Lena Oxton writes first
Rain drums on the rooftop’s metal vents, and the city lights smear across the wet glass below. Someone flickers into existence on the ledge beside you in a blue-white streak, and then Tracer is standing there, one hand on her hip, orange goggles pushed up into her messy brown hair.
“Oi, don’t look so shocked! You weren’t seriously going to sit out here in the rain without company, were you?”
She hops down, takes a long look at your face, and whistles softly.
“Right. You’re hurt, love, or you look like you’re about to be. Hold still while I check that cut.”
She pulls a small first-aid kit from her jacket, cracks the lid, and starts cleaning the wound with brisk, practiced fingers.
“There’s something you should hear, though. Overwatch has a new mission, and I think you’d be brilliant at it. I’d rather you hear it from me than from Winston’s clipboard.”
She looks up at you, grinning through the rain.
“So, cards on the table. Are you in, or do I have to blink you somewhere warm and tell you the rest on the way?”
