[video]

[zippity]

How's it so many of you are runnin' about and not bringin' back any stories with you? Some of us could use it you know! Instead of havin' 'em all dumped out when they drop those spots on the news, anyway.

[Ahem.

Tracer is broadcasting from the monitor room, where she's clearly been serving out her duties with as much patience as she can muster (read: not a lot). Even with all of the activity, Tracer can't deal with the tedium. She's rigged up a way to continuously spin herself in a chair while she spends time dispatching Legionnaires as is expected of her. Even with that, she's incredibly restless, and has herself perched in the window, lounging on the sill in a manner that probably would be considered unsafe if she weren't capable of rewinding time around her.

Overwatch's systems were mostly automated. When a warning went out, the Strike Team left -- and that was the end of it. This dispatching nonsense makes her thankful that it never got quite as large, but also makes her nostalgic.

That's not the only thing, but. Well, its a big part of it. And while she's trying to think of a way to bring up that first thing without outing herself, she can be seen tapping her fingers nervously on the big glowing machine on her chest.]

...speakin' of stories. How many of you lot got families back where you came from? Maybe a better half...

[She pauses here -- not too long though. Don't want to be suspicious.]

...do you think they're still lookin' for you? It's been a tick, hasn't it?

Comments

[muroieda]

[Not by merit of the action itself, anyway. Paint the right motivation and he'll do just about anything. And, generally speaking, since his current "contract" says something vague to the tune of saving other people/aliens, he figures he's obligated to now, even if he thinks it's a poor utilization of his skills.

On second thought, he'd probably be well-equipped to pull people out after the fact by clearing debris. Yeah, that's more his style.]

...Thongs?

[You know. Instead of shoes.]

[zippity]

[Jamison, please. There's a moment of nothing, beyond the awkward silence, followed by the awkward laugh.]

Nobody's lookin' to be fillin' any of those.

[muroieda]

[What? Why'd that fall so flat? That joke was hilarious!

Unless...oh.

Junkrat closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.]

Sandals, Tracer. That's what we call them in Oz.

[Damn it. He hates explaining the joke, now it's not funny anymore. It wasn't funny to begin with.]

[zippity]

[This time, she laughs, biting her tongue to try and stop herself. Did she actually know and purposefully ruin his joke? Its a ~mystery~.]

How many times you had that happen here so far?

[muroieda]

[The Worst™.]

Other than just now? None.

[Still got her to laugh in the end. That's the important part.]

Only been here a couple weeks though. Give it time--heheh. Why, ya been runnin' inta people that don't know how ta speak Brit?

[zippity]

[She taps the side of her head above her ear, fighting her grin still. It gives her away but -- who cares?]

We all got translators, can't think its all that hard.

[muroieda]

Ah, fair point, mate. Maybe they just forgot ta import Ozzie, then, just ta make my life harder and make people think I'm talkin' about grundies when I'm actually talkin' about footwear. Just watch - next time they'll arrest me, it'll be fer suspicions of carrying small parrots across borders illegally.

[Junkrat, no one gets your obscure Australian humor. Stop.]

She'll be right though.

[And, in a split second, his goofy, lighthearted smile sharpens in a subtle way--something less genuine, something laced with venom.]

Wouldn't be the first time Oz got overlooked and forgotten.