mercy continued to work with Lena, cutting off the constant flow of scientists to her chamber when all but Dr. O’Deorain had proved unhelpful and only made to stress Lena (and herself) out.

This particular week had been a busy one for Mercy and Winston, Winston working tirelessly on his new device and Mercy’s time split between Tracer and caring for patients that had been injured on a recent mission. Focused on those patients during the day, she worked with Lena all night, and consequently neither Mercy nor Winston had gotten very much sleep.

And this morning, while Mercy delivered Tracer another blanket (as she was still inexplicably cold), Winston jumped in fright when a polite knock sounded at the lab’s door, which was already ajar.

In poked a head that Tracer could not quite see from her place in the chamber, bundled up beneath blankets.

“Dear Winston,” said an accented voice, “How do you do? I wondered if Angela was here.”

Then Mercy emerged from Lena’s chamber, hot coffee in hand, “Gerard? What—Oh, scheisse, we had a meeting, didn’t we?”

“In fact yes,” said Gerard, “But maybe my coming here was for the best. I do believe it would behoove us to have Monsieur Winston join us, would it not? Mr. Winston, we’ll be discussing production and, erm, uses, of Angela’s theorized Caduceus Staff—did you not help in designing the hardware?”

“Oh,” said Winston. It seemed like such a small priority to him with everything going on, “I did. I suppose I could be included. If that’s alright with Angela.”

Mercy nodded emphatically, “I think that’s a great idea! Winston, join us please.” She gave the gorilla a look that said clearly: Agree with everything I have to say. Or else.

Tracer listened to the conversation, intently but only so as not to listen to her own chaotic mind. Certainly she’d met that man, Gerard Lacroix, before. Yes, before her flight! She mentally prided herself on remembering him successfully. But she felt mournful when she looked at him and that confused her as much as anything else did these days.

“Gerard,” called another voice, this one feminine, and even frencher than his. In walked a woman so tall and in the highest heels Lena thought she might hit her head on the doorway. (Winston never did, she realized a moment later, so the thought seemed rather idiotic).

“Ah, yes!” said Gerard, too much pride in his voice, like he was presenting his own award, “You two have met my wife, Amelie.”

“Yes, of course!” Mercy blurted, too excited, almost uncharacteristically so. She cleared her throat after that, flashing the woman a sheepish look. Amelie met the look with what to Tracer seemed like a rather flirtatious grin. “Um,” said Mercy, “Gerard, Winston, why don’t we speak in the next room?” She glanced at Tracer, as if asking for consent to leave her alone, and Lena answered with a goofy thumbs up.

“Amelie,” said Gerard, “Would you wait here pour un moment? We are discussing some rather sensitive information.”

“Of course, mon cher. Do not be long,” said Amelie.

They started to go, but not before Winston could add, “Just… don’t touch anything.”

Then Amelie was left wandering the lab alone, and she considered that it was certainly rather unprofessional that they’d let a civilian like herself explore such a top-secret laboratory without supervision. Then again, Gerard brought her to work often and she was trusted among Overwatch’s agents. Some more than others. Some much more than others.

She supposed the doctors were sleep-deprived and that made for their rather lax security. And she knew that security cameras and Winston’s AI would certainly stop her if she tried to do anything uncouth. Not that she would—she loved her husband and respected his work greatly, after all.

She wandered into the still-ajar door to the chamber, which to her seemed empty. She thought she’d take a seat on the comfy-looking bed while she waited, but was considerably startled when the pile of blankets atop it shifted to reveal a young woman.

“Merde! Pardon, I did not realize that there was anyone here!”

“Trust me, I’d leave if I could,” said Tracer, but at Amelie’s apologetic face she rephrased, “That’s alright, luv. Always nice to have company.” She stuck out her hand, “I’m Lena.”

“Amelie Lacroix.”

“Gerard’s gal?” Lena said, “What a lucky bloke. Whatcha doing here?”

“Only visiting my husband. But as it often does with him, le travail comes first. His work, I mean. He was to give me a tour of this place, of some newly built facilities. But his duties distract him.”

“I’d give ya that tour, but unfortunately I’m not too familiar with anything outside of this cage.”

“Oui,” said Amelie, “What happened to you, cherie? You’re so young.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you that, Luv. I’m all top-secret. I think Mercy and Winston were just too conked to even realize they left ya in here with me.”

“You’re shaking,” said Amelie, “Are you cold?”

“Yeah,” said Lena, “But that’s okay. I usually am.”

“Is there a thermostat around here? I can make it warmer for you.”

“Didn’t I hear Winston say not to touch anything?”

“Well, no doctor should be keeping his patients uncomfortable,” said Amelie, handing Lena a blanket that had fallen onto the floor.

“Thanks.” Lena smiled.

At that moment, the raised voice of Dr. Ziegler penetrated the walls: “I don’t want this technology to be used in combat,” she said.

“But the fight against Talon!” Gerard shot back, “The greater good. We could save more lives.”

“My answer is final,” said Mercy, “And Winston agrees.”

“What?” came the Gorilla’s deep voice, “Ah, yes. What Angela said.”

“Fine,” said Gerard, “This isn’t over, but I know you two have work to do.”

“Ah,” said Amelie, an impossibly warm smile on her lips as the sounds of footsteps sounded through the hall, “Our friends are returning. Looks like the party is over.”

Lena froze at that, the hairs on her arm standing up as she felt what she could only describe as a physical manifestation of deja-vu. Her heart-rate quickened and her ears rang with the sounds of… screams? Gunfire? She stared at Amelie, eyes wide with recognition.

“Cherie,” said Amelie, “Are you okay? You’re shaking again.”

It was as though Tracer didn’t hear the question. She dug her way from the blankets, standing on shaky legs and nearly collapsing but catching herself on the bed. The recognition in her eyes turned to hate, “You!”

“Lena?” Amelie started to step backwards, not sure whether she should be afraid for the girl or of her, “I will get the doctor.”

But before she had the chance to call for Angela, Lena tackled her with more strength than she thought the frail girl had in her. “Why?” asked Tracer, a horrible look of betrayal and rage in her eyes, “Why would you do this?”

Amelie struggled, about to call out until Tracer began crushing her windpipe. “Cherie,” she choked, “Lena…”

“Not this time,” Lena muttered, “I’m not letting you get away. After what you did.” Her eyes looked crazed, deep circles underneath them. Tears formed in them, too, dripping onto Amelie’s face below her.

It was at that moment that the three Overwatch agents returned, their leisurely (if argumentative) conversation cut short when the picture before them became clear.

“Scheisse, Lena!” Mercy called, bolting for the chamber.

Gerard followed suit, “Amelie!”

Angela tried to pull Lena off of the other woman, as gently as she could, but Lena swatted her away. “Lena, what are you doing?” Mercy asked. She turned to Gerard, “I can get a sedative.”

But Gerard was able to grab Tracer underneath her arms and restrain her, though she still struggled.

“Lena,” Mercy said, preparing a needle from the medical kit on the wall, “Hey, hey. It’s me, it’s Doctor Ziegler. It’s ‘Ange’. Calm down. Please, I don’t want to do this to you.”

“Let me go!” said Lena, thrashing wildly in Gerard’s grip, trying to kick his legs, “Who—?”

“Lena,” said Mercy, “Stop struggling. That’s Gerard Lacroix, he’s a friend.”

“Gerard Lacroix is dead!” shouted Lena. And with one worried look at Gerard’s furious eyes Mercy went ahead and administered the sedative.

“Stop!” Lena said quietly after a moment saw her struggles weaken, “I can’t let her get away. She killed him… She killed Mondatta…”

Mercy frowned at Tracer, who drowsily squirmed in Gerard’s arms. Then Mercy knelt down to investigate Amelie’s injuries, and though the woman’s neck was black and blue she seemed largely fine. “Amel—Mrs. Lacroix, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m fine,” said Amelie, shooing Mercy away lightly.

Gerard passed the dizzy pilot off to Mercy while he helped his wife up himself, “Is this what Overwatch is funding instead of new technologies to fight Talon?”

Tracer mumbled something unintelligible and Mercy lowered her awkwardly onto the bed as she lost consciousness.

“She’s sick,” said Mercy, “I had no idea she would do that—she never has before. We’re still researching—”

“She just attacked my wife,” said Gerard, “Overwatch isn’t going to fund this thing forever, you know.”

“Gerard, please,” said Amelie, “She seems like a very sweet girl.” She looked at Mercy, a sweetness in her eyes, something loving about them, “We were having a conversation, and she was perfectly polite. But then, I don’t know if I said something to her or what. She seemed very ill, in the head I mean, all of a sudden, like she’d gone mad. Then she attacked me. She looked at me as though she knew me, or I was someone else, and she said ‘Why would you do this?’ I think she would have killed me if I’d let her, if you all hadn’t showed up. I don’t know if that helps you, docteur. Please do what you can to help her, the poor girl.”

There was a grave look in Angela’s eyes. “Trust me. We are.”

Chapter Text

“How is it coming along, Dr. Winston?” Mercy asked later that day, hovering nosily over his work.

“I’m making progress,” said Winston, “I just… I wonder how much it will help her.”

“What do you mean? It will let her leave the chamber, won’t it?”

“Well, yes,” said Winston, “but you saw what she did. Even if I can fix her body, I can’t fix... that.”

“Winston, it’s not your fault.”

“If the Slipstream had never…”

“Winston, you are doing your part,” Mercy said, “The sooner we can get her out of the chamber, the sooner we can focus on everything else.” Mercy glanced into the glass room, where Tracer was just beginning to awaken, flexing her wrists and ankles against the tight straps that held them down.

“Mhmm,” Tracer moaned as she fought to escape a drugged fog, “Why’m I stuck?”

Angela approached her in the chamber, cautious, slow. “Lena?” she said when she noticed her start to panic, “Don’t worry, you’re okay.”

“I can’t move,” said Tracer, pulling at her binds.

“We just want to keep you safe,”

“Safe from what?” said Lena, slowly opening her eyes and squinting against the light, “Why d’I feel so foggy?”

“I gave you a tranquilizer. Do you remember what happened this morning?”

“Stop askin’ me to ‘member stuff, Doc. Y’know it’s hard.”

“Lena.” Mercy’s voice was stern, angry.

The harshness was rare to Lena, and it woke her up a little. “I don’t. What happened?”

Rather slowly, and from a small distance like she feared Tracer would tear her binds and strangle her as well, Mercy held up a tablet. Tracer winced at the brightness of the screen, but soon her eyes adjusted and she regarded it with confusion. It was security footage, she guessed; or whatever cameras they had installed in the chamber to keep tabs on her disappearances and behaviors. She saw herself from earlier in the day, bundled up on her bed.

Mercy’s long finger moved to press PLAY, and Tracer tensed, perhaps some part of her knowing what she was about to see.

She saw herself speaking to that woman, Amelie. She could vaguely recall the interaction, but it was confused in her mind. And then, suddenly, she saw herself attack the woman, strangling her on the floor.

“Oi! I didn’t…—” the words were caught in her throat. Did she?

“Lena, you attacked Gerard Lacroix’s wife. Can you tell me why?”

“I didn’t! I mean, not here. And not her. That didn’t… It didn’t happen… like that.”

“So you do remember?”

“Something...—it was on a rooftop.”

“What was?”

“The Widowmaker.”

“The what?”

“I had to stop her.”

“You had to stop Amelie?”

Tracer felt insanity dripping back into her psyche—did she herself even know what she was talking about? “No. The Widowmaker.”

“So you…” Mercy clicked her tongue, “Attacked Amelie Lacroix?”

“No!” cried Tracer as she pulled at her binds, “I didn’t!”

“You did, Lena,” said Mercy, “I saw it happen. It’s right here.”

“Bollocks,” Tracer said, falling back to her bed, “I’m so confused.”

“I know,” said Mercy, “How do you feel now?”

“Just kinda woozy,” Tracer said, “Don’t look at me like that. I’m… I’m not gonna hurt anyone. Promise.”

Mercy sighed and undid the straps holding Tracer’s legs and feet, “There’s food on the table for you.”

“Doc,” said Lena, “I don’t… wanna hurt anyone.”

“I know, Lena.”

Lena grew more and more accustomed to her physical body, and soon she put all of her energy into maintaining it. She trained constantly, doing push-ups and jogging around her small chamber. She could feel her muscles returning, and the exercise distracted her from the chaos in her mind.

She didn’t much talk to Winston, who seemed to be more focused than ever on whatever device he was building for her. And he was so focused, in fact, that he didn’t notice Overwatch’s commanders enter the lab.

Tracer was sure she knew them, the two men that barged in uninvited. And the one in the black hat who was presently staring her down filled her with a similar dread that Dr. O’Deorain had. But she feared herself, now, and looked at the clock on the wall instead of him, lest she do something reckless again.

“Ahem,” the other man said when Winston still didn’t notice them, “Dr. Winston?”

Winston looked up from his work, and seemed frightened, almost, to see the commanders there. They usually came with bad news.

“Commanders,” said Winston, “Greetings.”

“Agent Oxton,” said Commander Morrison—that was his name, she thought she remembered—“You’re looking spry.”

“I’ve been training, sir,” she said.

“Glad to hear it. The RAF teaches its men well.”

The RAF? Had she been in the RAF? She couldn’t remember, now—She could feel that insanity again, the chill on her skin turning into a hot clamminess. The man before her: he was dead, wasn’t he?

But she forced it all inside, afraid if she said something rash, or did something rasher, the two commanders would tell Winston to let her die.

“What do you want?” said Winston, and Tracer winced at his rudeness. After all, didn’t these men have the power to flip a switch that would send her back to oblivion?

But Winston was clearly anxious to get back to his work. And he wasn’t the most cordial at times, so Tracer found herself wishing that Mercy was with them.

“Hm,” said Reaper—no, no: that wasn’t it. But it was the only name she could think of for the man that watched her with clinical coldness. “Lacroix told us what happened here,” he said to Winston, turning from Lena like she wasn’t there at all.

“It won’t happen again,” said Winston quickly.

“This project has been going on for months, and has cost us millions of dollars,” said Reaper, “Will she ever be out of that box?”

“Soon,” said Winston with frustration, and Lena wondered how much it really cost the organization each minute they kept her alive.

76… 76… No, that wasn’t his name: that wasn’t even a name! But now his name, too, escaped her. So 76 approached Winston, he leaned an arm on his desk and spoke in a low voice that he probably assumed Tracer couldn’t hear.

“ Should we let her out?”

Winston turned to him with a wild rage, his fists clenched so hard Lena could tell he was doing everything in his power not to throw the man across the room. “ What? ”

“Is she dangerous ?”

“ No ,” said Winston, “She’s just a girl.”

“She’s violent, Lacroix says,” said Reyes—that was his name—“What will Overwatch do with her, when she’s out of there?”

“She was just confused,” said Winston, “I told you it won’t happen again.”

“Do you think she can go out in the world and live her life?” said Reyes, “The second she’s out of here, she’ll just find herself locked up somewhere else. We can’t let someone like that wander freely around the base, and she certainly can’t return to active duty. And as a civilian, she’ll spend the rest of her life in a psych ward.”

“What are you trying to say, Reyes?”

“Too many of our resources are being spent on this one girl,” said Jack—was that right?—“We can’t keep helping a lost cause.”

Winston stood up, then, and towered above the men, “ You did this to her! You and your deadlines, and your corner-cutting. How dare you tell me I can help her and then the second you realize she won’t be of use to you, you want me to, what? Kill her?”

“What’s going on here?”

Mercy’s voice was like a melody to Tracer’s ears and it filled her with relief.

“Tell her, commander,” seethed Winston, “Tell her what you told me.”

“We are just concerned,” said Jack, “That Oxton might be a danger. To herself and others, if she’s let out of this lab.”

“You listen to me, Commander,” said Mercy, “Both of you. That girl is suffering, and Overwatch owes her everything it can do to save her. And you made the mistake of putting the pretty blonde doctor on all of your posters and propaganda, because the second you try to stop us from helping this girl, I will tell the world about what you did to her, and the world will listen to me because the world trusts Dr. Angela Ziegler more than anyone. And I will destroy Overwatch one press release at a time.”

The commanders were silent for a long moment.

“I want to know immediately if anything else happens,” said Jack.

And then they left.

“Scheisse,” Mercy breathed, the little rush of adrenaline from the confrontation leaving her shaky. “Assholes.”

Lena hung her head in shame.

“In front of Lena,” Mercy said, “She’s a person. She can understand them, don’t they realize?”

“I screwed up,” Lena whined, “No one’s gonna trust me. He’s right, you know. I should be locked up.”

“No, Tracer,” said Mercy, coming inside the chamber to sit with her, “You were confused. You’ll get better,”

“But I’m not getting better,” said Lena, “I don’t know why, I really thought Commander Reyes was evil just then. If I wasn’t behind this glass, I mighta tried to hurt him, too.”

It filled Mercy with dread, “Really?”

“I mean I wouldn’t have,” said Lena quickly, “I mean, because I know it’s wrong. But sometimes I slip too far and I don’t know what’s wrong anymore. What kinda life can I live, if I can’t even remember who I am?”

“You’ll get better,” repeated Mercy, “I promise.”

“I don’t remember getting better,” muttered Tracer, “I remember the future, don’t I? It’s true, what Dr. O’Deorain said. Isn’t it? But I don’t remember getting better.”

Mercy watched her for a long moment, startled by her lucidity and the darkness of it.

Then Tracer started to cry, sobbing so profusely that Mercy instantly drew her into a hug, and tears threatened to spill from her own eyes, too.

Winston, meanwhile, still seethed with anger, hardly able to tinker at his desk as he raged at the bureaucracy of it all.

Chapter Text

Another three weeks went by, and with each passing day Tracer felt more afraid that she’d never be free. She kept training, pushed herself to her limit like if she got strong enough she could sprint her way back into reality—or at least away from that nagging, horrifying dread in the back of her mind.

And today Angela didn’t make it to her chamber at the usual time, and when she did arrive she seemed hollow, distracted, checking monitors and things without a word—without even seeing them, it seemed to Lena. Tracer thought it looked like the woman could collapse at any second.

“Angie?” asked Lena,  “What’s wrong?”

Somehow Tracer felt as though she knew the answer even before the doctor said it. Mercy’s face was pale; tired. “It’s Amelie Lacroix,” she said, “She’s missing.”

In the meantime, Winston had been hard at work, the necessity to get Tracer out of the chamber and into the world seeming more urgent than ever after her violent bout of insanity mere weeks ago.

“The issue is—” said Winston one day, “Ziegler, are you listening?”

“What?” said Mercy. Her mind had been elsewhere, of course: on Amelie Lacroix. And she’d assumed that the ape’s scientific rambling had been to himself, anyway, “Yes. Of course. What were you saying, Dr. Winston?”

“The issue is,” Winston continued, “If I make the field generator smaller, it weakens the field somewhat. And over a large area it, erm, fizzles out, leaving Lena with effectively no Chronal Field at all.”

“Well,” said Mercy, now welcoming the conundrum as a helpful distraction from her present worries, “Certainly you don’t need a physical barrier to maintain the field. Why not just make the field smaller?”

“Make the field… smaller?”

“Well, if the same energy exists in a smaller space, it will seem stronger, yes? More concentrated.”

Winston looked at her for a moment, rather dumbfounded. And then his face grew the widest grin, “That’s brilliant! I suppose, for I am so large, sometimes I think too big. Instead of focusing on making the generator smaller, as I’ve already figured that out, I will direct my efforts to collapsing the field so that it encompasses only the area Lena would need.”

“And the concentrated field—it will be stronger, yes? Stronger than the chamber? Strong enough to help Lena out of her confusion?”

Winston paused, “Perhaps. Dr. Ziegler, we don’t know what of her damage is actually reversible.” He smiled a little, “But there’s one way to find out. And I’m on it!”

Surely, the scientists rationalized, if the smaller device would actually strengthen Lena’s grasp on the present, it would help to fix some of her memory problems and confusion. Still, though they didn’t say it aloud, both Mercy and Winston were independently certain that it wouldn’t be that simple.

But nevertheless Winston was able to finish the device within the week. Lena watched him impatiently from her chamber day after day, and when he finally stood, turned around, and grinned at her instead of grunting or chomping frustratedly on a banana, she knew that he’d done it.

So with no time to lose Mercy brought the device into the chamber and helped strap it onto the pilot. Then she stood by, medical equipment on-hand in case something should go wrong, and prepared for Winston to power the thing on.

The device was bulky and gray, unattractive and cold, and Lena felt weighed down, like if she bent too far in one direction she might topple over. “It’s not comfy,” she said.

“Design elements come later,” said Winston, “You’ll get used to it. I’ll have a sleeker model before the end of the month.”

“What’s it called?” She tugged uncomfortably at the straps.

“It’s called a…” he grunted, glancing around the room as though some inspiration might come to him, “Uh… it’s a Chronal Catch-Up Device.”

“Chronal Ketchup?” asked Tracer.

“It catches your chronal energy up with the present! I’m not a wordsmith, okay? I’m a gorilla of science.”

“That’s an awful name, Winston,” said Angela, “It’s called a Chronal Accelerator.”

“Oh, that’s much better, Angela,” said Winston, “Thank you.”

“Are you ready, Lena?”

“Yes!” said Lena, “Power her up!”

Winston hunched over some monitors, and when it all looked good he hit a switch and power was diverted from the chamber and into the smaller machine.

Tracer shut her eyes, prepared for some awful feeling of weightlessness, or for it not to work and for her to be sent back into that terrible place.

Someone took her hand and led her forward. She walked cautiously, unsure where she was going as she waited for the machine whir to life.

“Open your eyes, Lena,” said Angela softly.

And when she did, Lena could see the lab. But it wasn’t behind glass—and she whipped around to see the chamber behind her.

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she hugged Mercy as though for her life.

Some air was pushed from Tracer’s lungs as the contact pressed that metal device, which now glowed blue and hummed softly with energy, into her chest. Still, despite the more jagged edges of the machine digging into her sternum, she managed to express her gratitude: “Thank you, thank you thank you thank you,” she cried.

“Don’t thank me,” said Mercy, “It was Winston.”

Tracer let go of Angela and turned to Winston. Then she ran for him and hugged him as well.

“Thank you, Winston,” said Lena, “I owe you my life.”

“You just got it back,” said Winston.

“How do you feel, Lena?” said Angela.

“I feel great!” said Lena, “Like I could run a mile. Or four.”

“Okay, well not yet,” said Mercy, “Your body and your mind have to adjust. How is your confusion?”

Tracer paused, “I don’t know. I don’t feel that different.”

“We’ll give it time,” said Mercy, “Let’s take a walk. Come to my office, we’ll do some tests.”

Tracer was fascinated to see the facility again, outside of the lab. The cold gray hallways to her were warm and inviting. And when she got into Mercy’s office she had never been so excited for a checkup.

Her feet swung off the edge of the medical bench energetically; Mercy too was relieved to be treating Tracer back in her office, and held back her own excitement. Tracer fiddled with the paper on the bed, crushing it between her fingers and stroking it like it was fine silk.

“Sit still. Please, Lena,” Mercy said as she tried to take Tracer’s vitals. Once she was done she sighed, “I don’t know if your vitals will ever be normal,” she said, “But that’s okay. Do you want to—?”

“I’ll be damned,” came a voice from the entryway, “I think I’m seeing a ghost.”

“Commander Reyes,” said Mercy, a little grimace in her voice if not on her face.

“I just heard from Dr. Winston, and I had to see for myself,” said Reyes. He invited himself into the room, and moved awfully close to Lena, “You’re very brave.” He glanced at Mercy, “And you are in excellent hands.”

“Thank you, sir,” Tracer muttered, but her previous enthusiasm was gone, replaced by wariness.

“I want to apologize about… Well, everything,” said Reyes. “You have to understand, the budget…— We have to answer to forces outside of ourselves, investors, governments, the public—”

“What Reyes is trying to say,” said Morrison, who now came into the med bay himself, “Is we are grateful for the work that Dr. Ziegler and Dr. Winston have done and we are glad to have you back, Officer Oxton.” He stared at her for a little while, almost like his eyes might be fooling him that the girl really was there before him.

“I appreciate it, Commander Morrison,” said Tracer.

Mercy cocked her head, some excitement there, her heart beating just a little faster. “Lena,” she said, “Say that again. What’s his name?”

Tracer furrowed her brow, “Commander Morrison,” she said, “And you’re Dr. Ziegler and he’s Commander Reyes…” Now her eyes widened, “A-and I’m Lena Oxton, and I’m nineteen years old—well, maybe I’m twenty now, I’m not sure how long it’s been since…— And I’m a flight officer with the RAF and I was recruited by Overwatch to test a new aircraft, but it malfunctioned and I got lost and now I’m back ‘cause you and Dr. Winston fixed me.” She turned to Mercy with watery, hopeful eyes, “Dr. Ziegler, I remember!”

Mercy could hardly contain her joy and had to will the happy tears away from her eyes, “Let’s not—... Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We will do some tests. You’re doing so well, Lena.”

“Thanks, Doc,” said Lena, “For ev-er-ything…—-” She trailed off at the end there, and her eyes took on a dazed quality before they rolled right back into her head. Mercy dipped quickly to catch her before he could fall off the bench. “Ohh,” Tracer mumbled, “Wha’s goin’ on?”

“Lena,” said Mercy, “You just fainted, are you alright?”

“I’m sleepy,” said Tracer, “I’m so tired, what’s going on?”

Morrison turned to Mercy, “We will have a quarters ready for her once she’s released from your care. She can stay at the facility as long as she needs to recover fully.”

Mercy scoffed. “As long as she doesn’t sue, right?” she muttered.

The two commanders left without another word, and Mercy turned back to Tracer who was more alert than she’d been a moment ago.

“Whoa, sorry Doc,” said Lena, “I just kinda blacked out for a second there, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” said Mercy, checking some of her monitors, “It looks like you just had a sudden drop in blood pressure. I think you’re exhausted, I can’t imagine the toll this transition has taken on your body. Why don’t you come with me to one of the beds, get some rest, and tomorrow we will perform some cognitive tests. Then we’ll get you up and on your feet for stress tests and to make sure you have full use and control over your body outside of the chamber. Does that sound good?”

“Yeah,” said Tracer. She frowned, “Gonna be tough to sleep with this thing on my chest.”

“I know,” said Mercy, “Try your best, Lena. I know Winston is working on a more comfortable model right now.”

“Okay,” said Tracer. “I mean it, by the way. Thank you for everything.”

She had been given a hospital bed in a private room, but the privacy only made Lena feel isolated like she’d been the last however-long of her life. Still, despite her loneliness and the discomfort of the Chronal Accelerator, Tracer was so exhausted that she drifted right off to sleep once Mercy shut the curtains and turned off the lights. 

Her dreams were… well, she’d describe them as nuts. She had conversations with people she’d never met, but whom she felt like she knew. She fought with omnics and blue-skinned femme fatales. There was a grim reaper and an awful prison and a terrible, bloody war.

When she awoke with a gasp, she was sure it was all real. But she couldn’t remember it anymore, the dream slipping from her mind like sand through her fingers.

It was the middle of the night, she realized, and she tried to fall back asleep but couldn’t—not with the bright glow of the Chronal Accelerator assaulting her eyes and its hard metal scraping against her back, not with the threat of more strange nightmares.

She glanced at the clock on the wall across the room, and shifted herself so that the blue light of the Accelerator was cast upon it.

“One one-hundred, two one-hundred, three one-hundred, four one-hundred…” she counted.

And she found that now counting seconds was no longer stressful. In fact, it lulled her back to sleep, like counting sheep. And this time her dreams were pleasant, whoever that pretty redhead was.

When she awoke, Angela was already in the room.

“Good morning, Lena,” she said. And although her voice was chipper, Lena could see the dark circles beneath her eyes, “Did you sleep well?”

“Kinda,” said Tracer, “Did you?”

Mercy didn’t answer, just set up her various bits of medical equipment. “Oh,” she said, grabbing a tray of food and setting it by Lena’s bed, “Here’s some breakfast. Eat, and then when you’re ready we can do some t-tests.”

“Angie, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” said Mercy,”

“I’m not eatin’ till you tell me,”

“Lena—”

“Angie.”

“It’s just… it’s been a month since Amelie.”

Tracer frowned, “Amelie Lacroix,” she said, “Amelie Lacroix… She’s missing. Right?”

Mercy nodded, “But you don’t have to worry about that.” She sniffed, “Eat up, alright?”

“Let’s start now,” said Tracer, shoving food in her mouth as fast as possible, “I wanna get outta this bed as quick as I can.”

“Alright,” said the doctor.

And she proceeded to administer all the tests they once did when Lena was in the chamber. She asked Tracer to estimate the passage of time, to count seconds. She asked her to recount names and places and dates, who the prime minister was and what year she graduated high school and how old she’d been when she joined the RAF. And Lena passed it all with flying colors.

Then Mercy had her run on a treadmill while she watched her vitals. She had her do some pull-ups and ride a stationary bike and Tracer never seemed to get tired. There were coordination exercises and even an obstacle course to complete in one of the training floors.

“You’re doing very well,” said Mercy, “How do you feel?”

“Great,” said Tracer, panting as she wiped sweat from her brow, “Now that I’m all rested up, I think I really could run a mile.”

It all seemed a little too easy to the doctor. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t been hoping that caring for Lena might distract her from Amelie’s disappearance, but if the bright-eyed pilot was really doing as well as she seemed to be, Angela realized there wasn’t much more to do.

“Well, I don’t see any reason why you should need to stay in the med bay much longer,” said Mercy, “Let me keep you for observation for three more days. Then I’ll have someone show you to your quarters. You should remain on the base for a while so that Winston and I can make sure you aren’t experiencing any long-term side effects, and I am sure you are welcome to all of our amenities during your stay.”

Tracer nodded, still all hyperactive enthusiasm.

But Mercy still felt a terrible doubt deep in her chest. It couldn’t be this easy. Could it?

Chapter Text

“I hope you find your accommodations comfortable,” said Commander Morrison, as he opened the door to Tracer’s new quarters, “Although, I imagine anything’s gotta be more comfortable than that fish tank you’ve been trapped in.”

“Yes sir,” said Tracer.

As Morrison opened the door, one young woman was immediately at attention. The other kept her eyes glued to a handheld gaming system, bulky headphones clamped over her ears.

“At ease, Lindholm,” said Commander Morrison, and the redhead relaxed. “I just came by to introduce you to your new bunkmate, Lena Oxton.”

“New recruit?” Lindholm asked.

“Something like that,” said Morrison, “Oxton’s been through an ordeal. I hope you’ll both be plenty welcoming.”

Lindholm reached out for a hearty handshake, “Welcome to Overwatch, Oxton. Cadet Brigitte Lindholm.”

“Cheers,” Tracer said. She glanced at the other woman, still playing her game.

“That’s Song,” said Brigitte, “Don’t worry. Soon as she finishes this round she’ll be all over you.”

As if on cue, Song pumped a fist, “Yes! Pwned, losers!” She glanced up and seemed surprised by the company. She quickly threw off her headphones and stood at attention.

“Hana,” Brigitte said, “This is Oxton. New cadet.”

“Hi!” said Hana, “Hana Song. Former Korean Army. Present Overwatch badass.”

“Nice to meetcha,” said Tracer.

“Lindholm, show Oxton around the base once she gets settled. I expect everyone in the mess hall at 1300 hours, and that means you too, Song.”

Tracer settled in quickly and comfortably. Somehow, and maybe it was because she’d spent the better part of six months on the base, Overwatch already felt like home.

She became close friends with Overwatch’s young recruits, like Hana and two young men named Lucio and Genji. She and Lucio would race down the halls and around the track, and he showed her the soundwave tech he had that could make her even faster. And although Lena wasn’t training for any missions herself, still technically in recovery, she made a great moving target for her friends to practice.

She regularly visited Mercy and Winston so they could check on her progress and so Winston could make adjustments to the Chronal Accelerator.

Eventually, though, Tracer was doing so well that Overwatch diverted Winston’s resources from the Chronal Accelerator, and Mercy was shipped off on a mission in Egypt.

And that was okay. Tracer missed Angela greatly, but she was already making new friends and was ready to move on from the Hell the doctor had helped her through. She wouldn’t want to keep Angela from helping other people because the doctor was too concerned with Lena.

And even though Winston no longer had the resources to improve her Accelerator, the two could still hang out when the gorilla wasn’t busy with other Overwatch projects.

It took a little convincing for Morrison and Reyes to allow Lena to leave the base. They made up excuses about how they had to continue to monitor her health before she could leave unsupervised, but Winston threw that out the window by pointing out that they’d taken his funding. In truth, they were afraid of the public asking questions about the bulky device on Lena’s chest—and about Lena answering them.

“Look,” said Tracer, “I signed an NDA when I got in that plane and I already took your settlement money. I won’t tell nobody nothing. If anyone asks, it’s a medical device. There are Omnics walking around for chrissakes! I’ll be fine.”

“Oxton,” said Commander Morrison, “This is a matter of security for the organization—”

“Commander,” said Tracer, “When I was in that chamber, I was the victim of an accident. Now that’s over: so am I an agent, or am I a prisoner?”

They finally relented, and her first day off the base was invigorating, exciting, and a little scary. The outside world had become quite foreign to her—not to mention that she wasn’t very familiar with Gibraltar in the first place.

It was scary, having the freedom to just keep running and running without any glass barriers or walls or fences or guards stopping her, she thought as she jogged through the park.

She closed her eyes, the wind whipping her face. She could almost pretend she was flying—

“Oof!”

She fell on her bottom as she collided with something—someone.

“Oi!” said Tracer, immediately peeved that her first taste of freedom had been soiled, “Watch where—”

She realized the woman she’d collided with was clutching her elbow, wincing, as she tried to collect the various papers that had scattered across the ground.

“Oi,” said Lena, “Are you alright? Your arm—”

“I’m fine,” the woman eked out. “I just hit my funny bone on—” She looked up: at Tracer and at the strange device on her chest, “Uh, you.”

Tracer was confused for a moment, before she realized that the poor woman must have banged her elbow on the hard metal of her Chronal Accelerator.

“Bloody hell, I’m so sorry,” said Tracer. She was able to quickly collect the woman’s fallen papers, until one last sheet started to blow away with the wind. “Hang on, I got it!” She raced to catch it before returning back to the fallen woman in seconds and holding out a hand to pull her to her feet.

“You’re quick on your feet,” said the stranger. Tracer got a good look at her face for the first time, and she was taken aback by how damn beautiful she was, with her long red hair and wide green eyes. But in the same moment, Tracer also felt that old chaos swell up within her. The woman was beautiful. She was familiar. She was hers .

“Emily…?” Tracer muttered.

The woman blinked, “Have we met before?”

Tracer looked utterly confused for a moment before she came back to herself. “No, sorry,” she said. “Is your arm okay?”

“I think so,” said the woman.

“I’m sorry I bumped into you,” said Tracer. “I get a little distracted sometimes.”

“No, I was trying to read while walking and, well… I guess we both weren’t looking where we were going.”

“I’ve got my head in the clouds, and you’ve got your nose in a book,” Tracer laughed. “Your accent—you’re from England?”

“I am,” said Emily. “I’m a writer—hence all the papers. I came out here to do some research for a book I’m writing.”

“On Overwatch?”

“The organization has such a rich history, and—” The woman furrowed a brow, noticing the Overwatch insignia on Tracer’s jacket, “But I guess you know all about that.”

“Yeah, a bit of an Overwatch junkie m’self,” said Lena. “And a Londoner, born ‘n raised. I’m Lena by the way.”

“Emily,” said the girl, “Though, I guess you already knew that, too?”

“I’m a good guesser,” said Lena. “You looked like an Emily.”

“What do Emilys look like?”

“Bloody gorgeous.” Tracer smirked inwardly. Oh yeah, she’s still got it.

Emily looked predictably flattered and flustered. “That’s— I’m—... What?”

“I’m kinda new to the area, in a way,” said Tracer. “Maybe you wanna show me around sometime?”

Tracer left Emily with her number, a mouth agape, and a few butterflies in her stomach.

“Something kinda weird happened today,” said Tracer as she hung around Winston’s lab. “I was talking to this girl—smokin’ hot redhead—and all of a sudden I felt all confused, like I recognized her. I even knew her name.”

“How long did it last?” said Winston.

“The confusion?” said Tracer. “Just a few seconds. Well, you know I can’t really tell, but I assume it was short ‘cause the bird didn’t seem too freaked by it.”

“I can take a look at your Accelerator,” said Winston, “But beyond that, just keep an eye and let me know if it happens again. There’s not much I can do without funding.”

Tracer sighed. “Do you think they’ll let me start training as an Overwatch agent soon?”

“I’m surprised you want to,” Winston said. “After what they… after what we did to you. You don’t want to go and live a normal life?”

Tracer scoffed, “A normal life? If I wanted that, I never woulda tested that bloody aircraft in the first place.” She clicked her tongue, “Look, it’s not like I’m crazy about the bureaucracy and propaganda and stuff, but the RAF had that too. All I know is that if Overwatch is hiring people like you and Angie and Lucio… Well, then it must be a pretty swell place to be. A place where I can do some good.”

Winston smiled. “I’ll let Morrison and Reyes know that you would like to be evaluated for active duty. I am sure we can have you back in the sky in no time.”

“Piloting a jet is way tougher than one of those mechs,” Lena argued as she sat in the mess hall with her friends, “Betcha couldn’t fly for your life, Hana.”

“Can too,” said D.va, “I got the high score in Flight Simulator! Plus my mech can fly.”

Lucio blinked, “You mean without you in it? Before it explodes?”

“Not the same,” Tracer shrugged.

“Why don’t we all just agree that we all have our own unique skillsets,” said Genji, “And also that being a cyborg is the coolest one.”

They all laughed, Lucio nudging Genji in the shoulder.

“Piloting a jet is way tougher than one of those mechs,” Lena repeated, and her friends stopped laughing and furrowed their brows at her. “What?” Lena said.

“Uh,” said D.va, “You said that already?”

“Said…?” Tracer blinked.

“You okay, Trace?” said Lucio, “You look like you’re gonna faint.”

“Huh?” said Tracer, “I… Where…?”

She looked down at her accelerator, which seemed to be working fine. Why was she so confused?

“Where’s Angie?” she muttered.

The other cadets glanced at each other, confused in their own right. But Lucio was perceptive enough to know that this wasn’t a prank or an innocent misunderstanding:  something was very wrong. “Come on, Trace,” he said, “Let’s get you to the med bay.”

Tracer’s friends knew that she had been the victim of some type of experiment-gone-wrong, that the device on her chest kept her alive, and that she was on the base for observation. But they didn’t know the details, or what would happen to Tracer if the device attached to her sternum were to stop working.

By the time they got to the med bay, though, Tracer had already recovered, so the doctor released her with a clean bill of health. Of course, the doctors here were only vaguely familiar with Tracer’s unique condition, and with Mercy out of the country, only the underfunded Winston had the expertise to know what was wrong with her, but even he wasn’t familiar with the biological side of her condition that seemed to be ailing her now. A quick look at her Accelerator told the gorilla that it was working perfectly fine.

And that wasn’t the last time Tracer found herself briefly buried once again under the confusing chaos of the timestream. And it was getting worse.

Still, she tried to ignore it for now: the voices that started to echo in her head, the strange hallucinations appearing at the corners of her vision, the memories she could swear she had but that she knew weren’t real. She didn’t want to bother Winston, who was being worked to death on some new device for Overwatch’s bigwigs and who she knew couldn’t do much to help her, anyway. Instead, she tried to focus on preparing for her evaluation and on her growing relationship with Emily the writer, who she was now seeing multiple times per week.

She must have hid her insanity well enough, because soon it was time for her to be tested for active duty. If she could show Overwatch’s commanders that she was fit enough, mentally and physically, to become a full-fledged agent, then she could finally help people again. And maybe having something productive to fill her days was all she needed to distract her muddled mind.

She knew she could only wear the mask of a healthy, happy soldier for so long before it shattered. But did it have to shatter now, during her evaluation?

It started out fine. They asked her simple questions she could answer without hesitation. But soon her sentences started to get muddled. She was repeating herself, leaving out words and context, just like she had in the chamber.

She was surprised that they didn’t end the test right there. For the physical evaluation, they took her to the training room with Genji holding targets for her to punch and kick. But her accuracy and timing was wildly off as she was distracted by hallucinations and could no longer tell when Genji held up the targets and where. She could swear he was moving in slow motion, his movements trailing behind him like a laggy window on an old computer.

“That’s enough,” said Reyes before the display could become even more pitiful. “I’m sorry, Oxton. You clearly need more time to recover.”

She nodded, feeling hopeless and tired before passing out.