Lena Oxton

a.k.a: Tracer

Lena Oxton

a.k.a: Tracer

Lena Oxton

a.k.a: Tracer

"I was gonna call myself the Blue Blur, but apparently that title's taken."

Lena 'Tracer' Oxton grew up as a vibrant young punkette on the streets of London, with a mouth too fast for her own good and a brash personality she often found herself balancing the line between being a harmless rascal or being a juvenile delinquent.

But she always err'd on the side of compassion.

Though cautious that a strict military lifestyle might clash with her rebellious soul, she had always dreamed of flying - and of escaping her chaotic home life. The first chance she got, Lena applied for the RAF.

Not long after being accepted into the service she had become an incredibly gifted pilot and was fast-tracked into an experimental program - a program that cost her any semblance of a normal life.

However, a little bit of Temporal Dissonance and Technically You Don't Currently Exist wasn't going to keep Lena Oxton down! With the help of her good friend Winston (who happens to be a scientist (and an ape (long story))) she not only made a full recovery,

she gained super powers.

Trusting in Winston, Lena chose to work with Overwatch while they monitored her altered state of being, working both field-missions and as a pilot. She even took on an extremely marketable codename, Tracer.

However, the golden age of Overwatch was not to last forever. After the organization disbanded Lena found herself back on the streets of London with nothing but a hefty severence package and a Sorry You Don't Strictly Exist On The Same Timeline As Everyone Else fund.

Despite the fall of Overwatch, Lena still believed that the world could use more heroes, and that Tracer was not finished fighting the good fight. She was determined to right wrongs, do good, help old ladies across the street, and punch Nazis (oh my God it's the year 20XX how are there still Nazis).

So that's what she did.

And then Winston lit up the Recall signal, "Winston? Is that you, love? It's been too long!"

Nowadays she balances her vigilante life, along with remaining on-call for Winston's new Overwatch (like some sort of double vigilante), while also smooching her super hot girlfriend, Emily.

There's also that whole thing with the blue assassin, some fights with a resurgence of Null-Sec splinter groups, urban exploring with a cowboy, the ethically dubious scientist who may or may want her blood, and a certain korean superstar/super hero that is desperate to drown her in video games.

It's a busy life, but Lena Oxton has all the time in the world.

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On These Streets

Through the lens of her goggles, the London block Tracer waltzed down was bathed in light orange. It might have been a mark up from the usual shades of grey (punctuated by the sharp white light of sunlight reflecting on endless rows of windows), but Tracer always felt a pang of nostalgia for these streets.

She pushes her goggles up - Her fringe brushed back with them. The sign she had stopped at reads Chelter Estate - but everybody called it The Box.

Tracer grins as walks on past the sign and through the tunnel that acted as an informal foyer for the block. The interior tiled floor was dirty, half the square lights in the ceiling flickered in a rather dizzying way, and it all felt like leaving school just that little bit early and waltzing down to her best friend's house.

She chuckles when she notices the tag of spray paint on the ceiling - Free Dizzy - written in a style that Tracer was almost too old to read now.

"Ballsy."

Chika-chika-chika,

Ftzz!

A vibrant red line swipes in a smooth curve up the concrete wall. The latest addition to an ever-expanding pattern of stylized flames exploding out from behind the name written on the wall.

Free Dizzy.

The location wasn't as ambitious as the ceiling of the Box's north-tunnel entrance, but Dizzy reckoned this one would make up for it in the iconic features she had worked into the design.

At the tail-end of each whisp of fire, she painted hypnotic swirls that shimmered with gold. It was a shade of paint she was incredibly sad to see running out.

She shakes the can again, chika-chika-chika,

"A'right, love?" But a cheerful chirp interrupts from down the way, an orange-clad super-heroine approaching from the left,

a clear straight run to the right, Dizzy could round the corner and take the stairs two steps at a time into the west residential block that walled the Box off from the rest of London. It was a maze in there, she could lose anyone easily,

-- Vvdoink. Tracer wasn't anyone and in the seconds Dizzy had taken to contemplate bolting the ex-Overwatch agent (and current Overwatch vigilante) had blinked past and now leant on the wall to the right of Dizzy's art.

"Uh," Dizzy swallows. At first, she starts to shrink into her over-sized hoody. Blue, stained with orange and red and gold at the sleeves. Tracer hadn't even got a good look at her face, covered mostly by her hood and the white paint-mask over her mouth. Then she stands herself up tall and - though her voice is muffled - starts to mouth off, all big and brash, "Oh come off it. I ain't doin' nothin'."

Tracer pushes herself from the wall, hands on her hips as she turns in a circle - Theatrically contemplating out loud, "That's a shame, I'd really like to meet whoever drew up that," She juts a thumb at the drying explosion of fire and bolt artistic lettering, "It's really cool."

"Yeah well I didn't do it," Dizzy maintains. She's probably pouting behind that mask, as mean as she can, her voice has the attitude for it. And her hands still have cans of paint -- She hurriedly hides them behind her back.

"Kid. I promise I ain't here to nab you. I just wanna see you do your thing,

it's cool," Tracer walks backwards while addressing Dizzy, she takes slow purposeful steps until - clunk. Her Chrono-Accelerator taps against the wall opposite the graffiti. Tracer leans back on it, eyes on the artwork.

They were in one of the walkways that outlined the interior courtyards of the Box - Residential blocks marked out a square that neatly rose up and inside that square was a collection of greens, a kid's park, a kiosk, all surrounded and connected by walkways that dipped down into the ground to access maintenance tunnels or the stairwells into the blocks.

"It's cool," Tracer repeats, her cheeky grin replaced by a kind smile, "Not every day I get to meet a local legend. Been seeing your tags here and there for ages now."

Chika, chika, chika, Dizzy shakes the spraypaint slowly, suspiciously, dark eyes on Tracer for a few seconds, "Don't talk to me like a kid. I ain't a kid," She then protests - she turns back around to continue what she was working on.

"Yes ma'am," Tracer affirms under her breath. She looks left and right and then grins when she sees exactly what she was looking for: Someone had discarded a shopping basket. Perfect for flipping upside down and parking her butt on, "Have you got a name?" Tracer asks, approaching the subject cautiously.

"Free Dizzy, ennit. That's why I put it everywhere," The muffled voice comes back in a most obvious tone, Tracer half-expected to hear a 'duh' punctuate the sentence, but it never came.

"Cool name, honestly. I like the swirls. I saw the one you did up in -uhm- Ashton? Purple and white."

Dizzy doesn't respond, instead she stretches on one foot and reaches up to put a finishing touch on the pointed right tip of the letter Y.

Tracer nods, she could respect the silent treatment, "Saw the one on the ceiling, too. That was ballsy."

Dizzy drops her hands to her sides and turns suddenly, "Aren't you meant to, like, arrest me?"

Tracer doesn't jump at the sudden movement, instead she grins, "Do I look like a cop?"

Dizzy doesn't respond.

"Honest question. If they're crimping on my style then we're gonna have to have words,"

"No, okay? Ugh. God. You're just meant to catch bad guys, yeah?"

Tracer leans forward and she is utterly sincere when she asked, voice slightly hushed, "Is there a bad guy about here?"

Dizzy gestures vaguely at her illicit art.

"Eh. That's small crimes, I'll let you take your chances with the bobbies on that one."

"... Didn't think you were cool," Dizzy mutters before turning back to her work.

"Is it the goggles?" Tracer asks, earnest, "Not everyone can get on board, I know.

Or is it the crocs? They're practical!"

Dizzy shakes her head and Tracer, ever the optimist, assumes it must be a reluctant, silenced chuckle and takes it as a win.

"I used to be so punk and then you grow up and they change the world on ya,"

"Pfft," The derisive exhale is distorted by the mask, but clear enough. Tracer hopes it's in good humour.

"Seriously! I used to come down here with my mates. Oh we'd do all sorts, climb stuff. Loiter. I littered once, actually," Tracer pauses for a beat and then tacks on, "That's not a cool one, don't litter."

"So's that where you're drawing the line then?" Dizzy retorts and bless her little heart is she trying to keep up the moody attitude.

"Yeah pretty much. 'spect you to properly bin any empty cans," Tracer smirks.

Quiet falls over the pair, though the scene wasn't silent. In the background cars hummed - occasionally honking - and in the foreground, Dizzy shook her paint cans and let them hiss loudly as she added more and more splashes of colour.

"You used to live down here?" Dizzy finally asks.

"Nearby. Came here after school to hang out," Tracer says. She arches her back and wiggles left and right to stretch.

"Why? It's lame as here. Ever since..." Dizzy lets her sentence shrivel up, hanging in the air as she steps back from her work to take a good look at it.

One of her largest tags yet.

"Ever since?"

Dizzy seems miles away - perhaps in an art gallery somewhere in her own head - and so hearing Tracer she's momentarily startled, "Hm?"

"... Just some guys. It's nothing."

Tracer jumps up to her feet, energetic as ever. She's about to offer up some spiel about how she can totally help and nothing is nothing, not really, but then both Dizzy and Tracer hear a gruff voice along where Tracer had initially come from,

"Oi!" The guy was bearded and had a high-vis jacket that marked him as important or official in some way. The domed hat marked him as a copper.

Dizzy takes off running while Tracer hops back in her direction a few steps, "Don't worry mate! I got her!" It was a bluff, but she figured a token attempt at covering her own arse might be worthwhile, then she takes off after Dizzy.

No blinking, though. That'd be cheating.

About three floors up on the western housing block of the Box, one side of the corridor was open to the outdoor air while flats took up the other. Window, door, window, door.

The pair had gotten away from the officer without any fuss, and from there it was the slow walk back home for Dizzy.

Tracer's sneakers squeaked on the tiled floor, Dizzy's scuffed against it and her tone somehow matched the sound, "You don't gotta!"

"It's getting dark. I'm walking you home," Cheerful as ever, Tracer replied, but her voice was no less firm for it, "I'd be a terrible super-hero if I didn't do this bit."

"You're a terrible super-hero anyway. Lettin' me off."

"Oi. Cheeky," Tracer grins, she nudges Dizzy by the shoulder. Oof, she thinks, am I short, or are kids these days getting tall?

After a few more doors had passed, Dizzy comes to a stop, "This is me. Can I go now?"

Tracer leans against the wall next to the door, she nods her head towards it, "Sure. I ain't gonna make you introduce me.

Stay safe, y' hear?"

"Yeah, yeah," Dizzy's answer comes, she fumbles with the key she had been trusted with any quickly vanishes inside the flat.

Tracer waits to hear the door close, the latch to click into place, she sighs.

"Some guys," She mutters to herself, pushing with one foot off the wall, "A'ight then."

Echoing across the concrete of the London estate, Tracer could hear loud masculine voices. Yelps and cackles, they could just be lads being lads,

they could just be some guys.

"Let's see how their night's going."

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