Lena runs across a rooftop in nothing but her old track uniform, wind in her hair and grin on her face. She runs then leaps to the next rooftop, runs and leaps, again and again, never tiring of the cold London night air whipping against her face as she runs. And she leaps.

Then she stops, dead in her tracks. She hears a woman scream, looks down to see a crowd gathered around an open limousine. Despite being far above them, she sees in crystal clarity. An omnic garbed in monk’s clothes lies halfway inside the car.

She hears cruel laughter behind her, cold and low, and the sound causes a tingling feeling at the back of her neck and across her skin. Not unlike the feeling of spiders crawling all over.

She turns and sees a woman standing on the rooftop across her. The woman darts away. Lena runs, and she leaps.

When she lands, she’s no longer Lena, but Tracer, the bright blue of her tracksuit replaced with orange, the glow of her chronal accelerator lighting her path. The woman turns around a corner, black hair flowing behind her, and she follows, only to run into a cloud of purple smoke.

She falls to her knees, coughs once, twice, the smell sinister and the taste bitter, assaulting her senses and causing a stinging sensation in her eyes. She sees a blurry outline in front of her, and she looks up. Long black hair accentuates a regal face.

That laughter comes back, just as cold, just as cruel, but this time tinkling like bells. Sweet, Lena thinks.

She blinks once, twice, and jet black hair turns fiery red. Pretty.

A giggle. “Why, thank you, love.” The endearment drips with poisoned honey. Sweet. Pretty. Lena sighs, and an icy hand caresses her cheek. The cold makes her jolt away from the touch. Wrong.

She opens her eyes fully, and she sees Emily standing in front of her, smile unkind. Wrong. Wrongwrongwrongwro—

Emily pouts. “Why? What’s wrong?”

Lena backs away, tries to yell, but no sound comes out. Emily reaches out for her, but Lena sees the spider web tattooed on her forearm, and she slaps it away, letting out another soundless scream.

“Lena, what’s wrong?”

Wrongwrongwrongwrongwrongwrong—

“Lena!”

She gasps, eyes flying opening. Her eyes dart around the room, landing on a picture on the bedside drawer. Emily and Lena kissing under a mistletoe, the former almost dropping a tray of banana bread, Winston at the back looking at them with exasperated fondness. Home. She’s at home. Safe.

“Lena?”

She turns, sees grey eyes stormy with worry. Pretty. She says something Lena doesn’t hear, too focused on the sound of her voice instead of her words. Sweet.

“Emily,” Lena sits up, realizes there are tears in her eyes. “I—”

“Shh,” Emily goes closer, wrapping her arms around her. “It’s just a dream.”

Lena returns her embrace twice as tight, burying her head into the crook of her neck, grateful for the hand that rubs her back comfortingly.

“Not going to let them take you,” she murmurs into pretty red hair.

“Lena?”

“Not going to let them,” she promises, clutching her just a bit tighter.

Through the gap in the curtains, she sees something glinting on the rooftop across them, and for a brief moment, she thinks she sees a widow’s kiss. When she blinks, it’s gone. She glares through the window regardless, feeling the urge to run and leap and chase after it, anything to keep Emily safe.

“They’ll have to kill me first.”