Chapter Text
Lena Oxley, callsign Tracer, awoke to the bright chriping of her personal PDA at 1 in the morning.
She squinted at the ceiling. The blue light of her ChronoTrigger pulsed softly, casting the cozy space of her room in a pale blue light. Across the room on her dresser, her PDA glared. The fan at the foot of her queensized bed pushed her back under her blue duvet, promising nothing but cold feet and misery. With a decided snort and a sigh, Lena closed her eyes and pulled the covers back over her head. Whoever was paging her could wait until the morning
From it's perch at the edge of her desk, her PDA started ringing, insistently. With a snarl Lena wrapped her duvet over her shoulders and hobbled out of bed. Nearly tripping on yesterdays clothes where she'd left them the evening before, she snatched the PDA with a snarl.
"Mornin’ luv," she snapped, lacking the usual sunny cheer that persisted in her daylight hours. “You run out of peanut butter already?” No doubt she would have had the patience to be cheery if Winston had the patience to remember that not everyone pulled all nighters watching Dark Souls speedruns on YouTube.
"Ameilie has been recovered."
Lena's stomach hit the ground. For a moment she stood, motionless, letting a prickly sort of dread wash over her that had nothing to do with the fan wafting cold air against her calves.
With a blue flashing, she started tripping into pants. "Where is she?" she practically shouted into her PDA. "I- What happened?"
"M-Morrison was busting a safehouse in Oxford," the hitch in Winston's voice was barely noticable when he said "Morrison". He was getting better at hiding his nervousness around the Soldier. "Apparently while he was busting in, she was busting out."
"Busting out?" Lena paused, one arm in her jumper while the other gripped her PDA for dear life. “Wot, like she was tryna give Talon the slip?"
"I presume so." Lena stuck her tongue out childishly. "76 found a bunch of video equipment in there, monitors, cameras, and..." Winston's swallow was audible over the phone, "... a couple of dead Talon operatives."
"Where is she now?" desperately Lena pulled her jumper over the ChronoTrigger, not bothering to strap on the bigger Accelerator she'd wear for missions. "I'll come to you."
"She got brought here to the London base, Morrison wants me to do a psyche evaluation," Winston said. "But Lena..."
"What?" Lena stopped at her door, hanging on Winston's every word like a woman hodling tight to the edge of some great precipice.
"They're already talking about putting her away somewhere, like... Gibraltar," Winston paused. "If she's not cooperative during her psyche eval..."
"Don't worry Winston," Lena said, regaining some of her classic Tracer cheer. "Cavalry’s on the way."
"Excusez-moi, madame, je m'appelle Winston. J'ai été assigné à faire votre l’examen de psychologíque,” Winston’s voice was remarkably calm. “Est-ce que nous pouvons procéder?”
Through the thick, mirrored glass, Lena saw the blue Frenchwoman nod. Lena bit her lip worriedly; Ameilie looked dangerously thin, and a thick bandage was wrapped along the length of her forearm. She sported a thick black bruise on her left cheek and the soft seashell curve of her lip was marred by dark scab.
The hard set of Winston’s shoulders softened and he slid open Widowmaker’s case file. “Qu’est-ce que vous appellez?”
“Ameilie LeCroix,” Lena’s heart fluttered at her voice; soft and ragged through exhaustion and the speakers in the corner of the room.
Commander Jack Morrison snorted a note of derision and discontent as he slouched against the far wall, very carefully pretending to be uninterested in the scene before him. His eyes were dark with tiredness and urban camo paint, and even the sling wrapped around his arm was worn, worn, and a little tattered looking.
Lena eyed the man who’d taught her how to hold a gun with a sidelong interest. Soldier 76’s grey eyes offered little more than their usual air of suspicion and malaise, but the sharp set of his lips made her nervous. The former Overwatch Commander had never been a soft or compromising man since the Swiss base had gone up in pyrotechnics, but the twitching muscle in his jaw did not bode well for Widowmaker’s fate.
“Well?” Lena asked, trying to sound casual. “You buying it?”
“What do you think, kid?” Morrison’s voice was impassive, and Tracer’s heart quailed.
“I ‘unno,” Lena gulped, and glanced back at Ameilie impulsively. “Seems like a lot of trouble and/or/also bodies for Talon to have just... given her away.”
“It was a lot of trouble getting her back the first time,” a hint of bitternes crept back into Morrison’s voice, and Lena squirmed under the dark silence that followed. She turned away from the old soldier’s gaze and stifled a yawn.
“You know what I reckon?” Lena turned back with a roguish grin creeping back on her face.
“What do you reckon?” The corner of Soldier’s lip twitched indulgently.
Lena leaned in conspiratorially. “I reckon your just grumpy cause she bashed your arm up,” she giggled, and Morrison snorted.
“I’ll take my arm for what it’s worth,” Soldier said. “A lot of people got worse.”
“Yeah...” Lena sighed, and yawned.
“Go get some sleep, kid,” Morrison said. “We’ll wake you up when she tries anything funny.”
“Gee thanks,” Lena mumbled, and patted his uninjured shoulder. “Get that arm fixed up, kay Pops?”
Soldier 76 snorted and shrugged her off. “Go to bed junior.”
As she staggered out of the interrogation room, she heard Winston intone from the speakers overhead. “Qu’est-ce que tu etais sur le sixième de janvier, 2072?“
Commander Morrison met Winston in the hall, because of course he would. Winston sighed and adjusted his glasses. Morrison leaned against the wall, 5 feet and 7 inches of thick corded muscle and gristle. His hand was shoved deep in his pocket while the other rested in the makeshift sling he’d come in with, despite Winston’s most winsome suggestions to seek medical attention. You’d thing the man who carried half a dozen Biotic Field generators in his belt would care more for his bodily health.
“As soon as I finish my report you’ll be the first to read it,” Winston muttered morosely, craddling his file under an arm. He’d just gotten out of one interrogation, was it too much to be spared another?
“I’m sure it will be quite thorough,” Soldier responded.
“Where’s Lena?” Winston ambled his way to the lift; if he was going to be interrogated he’d rather do it on a full stomach and the kitchen was one of the few parts of the London base that wasn’t 300 feet underground.
“I sent her to bed.” Winston briefly regretted enterig such an enclose space with Soldier; he was so close to the older man that he could smell the sharp gunpowder on his gloves, the grease of his combat makeup, the thick musk of sweat that suggested rigorous physical activity and dominance. Winston sneezed, sharply, trying to clear his nostrils of the smell, and the elevator dinged.
“Need a tissue?” Soldier didn’t look back, which was quite fine with Winston. Luckily, Commander Morisson had only eyes for the coffee machine, and did not witness the brief but telling look of confusion that crossed Winston’s gorilla face as he pondered the legitimacy of the request.
He didn’t even notice when Winston nearly tripped on the closing lift door.
“Cream? Sugar?”
“Two cream, please,” Winston’s heart quailed as Soldier 76 reached for his two biggest coffee cups, the Minion mug Lena had bought him ironically for Christmas, and the metal tankard Rheinhardt had bought him unironically. He hoped Soldier would have enough mercy to give him the tankard.
“So what’s the diagnosis, Doc,” Soldier slid Winston the Minion mug.
Winston sighed and set his folder on the table. “She’s in shock for sure,” He sipped his coffee and supressed the urge to gag. He hated black coffee. “Fairly lucid, I’d say. Recognized dates, locations, some faces.”
“Spill any secrets?” Soldier was not the man to sit at a table and look at files; that was Winston’s job. He stood at the counter, glowering into his tankard.
“Actually, yes,” Winston flipped through his notes, briefly. “The location of a few safehouses, a few names, half a hit list...”
“I’ll see what else I can get out of her in Gibraltar,” Soldier set his tankard down and scratched the bottom of his neck, jutting his jaw almost rebelliously.
“Um,” Wiston muttered. “Well. You see...”
Soldier only answer was a mounting glare that made Winston’s fur tingle. He adjusted his glasses, and then cleaned them off on the table cloth. When they returned to his face, Soldier 76 was still glaring at him, much to Winston’s dismay.
“My ...calculations... indicate that Ameilie LaCroix is a greater risk in transit than, uh, leaving her, in her current position. In the basement,” Winston finished lamely, and winced.
“Your... calculations,” Morrison’s voice was dangerously quiet.
“Yes,” Winston muttered. “My calculations.”
“Well,” the old soldier stepped off the counter and leaned over the table. “Do your... calculations... account for the amount of bodies I had to step over in that safe house.”
“Yes,” Winston shrunk back from the rage that was emanating from the lithe frame of the man across from him. “All 14 of them.”
“And do they account for all the people she has killed?” Soldier almost snarled. “Does it recall the historical precedent sent by Gerard LeCroix?”
“Yes I have weighed Gerard LeCroix in my equations,” Winston sighed to his feet, and set the Minion mug down on the table. “I am not so blind as to ignore the danger posed by an active Widowmaker-”
“And yet you intend to keep her here,” Morrison rose to his full height glaring down at the 2,000 pound silverback gorilla, “in the relative freedom of the London basement.”
“Through some fortuitous combination of a blow the head, so graciously delivered,” Winston fought to keep his voice calm as Soldier snarled and paced like a caged animal, “and her own circumstance, it is my professional opinion that Ameilie LaCroix remains unactivated, a state I intend to preserve by avoiding undue risk-”
“Undue risk?!” Soldier snarled.
“-undue risk implied by transportation to Watchpoint Gibraltar,” Winston met Soldier’s eyes, steely grey on a softer hazel. “You cannot denie that the London Basement is safer than any train or plane you could procure on such a short notice.”
“Bullshit,” Soldier growled. “My calculations indicate that Widowmaker is a threat, and she well be taken to Gibraltar to be detained and questioned until further notice-”
“With all due respect, Soldier Morrison,” Winston struggled to keep his voice level. “That decision is now outside of your jurisdiction.”
Former Overwatch Commander Jack Morrison took a step back, and Winston rose to his full height.
“Ameilie LaCroix is in Overwatch custody now,” Winston swallowed the snarl that was building in the back of his throat. “And though we will always treasure your input on an advisory level, you are no longer Commander of all Overwatch initiatives.”
“I am.”
Winston was prepared for rage. He expected shouts, curses, even a face full of hot coffee. What he did not expect was the sheer glare of contempt that curdled Morrison’s lip and knocked his bootheels together.
“Very good, Commander,” Soldier 76 sneered, and saluted. “By your leave.”
“Dismissed,” Winston saluted back, and Soldier left, his smart military march somehow worse than a blustery storm out. Winston stayed at his table, shaking ever so gently like a poplar in gentle breeze, before collapsing back into his chair. He sighed, and flipped through his file. Whatever his rank, he still had a report to fill out.
At least Tracer would be happy.
Tracer awoke gasping. The room swam around her as she sucked in lungful after lungful of air, her heart pounding as if it were about to burst. She sat up, wheezing, cloudy nightmarish images of an enormous spider, a drowning woman, a thick veils of black smoke crowded in her memory.
Lena sighed and rubbed her forehead. Nothing like a nightmare to mess up her day before it even started. Too keyed up to go back to sleep, she tossed the covers off and dragged her blue Overwatch hoodie over her bony frame. Breifly she considered putting on pants; nah, her TARDIS boxers were fine, Winston had seen worse.
She found the scientist hunched over his laptop in the kitchen, drooling ever so sligthly on his keyboard. Apparently the Minion mug full of cold coffee hadn’t kept him awake. With a sigh she set about making a fresh pot.
“Oi, Winston, where do you keep your jam?” Tracer bent over, peering into the depths of Winston’s bizarrely organized pantry.”
“Huh- What? Oh for the love of God Lena put some pants on.”
“Wots wrong with my bum?” Lena turned around and put her hands on her hips. “Jam Winston, you put it on toast.”
“It’s in the fridge,” Winston said, very pointedly looking at the ceiling fan. “Next to the pickles.”
“Big baby,” Tracer giggled and crossed to the fridge. “You’ve seen me naked I don’t know why you’ve got your bananas in a bunch over a bit of leg.”
“Believe me I have not missed the experience,” Winston muttered.
“Oh, I’m Winston, I made an all arcane character on Skyrim because I don’t like fun,” Tracer jumped on the counter and crossed her legs daintily. “I’ve only seen a penis in anatomy textbooks.”
“Oh, I’m Lena,” Winston proclaimed in a high pitched, parodically cockney accent as he reached for the mug. “I flashed a palace guard for a dare.”
“How dare you!” Lena handed Winston his cup of coffee, complete with the two cream. “I am a kind, innocent, pure- stop laughing i mean it- virtuous lady and I do not deserve such rough infamy.”
“That boffin didn’t deserve your rough infamy either.” Winston snorted and singed his tongue on the coffee.
“Careful, it’s hot,” Tracer said smuggly.
Winston made a rude gesture in sign language.
“Where’s Morrison?” Tracer looked around. “He’s probably smelled the coffee already.”
“Not from Ipswich he hasn’t,” Winston resumed typing on his laptop. “He left last night.”
“Oh,” Lena tried to hide the look of hurt that flashed across her face. “So Amelie’s gone too.”
“I hope not?” Winston didn’t look up. “She’s supposed to be in the basement still.”
“Oh, you don’t mean-”
“I went over his head,” Winston muttered and leaned back in his chair. “Widowmaker is being held here until further notice.”
'
“Oh,” Lena said. “Fuck.”
Amelie was cold and confused. Cold she was used to; confused was something of a new emotion. She shrunk down into her cot, rubbing her hands as best as she could around the handcuffs. Her face hurt; gingerly she touched the welt of dried blood on her lip. The gorrilla with a terrible accent she’d hallucinated up had taken the deep purple jumpsuit she’d woken up in and repalced it with a bright orange scrubs, despite being a hallucination and a gorrilla.
Alright maybe she wasn’t so used to the cold. She looked down at her hands; her skin was a pale blue, ice cold. Desperately she tried to rub them together to warm them up, but they stayed stubbornly icey.
“You a bit chilly there luv?” Amelie jumped and shrank back. She didn’t recognize the woman in front of her, but something about her, from her flyaway brown hair to her brown aviator jacket made Amelie feel a bit warmer.
“Je suis...” Amelie paused. They were speaking English, maybe the woman didn’t know French? “I’m fine.”
“Oh sure you are,” the woman slid her jacket over her shoulders and held it out. “Here you go.”
Amelie could only stare for a moment. Under the jacket the woman wore a tight black muscle shirt; a blue light was strapped to her chest with some sort of harness. The bottom of her shirt rid up just a hair, revealing a thin stripe of pale skin, and Amelie blushed.
“Vous êtes très mignon- er,” Amelie took the jacket and threw it over her shoulders awkwardly. “Thank you.”
“Welcome,” the woman sat down on the bed next to her. Her jacket felt warm but Amelie could feel the heat radiate off of her exposed skin. “Do you remember me?”
“N-no,” she said, sliding a little farther over on the bed. She’d probably remember a girl such as that. “Should I?”
She only shrugged. “I dunno. Winston said you didn’t remember much I guess I was hoping...”
Amelie perked up a bit. “Winston? Is he always a gorilla?”
The girl laughed. “I’m afraid so.” She stands and Amelie is almost disappointed to see her go. “He’s a good guy, just not as good as me.” She winks, prompting another blush from Amelie.
“If you need anything, just ask for Tracer,” she says and disappears through the door. It seals with a pneumatic hiss.
Tracer. The name sparked something in Amelie... she struggled to reach it, her memory just beyond her grasp.
Tracer. Lena Oxton. January 7th, 207
Oh God
On a été ma faute.