What time is it? What time is it?

With a flick of her wrist, Lena brought up her watches again. Seventeen twenty four hours local time. Seventeen twernty four greenwich. Her eyes flicked from the ticking face to the top right corner of the AR-HUD built into her goggles. One seven two four. Then to the glowing face of Big Ben in the far distance.

Five twenty four in the afternoon.

Then, at the same moment, all three ticked over to twenty five past the hour.

Good. That’s good that’s good. No problems there. Everything is okay... Agent Lena Oxton - formerly Flight Lieutenant Lena ‘Tracer’ Oxton, ID number 3945_50 - breathed more steadily now as she closed her eyes. You can always trust Winston’s work. Big guy knows what he’s doing. What he’s done. We did all the testing in the world to make sure that the Chronal Accelerator worked.

The Slipstream was meant to be the same. A quiet whisper hissed into her ear. Tested down to the last screw… and look at what it did to you.

And it did work. Just… in more ways than anticipated. Tracer shot back. She’d met them. The people who had designed the XF-60 Slipstream. The ones who had made her into… this. When she first walked into the room - before the engineers and the scientists had arrived - she wanted to be angry, but then she saw the relief and regret on their faces. At seeing her alive. At seeing her… like this. A woman who had to carry a prison around her chest. And even escape from that jail meant something worse than death. Because nothing was as bad as… ‘going back’.

She had forgiven them.

Tracer placed her gloved fingertips on the smooth white metal device on her chest; it was a harness, essentially, strapped on just like body armor you’d find the world over. The earlier models were basically an Overwatch standard issue ballistic plate carrier with the Chronal Accelerator prototype bolted onto it. It had been heavy and it had been hot in Watchpoint Hereford’s science facilities… But it protected her from time itself, rather than just mere pulsefire.

(1936hrs)

Speaking of pulse weapons, she needed to re-qualify for basic weapons if she wanted to stay an active agent of Overwatch. Something for another time. A new life. Because technically, Lena Oxton was legally dead (Cause of death: aircraft malfunction), and the ‘new’ Lena Oxton was (again, legally) a whole new person, since resurrection was still a grey area of the law; nobody quite knew how to deal with a person after they came back from the dead six months after all her affairs had been sorted out. So Ol’ Morrison himself had quietly ordered a new set of papers be made (not forged!) for her, and got her British citizenship, and a new birth certificate…

Basically, a new life.

Chin up, luv. That means your student loans were forgiven since you ‘died’. One less thing to worry about.

She almost tripped over an empty can of spray paint. (1955hrs) She looked up.

And a thousand new problems have popped up since. She thought darkly. Th writing was on the wall, as it were.

Lena couldn’t help but stare as she walked through familiar streets - her old stomping grounds - and scowled at the graffiti on the brickwork almost as old as King’s Row itself. Wanting nothing more than to grab a can of paint herself and obliterate the hate scrawled onto them. She punched her fists into the pockets of her bomber jacket, and brought up news articles from around the world as the year wound down to a close.

More rioting. More protests. Omnic establishments and employees targeted. The hatred seething through her home city was palpable, and she could only do so much about it. Kicking an empty can and quietly delighting that it landed in a rubbish bin, Tracer meandered through the narrow streets of King’s Row. (2002hrs) Past the big church turned temporary Overwatch ‘Minipoint’. Idly, she wondered if the big screens were still there, or had they already been looted by the locals? Lena found herself finding familiar shops, signs… and soon she was munching on steaming hot chips out of a bag of newsprint as she walked.

Her mind elsewhere, she barely noticed that she was counting steps more than watching the street. Turning without looking up as she used thumb and forefinger to keep browsing local news articles on her HUD. A few weeks from now, Mondatta - an omnic monk - would be joining in talks. Preaching about its beliefs in the Iris, and how unity would bring peace. She just might go to that; it was being hosted at a local community center. A small event, just a few people.

The start of something better.

Lena reached into her pockets for keys that weren’t there, stopped in front of a too-familiar door.

One that she hadn’t seen in years.

It used to be home.

-

“Are you alright?”

Tracer snapped out of her reverie. How long had she been just staring? She checked the time. Wrist. The remains of the chips had long ago grown cold in her hand. Goggles. Batteries were nearly dead. Big Ben in the distance.

2338hrs. Twenty two minutes to midnight.

Bloody hell. Don’t need Chronal Disassociation to lose track of time, now do we?

“Hello?” Queried the voice again, a little more worried this time, and Lena turned around to a pale face framed in red hair, who stepped back when she pulled up her goggles. The already pale woman went a few shades whiter as she stumbled back a half step. Something in her eyes set off alarm bells in Lena’s mind. Oh no. She’s… well, not in shock but getting there.

Now that’s torn it. Tracer was quick to raise her hands (spilling a few chips in the process) and try to show that she meant no harm.

“Oh! Uh. Sorry. I’m…”

“Standing in front of my flat.” The redhead finished for her. It took her a few more moments to recompose herself, to unhitch her breathing and Lena gave her all the space she needed, backing up a few steps as she did so. The hand unclenched from the weapon in her pocket. Finally, the stranger spoke. “You’re not a stalker, are you?”

“What? Me? No! Nonono!” Lena quickly replied, just a little too fast for normal humans, almost dropping the chips entirely in the scramble to deny her supposed creepiness. “It’s just…”

“You used to live here.” The stranger finished for her in that same, quietly awed voice. Her eyes flicking to the small flat. “Left in a hurry… or couldn’t come back at all.”

Now that gave her pause. Lena searched for words, but none were forthcoming. “Uh… yeah. How did you…”

“I had to pack up your stuff, Lena Oxton.” Smiled the woman with a huff. She fished around a bit as she stepped up the door, and whipped out a set of keys (they still have the tiny little Orca keychain on them) and opened up the flat. “You have very interesting taste in t-shirts. Come on in. I’ll make us some tea.”

“Thank y- hey! Are you sure you’re not the stalker?” Lena returned the smile with an accusatory smirk, sticking out her hand - please don’t phase through - and grinning as the new tenant accepted it and shook.

“No, I’m Emily. Emily Caldwin.” The redhead shot back. Both stepped inside, and began to make their way upstairs. “Didn’t expect it, but… well, it’s a good thing I didn’t just throw everything out.”

“You didn’t!?” The brunette’s jaw nearly cracked the casing on her harness. She could kiss the woman right now, but instead opted for a crushing hug. “Oh, thankyouthankyouthankyou!”

“Uh. Your welcome?” Emily quirked an eyebrow, though it was clear she was only faking offense as Tracer released her from the sudden bear hug. “It just… seemed like a pity. And I thought that there would be… you know, someone to pick it up. So there’s about a half dozen boxes sitting in the spare room.”

Tracer nodded absently as they made their way up, looking up at the door. A very specific door. Her bedroom door. You didn't take the master bedroom, did you… “Yeah… no, that wouldn’t have happened.Not like I told them where I lived, anyway.”

“Oh?” The redhead did another head-tilt-and-raise-eyebrow, seemingly her nonverbal way of asking ‘what the hell?’.

“Even when it’s the 2050s, I had a really…. traditional… family. No surprise they didn’t want my stuff.” She shrugged. “I like girls. Maybe I'm bi, though? Never tried guys before so I can’t really say. Whatever I was...whatever I am… when the olds found out what I wasn’t… and saw me with the girlfriend at the time… yeah. Overwatch doesn't care, though.”

Emily was back to that deer-in-the-headlights look. “... Uhm… is that normal?”

“Yeah, of course it's normal!” Tracer sighed. Even in the latter half of the twenty first century you still found people th-.

“I meant the teleporting.”

“Telewhatn-Oh bloody… hell!” Tracer grimaced, another sudden blink sending herself across the road and, somehow, left her boots still standing in front of Emily, wiggling around in the snow as if their owner was still kicking her heel with the toe of the other foot.

And now her toes were starting to dig themselves a shallow grave. One that Tracer hold could swallow her up.

Emily continued to watch, entranced, until the boots gave up and flopped over.

“So. That was new.” The redhead muttered, mostly to herself. She turned to Tracer and called out. “Are you going to come inside and have some tea or are you going to get cold feet?”

Tracer blinked (with her eyes this time), trying to process the redhead’s words. “You cheeky little-”

Emily laughs, warmly, and steps inside. “Welcome home, Lena.”