Hello, there!

If you decided to click on this story, you are probably a part of either the TF2 fandom, the Overwatch fandom, or both. Chances are, you've seen that SFM animation trending right now which is a crossover between these two games, and I should tell you right here and right now that this story is NOT based on that video (the video is very good, but still). I conceived this idea before that video was released, and though I'm in the middle of another story right now, I could not shake this story from my head. I just had to write it out!

I should also clarify that I've known TF2 longer than I've known Overwatch, and I'm rather new to the Overwatch fandom. Due to this, if I miss a detail about the lore or a character, don't hesitate to let me know so I can fix it. I've spent the past week or so doing research, so I think I'm good, but if something is wrong you can tell me. I don't bite!

And now, without further ado, here is Deliverance.

Chapter 1:

The harsh wind blew across the dusty plains as a feminine figure headed towards a deserted base sitting miles away. She stopped for a moment, taking in the scenery, and then picked up the pace.

Her name was Lena, though she was known as Tracer by many. Tracer knew the importance of this place, as it had sat there for more than a hundred years, so she was careful as she swung the large, garage door open.

She stood there for a moment, looking around, and then pulled out the crinkled map.

"Right ahead," she muttered to herself, stepping straight forward.

The door to the medic's quarters was slightly ajar, so she walked right inside. Instantly, a strange feeling enveloped her: the room was so small, yet many parts were still intact. The rusted operating table lay right in the center, and cabinets and shelves sat against the wall. She tried to imagine the medic in here, a hundred years earlier, working on his patients in this tiny room.

Tracer shook herself out of this thought- she had to focus. She went to the shelves, finding a few books and papers still there, only to notice that they were too damaged from age to be of use. Not giving up, she turned her attention to the cabinets next, only to stop at the sound of humming not too far away. Tracer froze, listening.

She realized who it was after about thirty seconds. "Oh, bloody hell! Of course, he went in here!"

Tracer shut the cabinet and ran out of the room, following the humming and treading up the stairs. Sure enough, she found him nonchalantly stuffing explosives into every crack of the landing, humming a tune and acting like what he was doing was natural.

"Jamison!" snapped Tracer, using his real name to get his attention.

Junkrat paused, jerking up. "Oi! G'day, Sheila! Ya' may want to step outside for a minute or two-"

"Rat, you can't blow up this place!" Tracer yanked an explosive from his hand as she scolded him. "It's been here for decades!"

"So's my gran, and she's dead,"

Tracer took a breath, composing herself. "I need you to listen to me," when it seemed she had his attention, she continued. "There may be a cure somewhere in this building, and if you blow it up, it'll be lost,"

Junkrat looked perplexed. "But there's nothing in here worth anything! How'd you figure there's a cure in here?"

"Winston went on a medical database and found notes written by the medic who once worked here," Tracer explained, subtly leading Junkrat away from the landing. "In the notes, the medic describes an illness very similar to the outbreak,"

"Ya' mean Black Flu?"

Tracer grimaced. "Is that what they're calling it? Fitting. Anyway, his notes indicate that this disease was actually the cause of some type of chemical- one that was created specifically for an enemy. But they never wound up needing it, and the medic had it discarded. Or, at least, that was what the notes said,"

Junkrat silently took all of this in for about a minute. "So...you're thinkin' someone's poisoning people?"

"Something like that," they were back in the medic's quarters, where Tracer went back to the cabinet. "At the moment, we're looking for a possible antidote, and I'm sure you know why,"

"Yeah," Junkrat muttered, his voice lowering.

Tracer looked through random medical drawings found in the cabinet until she came across a folder. "Ah-ha! Maybe this is it!" She pulled two chairs up to the operating table, where she and Junkrat rooted through the papers.

The folder was full of information on the mercenaries, such as notes, photographs, and even a few journal entries. This obviously wasn't what Tracer was hoping to find, but it gave her the same chilling feeling from before.

"This is...so odd," she remarked after a moment.

"Why?"

Tracer picked up a photo of the medic, staring at him intently. "Because...they're all dead, now. We're just looking through their things like its nothing," she glanced up from the photo, looking around at the room. "This whole place is like a graveyard,"

"Oh," Junkrat continued to go through various photos, oddly quiet all of the sudden. After about a minute, he remarked, "Graveyard...makes sense, now,"

Tracer was barely paying any attention, so she only caught the end of what she said. "Hm?" she inquired, not looking up from the notes.

"I saw a body outside,"

This information slowly sank into Tracer's mind, and she stopped right away. "What!?"

"Outside, in the back," Junkrat gestured behind him. "'Didn't touch it, I don't know if-"

This was all Tracer needed to hear, and she sprang up from her chair in an instant.

She ran behind the base, to where sand dunes had piled up, and sure enough, the body of a young man lay in a heap.

"Shit!" Tracer cursed to herself, running up to the body and kneeling down. Surprisingly, when she felt for a pulse, she discovered that he was not dead, but just unconscious. He didn't seem to respond when she prodded him, so she knew she had to get help.

"Jamison!" she shouted over her shoulder when she heard a door open. "Get the folder, and help me get him somewhere safe!"

Junkrat already had the folder, so he leaned over Tracer to get a better look. "He's not dead?"

"No, he isn't! Rat, why did you just leave him when you found him!?"

"You aren't supposed ta' mess with dead bodies, I thought!"

Tracer knew there was no use in scolding him anymore, so she retrieved the water bottle she had strapped to her belt and unscrewed the top. "Do you have the folder?"

"I do!"

"Great. We'll take it back to headquarters with him," she lifted the boy's head up and poured some of the water on his face, watching as he coughed and opened his eyes slowly. "Hello, there!" Tracer held up her hand. "Can you tell me how many fingers I'm holding up?"

He blinked a few times, and then muttered, "There's...five. W-where is everybody?"

"Who?" She tried to help him sit up. "Who are you looking for?"

"My..." he trailed off, his eyes rolled back, and he slumped back into the sand.

Tracer grabbed his shoulders, lifting him up. "All right, he's in need of medical attention. Come along, Jamison! Quickly!"

As they laid the boy in the back of Tracer's buggy, Junkrat had a sudden thought. He reopened the folder, taking out a picture and holding it up to the boy.

"Huh," he remarked, mostly to himself. "Same face..."