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Both Sides Now

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 Tracer flinched as the sharp crack of a gunshot rang out, not because she wasn’t used to the noise, but because she was . Although it had only been thirty seconds or so that she’d been pinned down here, it felt like so much longer , and it had her legitimately doubting that her timeframe was correct.

 She checked her watch.

 Twenty-three seconds.

 With a heavy sigh, Tracer rolled her eyes, blinked out from behind the low wall, emptied her clips while sailing through the air, and then rewound right back into her hiding place while giggling gleefully.

“You were supposed to stay put,” Ana mumbled as she dropped into a crouch next to Tracer, the younger woman looking back a little abashedly as another rifle-shot snapped the air. 

“I know,” Tracer sighed, rolling one shoulder back against the stone, “but I figured if I popped out there, I’d draw even more attention, right?” She grinned brightly, hopefully, as she looked over to Ana’s weathered face.

 “No,” the older woman’s words were measured but not blunt, and a seemingly ever-present hint of a smirk played at the corner of her lips, “you just got restless and now you’re justifying yourself.”

 Tracer started to blush a little and cleared her throat, but Ana made her position on the matter clear when she popped up - swiftly, and spry for a woman of her age - and took a quick potshot back at the other sniper’s position. There was a difference between staying put, and staying hidden - and they needed to make it clear that they were still there, in place.

 Three rounds answered hers: one over Ana’s head, one right beside Tracer’s position, sending a chip of brick flying off of the edge of the low wall, and one more that Tracer could feel slamming into the other side of the bricks.

 “Good job, team,” a gravelly voice came over the radio, familiar yet still a little bit oddly unsettling to the young brit, “I’ve nearly flanked her position. Keep her eyes on you.”

 “You got it, boss!” Tracer chirped, dashing out before Ana could say anything, the chronal accelerator whirring as it unleashed whatever science-y magic Winston had put into it, and Tracer was sailing through the air. The wind ruffled her hair, almost in slow motion - timeless, really, in a way that she didn’t think she could ever explain. She’d tried, a few times, at Winston’s behest, with him hoping he could come to a deeper understanding about chronotemporal physics, but in the end she’d just become a little frustrated. It was like trying to explain flight to a bus. Frustrating, and unlikely to succeed, that is.

 To any outside observer, Tracer would be little more than a swoop of bluish light, an ephemeral swirl through the night air - no hint of her hair that clumped thickly and wildly, her freckles, nor even the machine itself which granted her those abilities to speed or slow her own timeframe at a whim, side effects of a cure for an accidental ailment.

 She could see a bullet coming toward her, all but standing still, and she arched her back to twist around it, the motion sending her spiralling a little to the side, reactively. It had taken her a long time to map out how movements worked in the odd little time-warps she went on, but she’d pretty much nailed it down, Maverick that she was. Sure, sometimes she still ended up upside down… but that was just part of the fun of it, wasn’t it?

 A burst of fire as the sniper shot again, Tracer returned herself to the normal timestream and unleashed her twin machine pistols in response - then another rifle shot, and with a gasp, Tracer reflexively spun back time, until she was right next to Ana once more, panting slightly.

 “She get you?” Ana raised an eyebrow over her patch, and Tracer nodded, frowning a little. “She’s good,” Ana murmured, pulling an old pistol out of a thigh-holster and blindly firing it up over the wall in roughly the right direction.

 Tracer only half-nodded again, her frown deepening and her mind clouding as memories started to flit past. They were so hard to discern, sometimes, and she almost felt like she was back there again, back then, unstuck from time and all that it carried - when her memories and predictions and thoughts and dreams had all been one, future and past and present all jumbled and tangled. It didn’t really happen anymore, not with the accelerator, but… it still felt reminiscent sometimes.

 Back in the sky, above King’s square, another bullet - just like the one a moment ago - spiralling through the air toward her. She moved, did move, will move, does move - got out of the way of it, but the bullet found another target in Tekhartha Mondatta. Tracer still wondered whether it had been meant for her, that bullet - whether she , in getting out of the way, had caused the great man to be killed.

 “Why is she…” Tracer sighed, frowning deeply. “Why is she like this?” She turned beseeching eyes, wide behind her goggles, to the war- and world-wearied sniper beside her, who sighed slightly and settled back against the stone of the wall.

 “Let me…” Ana began, pulling her rifle out from its resting position to point over the wall, and squeezing the trigger, the machine leaping back with recoil, but her practiced hand spun it around to come to rest across her lap. “...tell you a story,” Ana continued, as if there’d been no interruption at all, “about Amélie Lacroix…”

 Tracer hadn’t heard the name before, but she had heard the next one Ana mentioned - Gerard Lacroix, a member of Overwatch before the young brit had ever joined, and one instrumental in the early fight against Talon. Ana reiterated that, peppering the story with brief retorts from her rifle or her pistol, or pauses for Tracer to leap out and draw the sniper’s fire, keeping attention on them, and more importantly away from their teammate.

 Amélie had been his wife, apparently, which Tracer wasn’t overly surprised to discover. She began to wonder where the story was going, in fact, as Ana went on - talking about the wife’s disappearance, Gerard’s death. There may have been a few words she’d missed, sure (there usually were), but she didn’t see how it could be related - particularly once Ana started talking about some other mission, later on, saving hostage scientists who Talon had taken captive.

 “They were like… lightning,” the older woman murmured darkly, shaking her head. “There had been stories told of a new Talon sniper, and now they’d taken down half of my team… but I got the drop on them.”

 “Great!” Tracer chirped, popping her head around the side of the wall, but raising her gun over the top to fire up at the belltower that was the focus of their attention. Ana, however, didn’t mirror her enthusiasm. She was rarely exactly an excitable woman, but it was evident to Tracer that right now the long-standing sniper was at a particularly unemphatic point, and the younger woman looked over with curious concern in her eyes.

 “Not so great,” Ana shook her head sadly, a stray few strands of pale hair falling across her face. “I got a good shot in, took them off-guard, and took off their helmet. Lined up the final shot, the killing blow,” the older woman’s smooth voice was dark, tired, as she raised her rifle to her shoulder, the tip not wavering in the slightest. A little chill went up Tracer’s spine. Ana was a good teammate, and a good friend - of sorts - but still, sometimes, she got a little bit… scary.

 “There, glaring back at me through my scope,” Ana’s hand tightened at her rifle’s stock, “was Amélie Lacroix. Widowmaker ,” another chill for Tracer, “in the flesh. We didn’t know, up until that point…”

 With a long sigh, Ana let her rifle droop, then drop back into her lap. “I hesitated. I paused, I gave her an opportunity, and she took it - I’d failed my team, failed in my mission, and I paid for it.” She raised a hand, half-gesturing to her eyepatch. Tracer tried to offer her what she hoped was a comforting smile, and then glanced back, over her shoulder, to the bare tip of the belltower - all she could see from here, for fear of opening herself up to another one of the sniper’s shots.

 “She defected?” Tracer’s voice was one of almost disbelief, but disdain as well. It aligned with everything else she knew about the woman - cold, cruel, and practically entirely alien. Just thinking about her boggled Tracer’s mind: she knew there were some mean people, those who didn’t care about others, but at least some of them she could understand . That explosive maniac, Junkrat - it seemed like he only cared about enjoyment, whatever seemed like fun at the time, regardless of who it hurt… and while Tracer didn’t see how things that hurt other people could be fun , at least she could kind of understand it. Widowmaker, though? She seemed to delight in the actual cruelty of it, rather than having any care at all about the ends that it brought.

 “No,” Ana countered, and Tracer’s eyes flew to her. The older woman may only have had one eye, but it held enough pain for a dozen. “I- I thought so too, at first, but now..." she sighed. "No, Amélie was a dear girl. She didn’t defect , saghir - she was stolen. Brainwashed, tortured and twisted, of that I have no doubt. No,” she sighed again, turning to take a knee and prop her rifle in a crack in the stone, “Amélie Lacroix was killed. Widowmaker took her place - and if you ever come face to face with her, let my patch serve as a lesson.” Ana faced Tracer fully, almost devoid of expression save for a hint of concern. “Give her no opportunity whatsoever , and if she gives you one? You take it. She would do the same.”

 It was a tense moment, a solemn moment; one that was interrupted by another rifle-crack, but this shot wasn’t accompanied by the sound of a bullet striking the stone or brick nearby. It was, however, shortly followed by a grunt from the telecom device. “Damnit,” that gravelly voice spoke up once again, “I’ve been made. Can’t make the target zone - one of you, draw her fire, fast!”

 Technically speaking, he wasn’t her commander anymore - technically speaking, he couldn’t be. Overwatch didn’t exist anymore, it had been taken apart, disassembled and scattered, and they were just… fragments. Bits and bobs and pieces, pulled back together again, but his voice - even if he didn’t carry the title “Commander” anymore, and even if he didn’t go by “Jack Morrison” - still carried the notes of urgency, of leadership. He was… different, he’d changed - they all had - but there was still, within him, Tracer’s old Commander.

 Or at least, bits and bobs and pieces of him.

 She didn’t wait, when he asked for help - or ordered it, whichever - Tracer just leapt into action. “Cheers, love,” she chirped, escaping their hiding place in a bright blue swirl of chronal energy, before Ana could say a thing. Of course. The older woman just sighed, slung her rifle over her shoulder, and slunk back into the alleyway she’d emerged from.

“One of these days,” she murmured below her breath, “somebody will listen to me...”

 Tracer delighted in the night air as she sailed from rooftop to rooftop. No bullets flew her way, Widowmaker’s attention presumably drawn in the direction of Tracer’s teammate instead. Not a good situation, at all - Tracer knew that if Jack didn’t get to their destination, bad things would happen.

 At the very least, he’d get pretty grumpy. That was bad enough.

 “Whee!” Tracer giggled, doing a barrel roll as she launched herself through the sky, a million times more free than in any jet - and a trillion times more free than she’d been a minute ago.

 ...and whatever her girlfriend Emily said, Tracer never exaggerated. Not at all.

 She also never got overexcited or leapt into things without thinking them through, which was why she definitely didn’t arrive at the belltower out of breath, and with her chronal accelerator whirring down as it went into a recharge cycle.

 No, definitely not - no, that whirring noise was just the wind, and the harness’ light was only dimming because of that cloud that was moving in front of the moon, and-

 “Oh, crum,” Tracer sighed softly to herself, shaking her head, “you’ve gone and done it again, haven’t you?” She kept her voice soft, hands gripping her pistols tightly as she looked around, becoming quickly aware of just where she was.

 That being, of course, in a belltower which had been - up until, it seemed, moments ago - occupied by an enemy sniper who had been taking potshots at Tracer and her friends. Now, though, it seemed as if Widowmaker was nowhere to be seen.

  Stroke of luck, that, the young brit thought to herself as she stepped softly forward, caution instilled by the knowledge that, for another moment at least, she was anchored to this timestream, unable to alter things the way she normally would.

 At least, though, there wasn’t an irate blue frenchwoman pointing a rifle at her. Tracer nodded a little as she took another step, looking around. The window, there - that was where Widowmaker had been set up firing down. Empty shells littered the area, some of them still smoking, and more than one of Ana’s darts were in the area as well. A wet splash on the stone there showed where one had struck and shattered, splattering its contents - and in the wooden framing of the belltower’s open window, one was stuck whole, needle jammed deeply into the wood. Tracer looked at it for a second, the stars and clouds on the far side twisting and warping through the curvature of the glass cylinder and the fluid inside.

  Not here. Tracer turned around, away from the window, and let out a breath that she hadn’t noticed she’d been holding. The moon shone over her shoulder, casting shadows into the room - her wild hair, her own at-the-ready machine pistols, her frame silhouetted against the floor. A cloud shifted in the skies above and all of the moonlight was cut off, the whole interior of the small room - if it could even be called that - filled with darkness.

 No shadows, anymore - or rather, nothing but shadows - so there was nothing to betray Widowmaker’s presence as she slowly let herself down on her line, long hair hanging below her, rifle pulled in against her shoulder as she dangled down into the open window. From this range, she hardly needed to aim - from this range, even those inept so-called ‘teammates’ of hers would have no chance of missing a shot. Her lips twitched slightly into a smirk, the red eyes of her helmet glowing as she let herself descend a little further, stretching out the barrel of her rifle… just enough to place the cold, steel tip against the back of Tracer’s neck.

 Tracer’s heart couldn’t decide whether it wanted to leap and race, or stop cold, so it alternated frantically between the two as she caught her breath between her teeth, Ana’s warning ringing through her mind. Give her no opportunity whatsoever…

 If this wasn’t an opportunity, Tracer didn’t know what was. She’d messed up, jumped in too fast - as usual - overreached, and now…

 ...now what?

 “Bonsoir, cherie,” Widowmaker purred, barely swaying left and right in the wind, the slight movements telegraphed directly into Tracer’s vertebrae. “Having fun jumping around, are we?” She chuckled a little, a sound that wormed into Tracer’s ears and through her mind, down her spine in cold shards and shivers, and the young brit swallowed heavily. A few moments, just a few more love, then you’ll be back up and running! Just...just...hold on a little longer…

 “I…” Tracer started, trying to come up with… anything. A question, a taunt, a response, anything at all to string the conversation along. Normally, she wasn’t short of words. Normally she didn’t have a sniper rifle pressed against her neck. All she wanted were some words - something to delay the inevitable, to distract the ruthless killer who’d she’d made the mistake of opening herself up to.

 She didn’t find any words; barely managed another breath, in fact..

 “Jumped a little too far, did you?” Widowmaker quirked an eyebrow, upside down - not that Tracer or anyone else would be able to see. She tilted her head to the side, though - no need for a scope, certainly - and chuckled again. “I see you out there, you know. Little mouse, petite souris , you leap and hop with such little… regard. So little planning. Foolish little mouse.”

 Her voice was rich and smooth, silken with her french accent, and it teased as well. Every syllable tinged with a tone that just underlined to Tracer how very dumb she’d been. Again. She winced, scrunching her eyes shut and gripping her pistols tightly, but there was nothing she could do about it right now. Completely at the sniper’s mercy… and trapped, again.

 “Step into my parlour, hmm?” Widowmaker chuckled again, smirking, pleased in the game of it all. Not really… enjoying it, per se - that was beyond her - but amused, at least. It was about all she could manage these days: occasional amusements, interspersed by long periods of disappointment and irritation. Watching the action down below, that tended to bring the irritation; seeing her often-hapless teammates scuttle around like so many insects, or their even more inept counters, whoever they happened to be. Helix security, local police forces, these dregs of what had once been Overwatch. So little of it held any interest to her of late.

 This one, though - this little mouse, with her leaps and her bright laugh, she was odd. Widowmaker couldn’t begin to fathom it, such a total lack of forethought, but not in the same way that the others seemed to have it. They were dense and oafish as they went about their ways, but this little mouse, she was so… enthusiastic. So hopeful, too. Widowmaker couldn’t understand it.

 “You intrigue me, ma souris ,” Widowmaker grinned at her pun, quite content with the effects she could see herself having on the young woman - the goosebumps on her neck, hairs standing on end, the hammering heart, the washes of colour through the infrared cameras, the hot blood that flowed through her…prey.

 Prey? Toy? Something like that - an amusement, that was what the little mouse was.

 Tracer felt very much like prey, certainly; caught, and at the mercy of a woman who seemed, by all accounts, to have none at all. Merciless. “In...intrigue?” she swallowed, dry-mouthed. “You frighten me.”

 She always had had a sometimes-inconvenient habit of telling the truth. It had been a bane and a benefit throughout her life - sometimes both at once - but she just didn’t know any other way to be. Biting her tongue felt wrong, when she even managed to consider it… which was rare enough to begin with. She bit it now, though - after the words were already out.

 Widowmaker, though, actually laughed. It wasn’t exactly a delighted sound, nor really even a humoured one, not in Tracer’s ears at least. Unbeknownst to her, however, it was as much amusement as Widowmaker could recall ever having felt.

 “ Good ,” she hummed, her voice high enough to sound almost delighted. “Perhaps you are less foolish than you seem, ma souris .” Tracer’s brows furrowed as she ground her teeth a little. How long had she been here? Hours now? Why hadn’t her accelerator finished its recharge cycle yet?

 “I saved your life, you know,” Widowmaker hummed, seemingly apropos of nothing, swaying gently in the wind. She held her rifle against Tracer’s neck with a single hand, holding the other out to check her nails idly. “That night, on the rooftop. Tell me, ma souris ,” she leaned forward, her blue, oxygen-starved lips nearly brushing Tracer’s ear, “did you think that Talon’s ships were unarmed transports?” She let the question hang for a moment, sending a shiver down Tracer’s spine, before she chuckled softly. “No, they are gunships , cherie. Another second and you would have been dead.” Widowmaker half-pouted, in both expression and tone. “No more little mouse.”

 Tracer’s eyes had been screwed thoroughly shut as she tried to stop herself from pissing off an assassin, but they now spread wide in the soft moonlight. What? Could it have been the truth? Of course it could be, she told herself, but why? Why would she save me - what, because I intrigue her?

 “You- I-” Tracer spluttered, but Widowmaker grinned unseen behind her. Who didn’t like having an effect on other people? Sometimes she thought that was half of what got under some of her teammates’ skin: that people didn’t seem to fear them as much as they thought they deserved.

 The wind was practically absent, causing only the slightest creaks as it blew through the bell tower, the tiniest shifts in Widowmaker’s position, but each one was a huge reminder as it nudged the steel barrel of her rifle against Tracer’s neck. The rifle that took Ana’s eye, Mondatta’s life, and a hundred others as well, or more. Yet, Tracer was supposed to believe that she’d not only spared her life, but actively saved it?

 “Why did-” Tracer started, but the question diverged. You save me? You kill Mondatta? Widowmaker had done so much that night, so much that Tracer already hadn’t understood, the confusion waking her from frantic dreams and clouding her thoughts sometimes. Guilt over not saving the life of one of the greatest men she’d ever met, over saving her own life instead. If she’d just not rewound, if she’d taken the bullet instead…

 Now, though, there was more confusion piled atop. Was it just lies? Just more of Widowmaker toying with her, that made more sense.

 The assassin, dangling, shifted her head to Tracer’s other side, raising an eyebrow. She knew plenty, could tell the other woman’s heartrate and temperature among a dozen other things, but she couldn’t (sadly, if you asked her) read minds. “Why did I… what? Save you?” With a dismissive laugh, Widowmaker tossed her head. “Why not? The mission was complete, the target achieved… and you surprised me that night, little mouse. So few pay any attention to anything further away than their own nose in front of their face,” she scoffed, frowning slightly. “I had no reason to kill you, once you could no longer interfere. As it is now. Entirely at my mercy...”

 With that, Widowmaker let her rifle drop - not entirely to the side, but no longer pressed against Tracer’s spine. It might take a whole quarter of a second, now, to raise it and end the young woman’s life - but it was something.

 An opportunity.

  If she gives you one? You take it. She would do the same. Ana’s voice rang through Tracer’s mind again, quickening her heartbeat even more. At this rate, she felt as if it might burst, as if she might. Her hands tightened around her pulse pistols. An opportunity… to escape? To strike back?

 “Why did you kill him?” The words were soft in the fairly still night air, and they were past Tracer’s lips before she really knew she was saying them. Widowmaker frowned slightly, at first, tipping her head to one side.

 “The Omnic? Mondatta? It was the job, the mission. No different from a hundred others.” Except for your intervention, little mouse.

 “But...but why? ” Tracer huffed, simply unable to get it through her mind. There were hordes that would take to the streets with signs or baseball bats out of hatred for the Omnics, and she knew that and could understand it even if she didn’t agree in the slightest, but this? This… passive, cold kind of cruelty. Widowmaker didn’t seem to hate Omnics, or Mondatta - or her. Or anything.

 Widowmaker frowned. Silence and incomprehension hung in the air as she dangled from her cable, wrapped around an ankle and anchored up on the roof of the little tower. “Was it so different from anything else? How many have your Amari killed, or Morrison - or yourself, hmm? Enemy soldiers, you might tell yourself - bad men - but the truth is simply that they are on the other side of the conflict. They have a different uniform, a different banner,” Widowmaker sighed as Tracer ground her teeth, sounding (and, in fact, being) quite bored with it all. “Evil is subjective, little mouse. You think we are so different? We are simply different sides of the same coin.” She chuckled a little, suspecting (and rightly so) that Tracer remained unconvinced. “You think us evil because we kill? Because we steal to support our cause, break and enter?” Widowmaker laughed, softly. “You do all the same. It is simply a matter of perspective … all of life is.”

 Tracer told herself that there was more to it than that, that there was an ultimate right and wrong, but it was difficult to come up with anything to counter those specific points, at least. Everything that Ex-commander Morrison wore, he’d stole, right up to and including his gun. Ana’s rifle, too - on top of which, she’d be the first to tell anyone how many lives had ended through her scope. That each one of them was a person, with friends. Family.

 It was different, though - they were fighting to protect people. It was different.

 Wasn’t it?

 Widowmaker could feel the young brit’s indecision, she could practically taste it. Yet again, that pleasant feeling of accomplishment, of having an effect. “Tell me, anyway, is he really gone , souris? ” she chuckled. “Perhaps you should ask your friend the monk what he feels about the matter…”

 Unheard to anyone save the dangling frenchwoman, a dark, seething voice came over the radio. Widowmaker didn’t respond to the man, who considered himself to be in charge - but it was good to know they’d achieved what they came for. The mission was accomplished. What else mattered?

 “So many feelings ,” Widowmaker murmured as waves of heat rolled through Tracer - anger, confusion, fear - easily tracked with the thermal cameras. “So many emotions, ma souris - I can see them in you as clear as day, your heart and heat. You are clever not to deny the effects I have on you…” She let herself hang closer, intentionally brushing the short hairs on the nape of Tracer’s neck, appreciating the instilled goosebumps and shiver that were her reward.

 “ Adieu, souris, ” Widowmaker chuckled, and then twisted, sending herself backward out of the window and detaching the hook that held her aloft. As she fell, soaring through the air, she retracted it and fired it off once more, catching neatly on a chimneystack and swinging away through the dark, empty streets.

 Tracer, now alone again in the tower, shook with a combination of adrenaline, anger, and confusion, finally taking all of the breaths she’d been too afraid to take a moment ago. Her mind whirled, a chaotic, tightly wound bundle of thoughts, emotion, memories, and for several seconds, that was all there was. For a few moments, she simply stood, rooted in place by the sheer volume of the world as it was, until a soft beep notified her that her machinery was back in working order. The chronal accelerator had recharged to a power level sufficient to give her control over her timestream again, and without another thought, she swirled through the skies toward the rendezvous point. While she was flying, there wasn’t any room in her mind for anything else. No space to be confused. No spare resources, nothing but the wind and her instincts.

 Tracer still looked a little shaken when she showed up where they’d agreed to meet, and their mask-clad leader noticed immediately. “Oxton. You alright?” She looked to him in surprise, but it wasn’t as if she could meet his eyes behind the glowing red stripe of his tactical visor.

 “I’m…” She cleared her throat, shaking her head slightly, her hair bouncing a bit atop her head above her goggles. “I’m alright, sir - just had a bit of a… run-in.” Her eyes flicked toward Ana, uncertainly, and the older woman looked back with concern lined into her face.

 “Came out unscathed, though!” Tracer chirped as brightly as she could manage, even if it didn’t really align with the odd turmoil she felt inside. Whether the disconnect came across, she didn’t know - Morrison nodded with a grunt, and Ana did the same in silence.

 “Good to see you made it out alright. Well done with the distraction,” he tipped his head once, “we made the target.” His pulse rifle was slung over one shoulder, and under his other arm, he clutched a metal briefcase which he patted. Tracer’s eyes fell to it intently - their target, the whole reason they’d come out here tonight. The thing over which they’d risked their lives…

 It looked pretty standard, so far as briefcases went - it wasn’t particularly large, nor gaudy, nor did it seem to have anything special about it. A pretty normal combination-lock, four digits for the combo, and a fingerprint scanner as well. Just about the only thing out of the ordinary was the symbol engraved across the front; the crest of the United Nations.

 Tracer had a confused-at-best relationship with the U.N., as she suspected all former Overwatch members would, ever since they’d been disbanded. The organization was responsible for Overwatch’s founding in the first place, and support, but also for their dissolution… but Tracer really did believe that they had the world’s best interest in heart, just that they sometimes got their hands a little tied up in red tape.

 And now.. .they were stealing from the U.N.?

 “What is it?” Tracer asked, looking from the box up to Morrison’s face again.

 “Intel,” he nodded, glancing down to it. “Classified information that could be devastating in the wrong hands. Talon hands.”

 Once more, the young brit’s eyes came to rest on the briefcase. It wasn’t in Talon hands… it was in Jack’s. Tracer just couldn’t decide if she actually thought those were better than the U.N. itself - on the one hand, it clearly hadn’t been that well-guarded, because they’d managed to get it, and if they could get it, Talon could as well.

 ...But on the other hand… she couldn’t help but think of Widowmaker’s words, derisive and teasing. You think us evil because we kill? Because we steal to support our cause, break and enter? You do all the same. It is simply a matter of perspective… all of life is.

 “Good job, team,” Morrison’s words interrupted Tracer’s muddled thoughts. “Dropship’s incoming, dust-off in two. I’ll be in touch.” It was odd to see how he’d changed, and changed back again - when they’d first been recalled, after their forced dissolution, he’d been so very distant and solitary. Working with others really hadn’t been something he’d been open to, but a couple of failures and near misses had reminded him of what it meant to have a team’s support, and it had seemed that he’d made some efforts to change. To shift from Soldier:76, a lone wolf, back to the old Commander Jack Morrison, leader of Overwatch to whom everyone looked up.

 In some ways, he’d succeeded. In others?

 Tracer couldn’t take her eyes off of that briefcase, nor her thoughts. Stealing from the U.N.? Never thought I’d see the day…

 She didn’t speak again until the dropship came, the repulsion engines blowing dust from the old and tired cobblestone streets. There were too many thoughts to talk.