Okay, but now I’m imagining some event where these PR assholes force her into a dress and so she just starts going super passive aggressive because fuck you. Like, sitting on the back of the couch. Burping after downing some alcohol super fast. Shoving food in her mouth as messily as possible.
Tracer gathered up her garment bag and hurried to the studio. She wouldn’t be late. Not again. She had set no less than 6 alarms, every five minutes, and she practically beamed with pride as she walked out the door, checking that her key was wrapped around her wrist, carefully carrying her suit, neatly and newly pressed, to where the PR pictures were being taken that day.
London’s uprising had been a victory for them on multiple levels, and they intended to bank every moment on it. Tracer had been in the papers plenty when she had disappeared, and when her father had held Overwatch personally responsible for it, and there was a part of her that knew they were simply trotting her out as a way of mollifying the public outrage.
Look, she not only came back, but she is a highly successful agent. One of the best. We couldn’t say what had happened to her for the sake of public safety, no, not even to her father. Of course we regret what happened to Tracer, and whatever part the situation might have played in her Bert Oxton’s tragic death…
But, all those things being true, Tracer still believed in Overwatch, and that it could be a force for incredible good. And so she had happily agreed to be a part of the celebration.
It didn’t hurt that she adored a bit of praise, now and again, and also parties.
And so she bounced happily as she sat, careful not to wrinkle her suit or the new tie she’d purchased for the occasion–they needed to all wear black for the photo, but Tracer thought they wouldn’t object to a pop of color, a paisley silk tie in oranges and blues that was the most expensive she’d ever owned. She thought it looked very dapper.
But she’d brought a black one, just in case
She got off at her stop, humming tunelessly to herself and half-skipping as she entered. There were cameras everywhere, and her eyes lit up with excitement at the thought of being part of a real photoshoot, of being the hero people saw all over the world. It was the kind of thing no reasonable person ever expects for themselves, and now, here she was.
“Lena!” Reinhardt’s voice boomed across the studio. He was dressed in a black suit that didn’t look too dissimilar from her own, and Tracer was privately grateful that it appeared to pass muster.
Tracer waved happily. “Where do I go to get dressed?”
A man followed along behind Reinhardt and looked at her. “We may have to do something with the hair.”
Tracer held out her suit in its bag. “I’ve just ‘ad it pressed yesterday.”
He opened the bag and examined it, and Tracer’s eyes searched his face, his lips twisted in subtle disapproval.
“I’ve brought a black tie, as well.” She offered softly.
He shook his head. “Wardrobe will fix you up, I’m afraid it’s not the image we’re going for. Go see Cassandra round the corner.”
Reinhardt leaned in close to her, and offered his best whisper, which was closer to most people’s raised voice. “I think it’s a very handsome suit.”
Tracer didn’t know quite what to say. It was her first mission, London, as a field agent, and this new world was something she didn’t understand. She wanted to be a good agent, and she couldn’t figure out particularly what was wrong with the suit she owned–she’d bought it a few years ago, when she was made corporal in the RAF, and she thought it rather fine. Certainly cost as if it had been.
But, then again, they probably had designers here she had never heard of nor could dream of affording, and so, Tracer smiled and resolved herself to enjoy the pampering for the day. It wasn’t that her suit was bad, it was just common, and this was a very uncommon thing, for certain, and so there was no reason to take the whole thing personally.
She rounded the corner, bounce back in her step and smile back on her face, and met the fiercely penciled eyebrows of Cassandra, who was adjusting Mercy’s long, black offshoulder gown, which followed the lines of her body fluidly.
“Oh Angela, you look just beautiful!” Tracer giggled. “Your picture’ll be in plenty of lockers, it will.”
Mercy gave a little blush and waved her hand. “Stop.”
“No, really!” Tracer’s eyes danced with happiness. “I might ‘ave ‘ad quite the crush on you, in my day.”
“And no longer?”
“Well, you see love, I’m famous now.” She giggled and turned to Cassandra. “Ready!”
Cassandra took a bag off the rack, and handed it to Tracer, who unzipped it quickly, excited. Her face turned to confusion. “Oh miss, you must ‘ave given me the wrong bag.”
Cassandra turned over the tag, and showed it to Tracer. “Lena Oxton.”
“But,” she looked at the garment. ‘This isn’t ‘ow I dress. I’ll look a fool.”
It might have been lovely, for anyone else, a short cocktail dress with a deep v neck in a soft satin, but it made Tracer feel an imposter the second she looked at it.
Cassandra shrugged. “Overwatch was very clear about the wardrobe.”
All the bounce went out of Tracer’s body, and she frowned as she looked at it. “I haven’t worn a dress going on years.”
“Well, today is the day,” she snapped, and directed Tracer toward a dressing room, “Over there, now.”
Tracer looked at herself in the mirror. The dress was nice enough, and would have fit her perfectly, except for the awkward way it crisscrossed under her accelerator, reminding her of how it was strange and unusual and would forever be the first thing people noticed about her for as long as she lived. She sighed unhappily and touched the accelerator, wishing she was anywhere else.
Deflated, she put on the high heels that crisscrossed at the ankles, privately gave thanks for her youth as a gymnast, and went and sat on a chair outside of hair and makeup, waiting for the sparkly pins and tiny curls they intended to put in her too-boyish hair.
There was the creak of a heavy seat beside her, and she looked over at Reinhardt, her back still bowed as she slumped forward, elbows on her knees, her whole body carrying the weight of her disappointment.
Reinhardt looked over at her with warmth and gentleness. “Are you nervous, child? You seemed so happy!”
Tracer leaned back and looked at the floor. “I look stupid. I look like I belong ‘ere. You know,” she scowled, “Even in the bloody RAF they let me wear trousers for me dress uniform, and you know ‘ow it is about tradition, why do the right thing if we’ve done it the wrong way for 50 years, we’re well used to it by now, but even they let me wear trousers.” She shook her head. “Sorry.”
“You know, Lena,” he boomed, setting his hand on her back, “They used to make me shave my beard, for appearances.”
Tracer looked up at him. “But they don’t anymore.”
Reinhardt laughed. “I was so bad at shaving, that I cut up my face! Every appearance, my face covered in scabs!” She nodded and winked unsubtly. “They changed their mind.”
“And you won’t tell?”
“What’s to tell!? That you don’t know how to act in a dress?!” He roared with laughter again and looked at Tracer’s grin. “There’s a smile.”
“We are a team! We look out for each other.” He nodded. “You will be much more striking in the suit.”
Mercy walked up behind them. “The only thing I will be knowing is that you tried so hard to make a good impression.”
Tracer bounced up happily. It was good to be on a team.
Gerard threw down the magazine, the picture of the four of them on the cover, Tracer practically indecent as she sat on the back of the couch.
“They had to photoshop out the edge of her boxer brief,” Ana took a sip of her tea, “I’m not going to say I said so, except that I did.”
Gerard rubbed his temples. “Give her a suit for the next campaign.”