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The wrong place at the wrong time.
That’s where Tracer would have described herself being, in hindsight.
She had heard about trouble rising (more so than usual) in the northern part of Honduras-- so of course, being the force of good she was, she found herself traveling there under the radar. Hopefully, she could help in some way. Somehow, she could.
It was, perhaps, not one of her brightest ideas.
She had seen war before, but not quite like how she found it in San Pedro Sula. The city had been ravaged for decades by violence and drugs, amplified by the political corruption and poverty, and it showed on every street corner she passed. Never before had she been so careful to constantly wear her harness, just in case-- albeit underneath a shirt and her jacket, to not attract attention.
Tracer had also never felt so helpless in her inability to help in her life.
How could you aid those who needed it when they refused to take it out of fear of your ulterior motives? She watched women hunch protectively over their children as they shooed them away, saw older folk shoo her away in hushed, angry Spanish, felt disheartened at every glare shot in her direction by the homeless she passed on every street corner.
It was enough to bring even her spirits crashing to the ground, to say the least.
Her last day there, she managed to at least help out at a ‘hospital’ nearby, supplying an extra set of hands and performing the duties assigned to her as best she could. To be honest, it was the most useful she’d felt her entire two weeks there-- even if it meant cleaning wounds from gang fights, changing bed sheets, and carrying things around from room to room for the two man doctor team.
The sun was starting to set by the time she began her hustle back to the small apartment she’d been renting from an older woman. Normally she was better about making sure to be there by the time the sun reddened in the sky, not wanting to tempt fate by any means, time manipulation or no. She knew her limits-- and the dark alleyways held too many dangers.
Probably about halfway there, she passed through an open market area-- it was normally bustling with people and voices, one of the few places she’d encountered kids laughing and people smiling during her stay. Even at this time, there was usually still stall-owners around. Tonight, however, there was something very, very wrong in the air.
Silence.
That’s what she could hear.
It only took her a moment to realize the difference, and she immediately clung to the houses along the edge of the marketplace, sticking to the shadows like a child to their mother’s skirt, hair standing on end.
The first shout came from her far left-- towards the arch she usually walked through to get to her apartment. Tracer froze in her steps, but she couldn’t see anyone from where she was, stalls and veils of fabric obstructing her vision. A returning shout from where she’d just come from, angry and harsh against the quiet of before, responded, and was quickly joined by something far too akin to a battle cry.
In that moment, she realized she’d just walked into the middle of what was about to be a warzone.
Fear clutched at her chest, and it occurred to her that she had absolutely no idea what to do. She couldn’t go forward-- she couldn’t go backwards. There weren’t any alleyways she knew of, no way to escape unless she just barged into someone’s home--
The hands that grabbed her were cold and fast, one around her waist and the other around her mouth, smothering the shout she couldn’t help as she was yanked into the a doorway.
The door shut behind them as she was thrown into the dark of the building-- she could hardly see, but she could smell the musty odor she’d grown to acquaint with most of the crumbling buildings here. It was the undertone of gun oil and spice, however, that surprised her.
“What are you doing here?” she threw out accusingly, voice low even as she heard the loud shouting from outside escalate, following by the first shot into the air. Tracer winced, eyes adjusting to the darkness.
“Hn.” Widowmaker sneered-- Tracer could hear it in her voice. “Saving you, apparently. Allons-y, chérie. Unless you wish to be shot through this door and waste it, then by all means stay right there.”
The Frenchwoman brushed past her roughly, shoulder bumping into Tracer’s as she made haste towards the stairs behind them, taking them quickly and without a glance behind her.
Stay and be shot through thin walls, or follow Talon’s top agent to an unknown room and possibly also be shot.
The past months flashed through Tracer’s head in seconds-- the harassment, the games they played, dancing with death and toying with each other…
Of the two, Tracer figured her best chance lay in following her saviour and enemy.
At least she seemed vaguely interested in keeping her alive.
Tracer hustled after Widowmaker, wishing more than anything she could stop the violence outside the apparent safehouse, but she went up and up instead, up three flights of stairs to the door at the top. It was left ajar, and she entered, closing it immediately behind herself.
“Bedroom. Unless you want to chance a bullet straying through the window,” came the voice from the left, the small living area complete with something that resembled a kitchenette and a TV with a couch in front of it to the right, the solitary window letting the last dregs of the sunset redden the room.
Gritting her teeth, she stepped to the left. The only light came from the lamp on the desk, where the sniper was currently sitting at. She seemed to be looking through some sort of booklet, giving Tracer the time to look around.
Well, ‘around’ was a word. From side to side, was more accurate, with how much space the room had. It might as well have been an expanded closet. There was the desk, the chair, and the twin sized bed. A bag at the end of the bed. Maybe two feet between the chair and the bed.
“Talon doesn’t deck you out, love?” she muttered as she stood in the doorway, closing it behind herself out of precaution. As if the flimsy wood would add another layer of protection from the gunfight outside.
“This is just an emergency stop. My actual place is in the political district,” she retorted quickly, turning in the chair to face her. “Not that it matters, currently.”
Of course she took the chair. Of course she did. Which left…
“Sit, chérie. You standing makes this more awkward than it needs to be.”
“It’s fine.”
“ Tch. That’s how you treat your saviour, hn?”
“I would have been fine, thanks!”
Widowmaker raised a brow high, and just smirked that damned smirk that made Tracer’s heart triple in beat.
“Are you sure about that, chérie?”
Tracer was quiet.
“That’s what I thought. Now sit. There is enough room for both of us, no?”
Oh, Tracer wished beyond wishes that she weren’t so smug about being right, and that it didn’t show so well on her damned pretty face.
So she sat, pressing her back firmly against the wall with her feet planted against the ground. She wished more than anything that the Frenchwoman wouldn’t face her, because it made their knees brush, and she didn’t want to move away from the touch, because then that would mean… Well, it would mean she lost. Because this was an awful game of chicken-- she could feel it in her bones.
No, she wouldn’t move her knees, and instead sat with her arms crossed over her chest in silence as she stared holes into Widowmaker’s shoulder, avoiding eye contact as she tried to ignore the sounds of people killing people outside.
“You look distressed, chérie,” Widowmaker teased, leaning back in her chair slightly, resting her chin on a palm.
“Bite me.”
She hadn’t meant the words to come out so snappily, and she most certainly hadn’t expected the dark flare of amusement she saw in those gorgeous gold eyes.
“Where?”
Tracer stared for a long moment, her eyes wide and brow furrowed slightly. Why was Widow smirking? Why would she ask that? Wha--
Oh.
Oh.
“What?”
She could feel heat rise in her cheeks, painting her neck and ears, angry that the realization of what she meant sent heat through her blood.
“Hmm?” Widowmaker hummed innocently, both brows up even as her eyes surveyed Tracer up and down-- the Brit had never felt so very naked before a woman before, while remaining entirely clothed.
“Just-- forget it,” she grumbled in return.
“Of course, chérie."