Note: The following is an idea for a story that we thought would be fun to share with you. If enough people like this idea and want this made into a full story, then we'll write it once we finish our current work. As we know essentially zero things about Overwatch, we apologize if we get any of the details wrong. Feel free to correct us. With that being said, enjoy.

Tracer felt nothing as she was violently thrown out of the thirty-story building, and she was not quite sure whether that was cause for celebration or alarm.

One the one hand, it meant that she was fearless, and she relished the thought. Despite the tingling sensation in her stomach caused from rapidly plummeting to the earth below, and the deafening rush of wind that blasted against her face and whipped her hair into a frenzy, she remained calm and collected, proving that she had the extensive training and experience necessary to face any potentially-life-threatening event that she came across.

On the other hand, it also meant that she had been violently thrown out of enough thirty-story buildings in her lifetime that she had grown numb to it, and she had to wonder whether or not she had chosen the right path in life. Granted, she absolutely adored that tingling in her gut and the blast of the wind on her face, but it's not like it was the only life she would have been willing to take. She would have been more than happy being a horse rancher, for instance. She doubted that the horses would have violently thrown her out of so many thirty-story buildings, as long as they were fed their hay and their manes were washed every so often. She most certainly had been violently thrown out of more thirty-story buildings than the average twenty-six-year-old, brown-eyed, button-nosed, cheeky English woman. In fact, she was probably violently thrown out of more thirty-story buildings than the average twenty-seven-year-old, brown-eyed, button-nosed, cheeky English woman as well, but she would probably have to look up the statistics when she found the free time.

Time, after all, was the one thing she never had to worry about. Time did not work for her like it worked for other people. Whereas most people would panic incessantly upon being violently thrown out of a thirty-story building, she could allow her mind to wander to wherever it sought to go without having to worry about how little time she had left before she splattered against the city streets. There were so many things to think about that she did not know what she would possibly do if she couldn't manipulate time while freefalling to her imminent death. Of course, there was the aforementioned philosophical discussion of the long-term effects of prolonged exposure to be violently thrown out of a thirty-story building, but there was also the reformation of Overwatch, the arduous process of locating as many former members as she and Winston could find and convincing them to rejoin the team, as well as attempting to find new recruits, which was, admittedly, significantly harder than she originally anticipated. She thought about how it was one of their first missions back together, how the Vishkar Corporation had continued their development of hard-light technology, and how they had followed Talon to Utopaea to prevent them from stealing a new prototype of unknown power. Her mind hopped between each of these thoughts like an introspective frog, jumping from lily pad-to-cognitive lily pad, never resting for more than a moment before moving onto the next.

It was while thinking of how nice the view of the city was that Tracer realized that the ground was approaching far more quickly than she realized, and only managed to trigger the reverse mechanism of her chronal accelerator just a dozen meters above the sidewalk. Her body cackled with blue energy, before she shot upwards like a rocket, casually slowing as she ascended. She flew backwards through the shattered window thirty stories above, and planted her two sneaker-clad feet onto the cold, tiled hallway. The accelerator eased, ticking slower and slower until coming to a complete stop, and Tracer breathed a sigh of relief.

"Lena! Are you okay?" Pharah, the team's latest—and only—new recruit called from over her earpiece. "I saw you falling, and I tried to get to you in time, but—"

"Ah, don't worry about," Tracer said innocently, brushing off the concern with a flick of her wrist. "I just fell a little. Got a nice view of the city, though."

"A little?" Pharah asked. "You fell twenty stories."

"Yeah, but I had it under… wait a minute. Twenty stories?"

"Yes. What's wrong?"

Tracer's heart deflated. "Nothing," she said dismissively. "Just… seemed bigger in my head, is all. Anyway, how's everything going?"

"I'm pinned down on the roof," reported Genji. His voice screeched like sheets of metal scraping against each other. "Reaper is up here. There isn't enough room up here to dodge him."

"I'll come up and give you cover fire," Pharah stated. However, Mercy interjected from above.

"I don't think rockets are the best idea," claimed the medic. "Too much risk of collateral damage. Plus, we don't know where Amélie, and you are a much bigger target for her than I am. Pharah, you worked with security personnel before. Keep them at bay. I'll try to get Reaper's attention off of you, Genji."

Tracer groaned. She forgot about the legion of Vishkar security forces that had been chasing her down during her pursuit of Widowmaker. They were somewhat difficult to tell apart from the regular Talon goons that she plowed through on a regular basis, as the building was very dark, and their armor was similarly shaped, with colors were only a few shades apart. She put that aside, and tried to remain focused on the task at hand.

"I'll go after Amélie," she said. "I doubt she got very far."

"She's probably headed up to the roof," Pharah added. "I don't see her anywhere outside. She must be taking the stairs."

"Gotcha," Tracer said with a nod. She blinked down the hallway, searching for the nearest stairwell. Finding a marked door to her right, she whipped her pulse pistols out of their holsters, and kicked open the door. She immediately shifted her gaze up the rectangular stairwell, and much to her satisfaction, saw a long dark ponytail bouncing up and down several flights above. With a smirk, Tracer blinked upwards, hopping off each railing to gain momentum, before taking a grand leap above Widowmaker's head, and landing on the rails directly above her, squatting like a gargoyle on its perch.

"We've got to stop meeting up like this, love," Tracer quipped with a grin. "People are going to start talking."

Widowmaker looked up in shock, before her blue face twisted into an aggravated scowl.

"Didn't I kill you already?" the assassin said with disdain. Tracer shrugged.

"Well, you win some, you lose some."

"I prefer to win," Widowmaker sneered. She reached behind her back to take out her pulse rifle, but Tracer jumped into her, knocking the Talon agent down the steps and sending her weapon flying out of her hands. Widowmaker smacked against the concrete wall. She slid to the floor, clutching her ribs in pain, as Tracer walked over and kneeled in front of her.

"And I prefer to stop having to kick your butt every time I see you. Now, how 'bout you play fair, and give me back the data you stole."

Widowmaker grinned. "What data?"

"C'mon, love," Tracer moaned. "Don't be like that. Hand it over, and no one will get hurt."

"That sounds boring," Widowmaker said with a laugh. Suddenly, the door below burst open, and three members of Talon/Vishkar security directed their guns towards the two women.

"You two! Freeze!" the ordered sternly. While Tracer was distracted, Widowmaker lunged forward and landed a sucker punch in the ex-mercenary's gut, forcing her to double over in pain. The assassin jumped to her feet, grabbed her weapon, hopped onto the railing, and launched a grappling hook up between the steps. She smiled, reaching into her suit through the gap in her chest, and pulling out a small data chip.

"Au revoir."

Tracer hurried to her feet as Widowmaker propelled herself up to the roof. The armed men looked on in confusion, unable to fire.

"Hey!" Tracer shouted. "Come back here!"

She began to quickly blink up the stairwell, chasing Widowmaker further upwards. The guards, snapped out of their stupor, opened fire, launching a hail of bullets around the two women, unable to hit the fast-moving targets. Tracer pushed her chronal accelerator as far as she could, barely reforming before she dissipated and rocketed forward once again. She reached outward, desperately trying to grab ahold of Widowmaker's leg, but she was just out of reach. No matter how hard she strained, her fingers barely grazed against the assassin's boots. Right when she felt like she was finally about to make contact, they reached the roof of the stairwell. The spider swung away on her web, launching herself through the roof access door with full force, as Tracer chased close behind.

They had made it to the helipad on the roof of the tower, where Reaper stood in the center, his shotguns aimed at a distant target. Far off in the darkened sky, Tracer could make out the glowing yellow wings of Mercy's Valkyrie suit, and the green shimmer of Genji's exoskeleton.

"A little help," Widowmaker called to her partner, who spun around and aimed his weapons at Tracer's torso.

"Uh oh," Tracer muttered, blinking away at the precise moment he pulled the trigger and plastered the door with bullets. She dashed around the landing pad, but it was not long before she realized that she was in a very bad situation. Reaper remained rooted in place, keeping the entire roof under his command. Even as she attempted to shoot at him, the shots passed through his skin, vanishing underneath a veil of black smoke.

"Where is our ride?" Widowmaker asked, concerned.

"It's coming in now," Reaper growled. The sky was pitch black, but in the moment between blinks, Tracer thought she saw a large, dark vehicle moving swiftly towards them in the moonlight.

"Are you—seeing—that—guys?" asked the speedster.

"Don't worry. I got this," cried Pharah. The ground rumbled, and from somewhere beneath the horizon, Pharah launched onto the roof, hovering twenty meters above and out from the helipad in her dark blue armor. She turned her back to the Talon agents, and aimed her rocket launcher at the dark shape racing towards them.

The mistake was impossible to ignore. Tracer saw the wheels in Widowmaker's head turning, and a sly grin creep over her dead face. She raised her sniper rifle, and took aim, locating her target. Though Pharah's flesh was not exposed to the sniper, the jets used to keep her afloat were out in the open. Mercy was too far away to catch her, and even if she could, there was no way she would be able to support the weight. Below the Egyptian soldier, there was nothing but air. And, unlike Tracer, she did not have time on her side.

Tracer may have had many thoughts running through her mind at any given moment, but she believed that she was someone who thought things through very well. Maybe if she took a few seconds to think, she would have thrown a pulse bomb, or shot the gun away from her enemies, or done something that wasn't completely insane. But Tracer saw that the life of her ally—her friend—was in danger, and her instincts took over. She sprinted towards the edge of the helipad, and blinked towards Pharah as Widowmaker pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out in the still night. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. Tracer reappeared, and before she could so much as take a breath, the bullet struck her in the center of her chest, ripping through the chronal accelerator with such force that it nearly tore burst through the other side and into her skin. Gravity had not yet taken her, so she had plenty of time to process what had just occurred. She stared down at the machine designed to keep her tied to the present. It screamed in pain, buzzing, clicking, whirring, creating a cavalcade of horrendous noise that tunneled into her ears and pounded at her mind. Blue energy cackled in every direction, let loose from its containment. Half a second later, reality caught up to her. Pharah turned around and stared in horror. Mercy screamed out her name, her voice distant even as it spoke directly in her ear. She began to fall once more, as the machine suddenly went silent.

"That can't be—"

She was gone. The world was torn from her, as every sound, every sight, every sensation disappeared into the void of time. Her skin turned transparent, and her bones became hollow. Her blood boiled and froze over. She spasmed uncontrollably, unable to think, unable to process the lack of reality around her. She was everywhere at once, and yet she did not exist. She needed to get out. She knew that she needed to escape, but she could understand what caused her to think that? Memories teleported in and out of her mind. Who was she? Why was she there? Soon, the need to leave transpired, and she continued floating in the abyss, empty.

She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she found herself standing in a house in the American suburbs. An ancient red sports sat in the driveway, circa 1950. A young boy whom she did not recognize sat at the kitchen table. His hair was blond. His eyes were hazel. His mother, with matching features, cooked him breakfast. Pancakes. Bacon. The father walked into the kitchen. He wore a business suit. She gave him a forced smile. Was she afraid of him, or was she simply unhappy with her choices? Did she even have a choice? Was this life planned out for her before she ever had a say in the matter? The father skipped breakfast. He got in his car and drove away. The mother wept silently over the pancakes.

Tracer blinked, and the world transformed. She stood in a cave. A Neanderthal huddled around a small fire, his only source of warmth. Wearing nothing more than a loincloth, he hid from a snowstorm. The bones of a small mammal lied beside him. He had already stripped it to the bone. Was this thing her ancestor? Was there a reason for her to see this? Or did he die in that snowstorm right then and there? Was she the last person to know of its fate? She could not tell.

She blinked again, and suddenly, she was standing on pavement. She was in London, her hometown. But, it was different somehow. Screams filled the air. Upon looking around, she realized that she stood in the middle of a crater that took up what used to be a four-way intersection. She looked at her feet, and gasped. There, lying dead on the ground before her, was Winston, his body charred and damaged beyond repair, glasses shattered by his head. She looked around further, and clasped her hand over her mouth in terror. All around her were the bodies of Overwatch members, burned and broken. They all stared, wide-eyed, long after they died, as if permanently transfixed on the moment of their demise. Tears started to pour down Tracer's face. The sight was too much. She closed her eyes, hoping to disappear, but the bodies remained, gazing lifelessly into the beyond.

As Tracer sunk to her knees in despair, a figure walked passed her, marching over the corpses of her friends. They wore jeans and a black hoodie, which was pulled up over their head to cover their features. Tracer watched as the figure moved towards the center of the crater, before a hand reached out from the bodies and grabbed it by the ankle. It was Pharah who clung to life, looking up pathetically at the hooded figure.

"How… how could you do this to us?" Pharah choked out. "You… you were supposed to be our friend…"

The hooded figure reached into its pocket, pulled out a handgun, and pressed it against the Egyptian's temple. With its free hand, it casually pulled pack its hoodie, allowing Tracer to get a clear look at its face. It was a face that she recognized immediately: big blue eyes, a sharpened jaw, and wavy blonde hair pulled loosely back behind her head.

"I'm so sorry about this," the figure said, each word punctuated with a thick, Swiss-German accent. "I really am."

The figure pulled the trigger, but just before the shot was fired, Tracer blinked, and suddenly, she was elsewhere. She found herself floating in a large, glass tube. Blue streams of light swarmed her, rushing over her arms and legs. She was in some sort of laboratory, but she didn't bother trying to figure out if she had seen it before. She needed to go back. She needed to see what happened. Did she really see that, and if so, what did it even mean?

"Lena! There you are!" shouted a deep, happy voice. Winston jumped into view, placing his massive hand upon the glass.

"Winston?" Tracer asked, still reeling from the shock. "What happened to me? Where am I?"

"You took a bullet for Fareeha," Winston explained. "The shot damaged your chronal accelerator. You've been lost in time for the past three days. I've only just finished this machine to find your chronal signature and bring you back to the present."

Three days? Had it really been that long? It only felt like a few minutes.

"Did they get the data back from Amélie?"

Winston shook his head. Tracer sighed dejectedly.

"What matters is that you made it back in one piece," Winston said with a soft smile. "I should get to work making another accelerator. In the meantime, let me find Angela. She would want to make sure you're still healthy.

Tracer went quiet. Angela. The vision. The glimpse of death rushed into the forefront of her mind. She slammed her hands against the glass, and screamed.

"Winston. I need to tell you something!"

"What's wrong?" he asked, pushing up his glasses.

"I… I think when I was stuck in that time stream, I saw a vision of the future. Our future," Tracer stuttered. "I saw… I saw your deaths. The deaths of everyone in Overwatch."

Winston was taken aback. He moved in closer to the glass.

"Our deaths? How?"

"You all die in an explosion," Tracer stated. "But that's not the important part. I think that the person who causes the explosion is—"

"Lena! You're okay!"

Tracer looked away from Winston, and froze. Mercy stood in the open doorway, smiling happily at her terrified friend. Noticing the fear in her eyes, however, she frowned, very confused.

"Is something the matter?" Mercy asked innocently. "It looks like you've seen a ghost."