Note: The end... is here! Finally, after eons, we have managed to finish a story. Many thought it was impossible, but we pulled through. If you have somehow managed to follow this the entire time without giving up, thank you very much. We hope you've enjoyed it, because we've had a lot of fun writing it. If you did like it, let us know. If you hated it, why are you here? Why? Why, sir? Seriously, thanks a whole lot. What are we writing next? No idea, but we do have another story we've been putting off for a long time (non-Overwatch related) that we might get started on. Hope you'll join us then. If not, have a great holiday season, and goodbye.

Despite having the ability to manually control time, Lena was surprised at how fast the three weeks had flown by. To be fair, so much had happened in such a short period that even a being comprised entirely of ultra-condensed flux temporal energy (or whatever it was that Winston said) would have difficulty catching her breath. First there was the matter of arresting all of the members of Talon and finding various prisons across the face of the planet that would be able to hold them, and then there was the process of coordinating with the authorities to clean up the structural damage to The Shard, and after that they had to plead with the government to not arrest them for causing a public uproar, and it was only after they had dealt with that mess were they able to quarantine off any and all mind-controlled individuals that Sombra left behind, so they could move forward with the arduous process of chemical testing to find the cure, and then once they had the cure they had to move forward with the process of approving it with multiple national governments to be allowed to distribute it to the afflicted parties—after the families had signed two-hundred-page waivers, of course—and though she supposed that most of it was able to move along at a fairly decent pace for a normal person, the fact that her senses had been semi-blown out of proportion by her nightmarish spacetime breakdown meant that everything moved so damn slowly. Every second felt like it was stretched into a thousand, and all she wanted was for everyone to move their tongues around their mouths just a tiny bit faster, so she could get on with the rest of her possibly-infinite lifespan.

Winston told her that she would eventually get used to it. She was convinced he was lying.

Still, Lena wasn't upset. Far from it; her eyes had been opened to a world more incredible than anything she could have imagined. She had an experience that no-one else in the cosmos ever had, and that was something to be treasured, even if it was actually terrible to experience the experience. More importantly, her brain was filled with vast universal knowledge, and quite frankly, she thought that was pretty cool. She knew what was found deep inside the inner reaches of black holes. She knew the name of every alien in galaxies hundreds of trillions of lightyears away. She finally found confirmation that, yes, peanut butter was the best food. That was simply fact. No other food was better, nor would any food be better in the history of humankind. Peanut butter was simply the best that anyone could ever achieve—except for those with allergies.

Unfortunately for Lena, she did not know everything. Technically, she did, but as she soon discovered after the battle with Sombra, the human mind was only capable of remembering about seven separate things at any given time, and she had a lot of different things fighting for that space. Everything was stored somewhere in her brain, but searching for it took a while, which was the very reason why she was laying down on the medical bed in the watchpoint with bright lights shining down on her, and Emily kneeling by her bedside, clasping their hands together as she nervously awaited the results of the test.

"Well, that's incredible," chimed Angela, who stood over her computer screen, scrolling through the notes with a fascinated stare.

"What's incredible? Is that a good thing?" Emily asked worriedly.

"I'll be honest with you. I haven't the slightest idea," Angela responded. "I've never seen anything like this before. Your entire body is absolutely radiating with temporal energy. Your mass seems to have doubled, and yet it's almost nonexistent. You've become some sort of living, breathing, walking paradox."

"Can you fix it?" asked Emily.

"Doesn't seem so. Something like this is far beyond the technology we currently have."

"So… you're saying you can't fix my eyes back to normal?" Lena asked. Angela turned to her, confused.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"My eyes. You can't change them?" Lena asked calmly. "Because I really liked my old eyes to be honest, and though I don't mind them being blue, I feel a bit weird every time I look in the mirror."

"Is… is that your biggest concern?" Angela questioned.

"No, not at all," Lena said truthfully. "Plenty of things concern me. Snakes. Thunderstorms. Assassination attempts—oh, what, your talking about the whole 'me being a paradox thing'? In that case, I think so. Other than immediate death. Or completely losing control of my memory and actions."

"And that's what concerns me," Emily stated to Angela. "She keeps going through these episodes. I can't get her to focus on anything."

"Hey, I'm focusing on you right now," Lena protested.

Emily raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Really?"

"No. Not at all. I was thinking about snakes again."

"See what I mean?" Emily sighed. Angela nodded thoughtfully, and walked over to the medicine cabinet, scanning the various bottles until she located a stubby orange case and plucked it from the shelf.

"I've been noticing that," Angela said grudgingly. She unscrewed the bottle opening, and dumped three fat pills into her palm. "I don't have a solution for the paradox—yet, anyway—but I think I have something that can calm her mind. Lena, dear, if you wouldn't mind?"

Angela extended her palm, and like a child snatching up candy, Lena grabbed the medication and enthusiastically popped it into her mouth, swallowing them whole without a single gulp of water. She realized afterward she probably should not have done that. Not just because she liked water—or any beverage, really, whether it be smooth or bubbly—but because it was a pain to swallow, and she rubbed her throat afterwards trying to manage the pain, and then she felt a strange twitch in her spine, and then in her stomach, and then, all at once, everything came to a screeching halt.

Lena remembered where she was. The lights in the room seemed to dim, and as her senses faded, something new took over: awareness. The rest of the world seemed to disappear, and suddenly it was just her, along with her closest friend and the woman of her dreams, stuck in a room, trying to put her life together. She felt Emily's hand, the smoothness of her skin; she saw Angela stare at her, study her carefully, analytically, like a lab rat. Like she used to.

Angela probably had it the hardest. Fareeha described what it was like when she awoke at the hospital after Sombra's attack. She had apparently torn the place apart, fighting against the staff, trying desperately to fulfill the last remnants of the mission forcibly implanted in her brain. Fareeha insisted that if it wasn't for her armor, she wouldn't have been able to hold Angela back, even with all her training. By the time Lena had arrived with the cure, Angela was a blubbering mess tied to a bedpost, looking more like a stray dog than a respected doctor. The hardest part wasn't even injecting the serum into Angela's neck as she screamed for help; it was watching her come down from her affliction, and burst into sobs upon realizing what she had nearly done. In the weeks since, Angela had done her best to put those days past her, and Lena respected that quite a lot. The doctor absorbed herself in her work, and as Lena saw her at that moment, she seemed like the events of the past month were only a bad dream, save for a solitary reminder in the form of a light scar buried beneath her hairline.

Then, there was Emily. Poor, sweet Emily. Winston had begged Lena not to mention anything about her "death", and Lena nearly followed along. Winston made some good points. Emily had already been through a lot, and when Lena went to visit her in the hospital, and she saw the bandages wrapped around her shoulder, she was tempted to not say a word about anything that might make the situation worse. Unfortunately, Emily was observant, and it was only a matter of seconds before she noticed that Lena's accelerator was missing, after which Lena was forced to disclose everything. Emily took it surprisingly well, though, and despite her injuries and her newfound paranoia of windows, forced herself out of the hospital several days early so she could help Lena spread the cure around to those who needed it.

And then, there was the matter of the cure itself, and the woman who handed it to them.

Everyone assumed Widowmaker was joking when she said she would help undo Sombra's control. They waited for her to make some sarcastic comment, or sneak into their rooms in the dead of night and slit their throats while they slept. But she never did. Widowmaker simply locked herself in a cell in the watchpoint, and allowed Winston to extract as much of her immunized DNA as he needed to manufacture the cure. She never said a single word, even when Lena pestered her, but in the speedster's mind, she was happy, or at the very least satisfied. Satisfied to be helping people? Satisfied to be rid of Sombra once and for all? Lena wasn't sure. Whatever her feelings were, they were not permanent. A few days prior, when Lena went to check on her in her cell, she had simply vanished without a trace. Gone without even saying goodbye.

"Yep, I think that did the trick," Angela said suddenly, snapping Lena back to the present. "Lena, are you feeling better?"

"Uh, yeah," Lena said awkwardly. "I think so. Thanks for that."

"What did you just give her?" Emily wondered. Angela shrugged.

"About twenty times the recommended dose of amphetamine," she explained. "Lena's metabolism burns so quickly now that anything less probably wouldn't do anything. That being said, do keep checking up on her every now and then to make sure she doesn't spontaneously keel over." Noticing the panic-stricken look on Emily's face, Angela cracked a smile. "Kidding."

Emily took a long, deep breath. "Okay. Okay. I'm… going to use the restroom. I'll be right back." She gave Lena's hand a tight squeeze before leaving the room, still trying to steady her nerves after the mild panic attack Angela had given her. Lena watched her leave, and then sunk into her pillow.

"So, how long until I need to take the next dose?" she asked.

"Take three pills once a day, and you should be fine," Angela explained cautiously. "You might experience a relapse of symptoms sooner than that, so we're going to keep a close eye on you. I don't want to give you too much too soon, though. We don't really know the risks yet and… you know, it's all unknowns so there's a high risk of… failure… and other problems… for you… maybe…"

Angela pinched the bridge of her nose, and turned towards the counter, her shoulders heavy.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, it's just…" Angela started, before catching her breath. "Sorry, I've been thinking about so much lately. I've been so busy trying to get your tests ready, and working on your medication, and then there's everything with the other patients everywhere, and… Winston keeps telling me that I'm working too hard, and I should see a therapist… and it didn't hit me until a few minutes ago, but I am thirty-seven-years-old, and I am still single. I don't think I have ever been in a serious relationship, and I know I'm not getting any younger—"

"Uh, Angela, I'm pretty sure I'm the one who's supposed to have too many thoughts in her head," Lena noted. Angela sighed, planting herself on the bed by Lena's feet. "Look, I get that you're freaked out. Anyone would be if they went what you just went through."

"I know, I know," Angela insisted. "But… the things I did… to you, to everyone—"

"Was beyond your control," Lena stated. "Nobody blames you. We're just glad that you're okay. Beating yourself up over it isn't going to make anything better, and neither is overworking yourself to death. Honestly, you deserve a long, long, long vacation, and a just a tiny bit of that amphetamine."

Angela snickered, and Lena shifted forward, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"And don't you worry about relationships either," Lena continued, "If I—a hyperactive, inattentive mess—can find love, someone as beautiful and smart and talented as you can find love in a heartbeat. And I promise, if for some reason you need any help at all, I swear I will be the greatest wingwoman of all time."

"Why, thank you for the offer," Angela said with a laugh.

"No, I'm deadly serious," Lena said excitedly. "I would make such a good matchmaker. Ooh, I can set you up with someone else in Overwatch. Jesse is single, Genji is single… hell, I think Fareeha is single; you never told me who you're attracted to."

"Lena—"

"Oh, Winston's also single—wait, maybe you shouldn't do that."

"Lena, I'm fine. I'm sure," Angela said with a relaxed smile. "Besides, none of them are exactly my type. No offense."

"Then tell me what your type is, girl!" Lena exclaimed.

"You are far too invested in this."

"You're damn right, I am! Details. Now."

"Well," Angela said, placing a finger to her lips, thinking carefully, "they would probably be someone with a great sense of optimism."

"Uh-huh…"

"And witty. Very witty."

"Naturally."

"They would need to be brave, selfless…"

"All strong qualities to have."

"And because I'm a narcissist, I would want to date someone younger than me. But not too much younger… mid-twenties, perhaps."

"Good age range."

"And of course, they would have to also be European, but maybe something not too European… something from the west, perhaps. English?"

"Great country," Lena nodded. "It'll make it easier for me to—"

It took a few seconds for the gears to turn in Lena's head, but when the connected, she suddenly froze, the cheerfulness draining out of her face. Angela merely stared ahead, a gentle flush growing in her cheeks, as Lena tried to figure out the best way to put her friend down easy.

"Um… look, Angela," she sputtered, "I get that we're friends and all—"

"Yes…"

"And I don't want this to come between us."

"Never."

"But the thing is," Lena said, taking a nervous breath, "Emily is kind of already taken."

Angela blinked. She blinked again. The color vanished from her cheeks, and her brow momentarily scrunched. Then, she opened her mouth to say something, but opted against it, rising to her feet and giving a very mild-mannered shrug. Coughing awkwardly, she turned to Lena and cast a downward glance.

"Well… I guess I gave it a shot," she said blankly. "Anyway, I think I'm going to see if Jesse has any vodka left over. I'll check up on you in a bit, Lena."

Angela moved quickly out of the room, strutting at a pace that would have put Lena to shame. Lena watched her go with uncomfortable silence, thinking about how much bravery Angela must have needed to confess that she had feelings for her girlfriend. If the two weren't dating, then Lena assuredly would have done everything she could for her dear friend. But, as it stood, Lena would have to look elsewhere for a witty, optimistic, selfless English woman in her mid-twenties for Angela to swoon over.

If only she knew where to look.

They thought they could contain Sombra. They would be proven wrong.

They thought they could erase Sombra's legacy from the world. They would be proven wrong.

They thought they could forget all about Sombra by locking her in that little box in a facility in the middle of nowhere. They thought by stripping her of her cybernetic enhancements, they would be safe from her wrath. But Sombra would prove them all wrong when she busted free. It would only be a matter of time before she saw the looks of terror within their eyes. It was only a matter of time before she gutted them one-by-one, like salmon caught freshly from the stream. It was only a matter of time before she found that traitor Widowmaker, and that damned Overwatch, and tore their hearts out slowly, painfully, and with a vengeance the likes of which none had ever seen.

It was that Tracer girl she thought of the most. Her stupid little smiling face. That dumb hairstyle. Those ridiculous powers. Sombra saw her every night in her sleep, in her nightmares. She saw her in the dark confines of the box, reaching out to laugh at her, to mock her defeat. She saw her dragging her down that endless fall, and repeating it again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, never once stopping.

It was maddening, but it gave Sombra purpose. Controlling the world? Meaningless. Overthrowing governments? Child's play. All Sombra cared about was her revenge, to see Tracer and all of her silly hero friends burn into a pile of ashes. When they met again, there would be no more jokes, no more teasing, and no more hesitation. She was going to prove to the entire world just how dangerous Sombra truly was. And she knew, confident as ever, that she was going to escape the hell they had trapped her within.

Eventually.

Like, in a year or two. Or three. Or four.

Once she could see again.

And as soon as she got her arms back.

It wasn't particularly hard to find her. With all the technology at Overwatch's disposal, Tracer was actually surprised she evaded them for as long as she did. But when the inevitability came, she seemed to be waiting for them. Tracer stepped onto the rooftop, and there she was, cloaked in a dark grey hoodie and a pair of tight-fitting jeans. Her hands were stuffed firmly into her pockets, and she stared outwards towards the remainder of the city, looking down upon the world, her blue skin buried behind the hood. Tracer rolled her eyes; no matter what she claimed, she surely had a flair for the dramatic.

"So, love, you looking for any company?" Lena asked knowingly.

"You know," Widowmaker sighed, "when I left in the dead of night, I did it with the very specific reason that I did not want to see you again."

"Oh, come on, you know you can't get enough of me," Tracer gushed. "We are best friends now, after all."

"Please never use that word again," Widowmaker groaned. "I helped you once out of necessity. That does not make us friends. I don't care about you at all, or anyone at Overwatch, or your stupid girlfriend—"

"Fiancé, actually," Tracer corrected, purposefully ignoring the fact that Widowmaker just called her stupid. "We're set to be married sometime in December. Surrounded by snow. She didn't want to wait after the whole 'dying' incident, but I managed to convince her to wait until she could gather the family. You're more than welcome to come by the way, once we set the date."

"Thanks, but I would rather kill myself" Widowmaker sneered. "Now, I know you didn't come all this way so you could invite me to your awful wedding."

"Wow, you are really throwing out those insults. You must be trying really hard to pretend that you still hate me," Tracer smirked.

Widowmaker grumbled. "Get on with it."

"Okay, okay, okay," Tracer stated. "So, here's the deal. Sombra's defeated, the threat is gone, the world is saved, blah, blah, blah. But, Overwatch still has a lot of work to do all over the world, and we need help. You are a woman of many talents, and so, we've decided to give you an offer: work with us and use your powers for good, and we will forgive any and all debts you have outstanding."

Widowmaker did not even hesitate. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Widowmaker said even blunter. "I'm not going to strap on an absurd costume, and live with you idiots every day, and travel the world shouting catchphrases like some cartoon character. The offer is rejected."

"I thought you might say that," Tracer said, her voice going quiet. "That's why… I decided to give you a second offer. One that Overwatch doesn't know about."

Widowmaker remained still, refusing to turn to face her, though listening intently all the same.

"Look, these time powers I just got, they can do incredible things," Tracer explained. "I don't really understand their limit yet, but I think… I think… I can send you back to the way you were before. I can undo every event in your life for the past several years. If you want me to… I could make you Amélie again."

Widowmaker considered it for a moment. She slowly pulled back her hood, letting her hair cascade down her shoulders. She turned around, her face expressionless as she spoke.

"You would erase everything?"

"Yes," Tracer claimed. "You would go back to the way you were before. You would only remember anything since in brief flashes. You would be you again."

"And Gérard? Would you bring him back, too?"

"I'm… I mean, I could try, if you wanted. I've never tried to bring someone back from the dead before, but I guess it would hypothetically work. If he wanted to, that is. I don't know."

"Hmm," Widowmaker groaned. "I'll be honest with you. Every single day since I became… this, I've thought about what my life was before. I thought about how I would do things differently if I was given the chance. Living a normal life, going to work, having a family… it all sounds so simple, and mundane, but pleasant all the same. But… Gérard is dead. Amélie is dead. Those deaths happened for a reason. Even if I could go back, it wouldn't really be me anymore. I would just be a ghost, caught between what I was and what I should be. The past is the past for a reason, and I think it's for the best if I buried it and left it behind."

"Are you sure?" Tracer asked worriedly.

Widowmaker nodded. "Yes. I'm sure."

Tracer sighed. "Alright, then. I offered. Now, onto the third offer—"

With a sudden flick of her wrists, Tracer pulled out her twin pistols, and took aim at Widowmaker. The assassin did not act with panic, merely gazing at the hero with a mix of tiredness and disappointment.

"Are we seriously doing this right now?" she asked, annoyed.

"Well, you are technically a criminal," Tracer explained. "We can't just let you roam around doing whatever you want."

"Come on, I don't even have my gun on me," Widowmaker moaned, gesturing to the empty floor beside her.

"Well, whose fault is that?" Tracer asked. "Don't worry, we've beefed up the security in the watchpoint. And Mei helped redecorate your cell. That girl has a wonderful eye for interior design. You'll have TV privileges!"

"As delightful as that sounds," Widowmaker said, slowly making her way to the edge of the rooftop, "I think I'll pass. I much prefer to live my life outside of a prison."

"I don't think you have much choice in the matter," stated Tracer with a proud smirk.

"Sure, I do," Widowmaker said calmly, edging closer to the rooftop. "I'll just escape your capture, like I've done every other time you've ever tried this."

"You know I can move much faster than I could before, right? I'll catch you in a heartbeat."

"Oh, I'm sure you could," Widowmaker said slyly, "but you won't. You'll move at the exact same speed you always have, even if you can run faster. Because no matter how much you would love to catch me, it's nothing compared to your love of the chase."

Tracer watched in stunned silence as Widowmaker backed up to the edge of the building, never breaking eye contact as she smiled sharply, and gave a small wave goodbye.

"Au revoir."

Widowmaker stepped off the edge, and for a moment, Tracer thought about catching her. It would have been easy; a single blink forward, and Widowmaker would have been in her grasp, ending years' worth of pain and struggle. But she did nothing, except watch with an open jaw as Widowmaker fell off the building and out of sight.

Damn, the assassin knew her well.

Tracer, with a spiteful grin, dashed towards the edge at regular speed, and leaped off with a spring, chasing Widowmaker down the side of the very, very tall building towards the city streets. As the two fell in harmony, Tracer closed her eyes, letting the wind take hold of her. She could already picture the night ahead of her; Widowmaker would grapple from rooftop-to-rooftop, and Tracer would remain just a hair behind her, always out of reach. They would continue their dance for hours, always evading, until Widowmaker would somehow slip away, and Tracer would track her down all over again. But she wasn't mad. That was her life, she supposed: always chasing after something just out of reach, but something she was positive she would eventually achieve. It was a good life to have. And even if she failed, she would still return home to Overwatch and their smiling faces, telling her how proud they were to have her on their team, and Angela would give her a million check-ups to make sure she wasn't broken in any peculiar places, and Emily would be waiting patiently at home, safe in the knowledge that her fiancé was the coolest woman on the planet. It was, without a doubt, the greatest life on the planet, and Tracer let out a cheerful laugh knowing even if she didn't catch Widowmaker, it didn't take away from the rush of the wind against her face, or the sound of the city streets beneath her, or the thrill of the chase, or the joy she felt every single moment she got to truly be herself. That was her life, and she was blessed to have it.

After all, what other life would let her constantly fall off thirty-story buildings?

The End.