The Impact Never Came.
I remember clearly the moment the cargo plane, its engines on fire, tilted dangerously over the rooftops of Feira de Santana. The deafening roar filled the air, windows rattled in the frames of my modest house, and I, frozen in the living room, thought that would be the last image I would ever see. An absurd, impersonal end caused by a mechanical failure on a routine flight. My heart beat out of control, panic mixed with a strange acceptance.
Then came the white. Not the darkness of death, but a pulsing light, as if the fabric of reality had torn open. I felt my body being pulled, twisted, accelerated beyond any physical limit. Time did not stop—it bent, swallowing me like an invisible wave.
When I regained my senses, the world had completely changed.
The air was cold and damp, heavy with the metallic smell of recent rain on old concrete. London's gray, overcast sky contrasted with the heat still pulsing in my chest. I was on my knees in a quiet side street, surrounded by futuristic buildings mixed with preserved Victorian constructions. And right in front of me, just a few meters away, was the woman I never imagined I would meet in the flesh.
Lena Oxton—Tracer.
She wasn't an illusion made of pixels or an exaggerated fanart. She was real. The iconic orange-and-white uniform hugged her athletic body with a precision that bordered on impossible. Her large, heavy, perfectly round breasts stretched the thin fabric of her jacket, creating a hypnotic volume that rose and fell with every quick breath. The narrow waist gave way to wide hips and a perky ass, accentuated by the short shorts that left her thick, toned thighs on full display. Her short brown hair framed an expressive face, with large, bright eyes full of an energy that seemed never to fade.
She tilted her head to the side, the mischievous smile appearing instantly, as if she had been trained to turn any chaotic situation into something light.
"Well, hello there, stranger! You look like someone who just fell out of a plane without a parachute." Her voice was fast, animated, with that light, contagious British accent that made every word sound like a shared joke. "Or am I the ghost? Because from the look on your face, it seems like you've seen one."
I stood up slowly, my legs still shaky, trying to organize my thoughts. My name is Mark. I'm 28 years old, I work remotely as a programmer, and until a few minutes ago I believed my life was too ordinary for any adventure. Now everything had changed.
"Lena… Tracer?" I murmured, my voice hoarse. "This can't be real. I was at home in Brazil. A plane… was falling straight toward me. I was going to die. And now… you."
Tracer blinked, genuine surprise crossing her face for a second before being replaced by professional curiosity. She took a step forward with that characteristic bouncy gait, as if the ground were her personal running track. She stopped close enough for me to feel the heat radiating from her body and a subtle scent of vanilla mixed with something electric, almost like ozone after a storm.
"Easy there, Mark. Deep breath. I know this seems completely insane, but you're not the first. My name is Lena Oxton, yes. And you've just become what we call a 'Temporal Displaced.' " She touched my arm gently, her cold fingers contrasting with my warm skin. Her large eyes studied me with a mix of empathy and responsibility. "The Chronal Accelerator I use to control my time… it creates occasional fissures. Small cracks in the fabric of reality. Sometimes something bigger happens. People from other times, other universes, fall through. Overwatch documented dozens of cases before it was officially disbanded. Most arrive confused, terrified, or trying to attack everything that moves. You, at least, just seem… dazed. That's already a good start."
I swallowed hard, processing the information. Overwatch, Talon, the Chronal Accelerator—everything I knew only as game lore was now the tangible reality around me.
"So I jumped realities? Parallel universes? I'm not… me anymore?"
Tracer laughed softly, a light and comforting sound that contrasted with the gravity of the situation.
"You're still you, love. You're just in my world now. London, around 2070-something. The city is still holding on, but Talon keeps tightening the noose. They want total control—over time, over people, over everything. My job, even without the official Overwatch, is to help those who fall here. Adapt them, protect them, prevent giant paradoxes that could destroy entire timelines." She shrugged, but there was a shadow of exhaustion in her eyes. "I live accelerated all the time. Sometimes I feel like I'm running after my own life. I lost years because of this device. But it also saved me. And now… it looks like it saved you too."
There was genuine vulnerability in her voice. Tracer wasn't just the hyperactive, optimistic heroine from the videos. She carried the weight of someone who had been disconnected from the normal flow of time, constantly fighting to feel anchored in the present. That made her more human, more attractive than any static fantasy.
She noticed my gaze involuntarily drifting down her body and bit the corner of her lower lip, a naughty gesture that mixed amusement and interest.
"Although I have to admit… you're a very interesting Displaced." Her voice dropped a tone, becoming husky and provocative. "And quite… well-equipped, judging by the bulge in your pants. Not that I'm complaining."
I felt my face heat up, but the inexplicable wave of confidence that came with the temporal jump gave me the courage to answer honestly.
"Sorry. It's impossible to keep composure when the woman I've admired for years—not just for her body, but for the way she never gives up, for her energy that lights up everything—appears in front of me, more beautiful and real than any image I've ever seen. My name is Mark. And I don't want to attack you, Lena. I want to understand all this. I want to really get to know you… and, if you allow me, I want to make you smile in a way that isn't just from the adrenaline of a mission."
Tracer raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the depth of the answer. A subtle blush colored her cheeks—something rare for someone so confident.
"Wow. You're direct, but not in a rude way. Most guys I meet try to pretend they're not staring at me while talking about saving the world. You're honest. I like that. A lot." She interlaced her fingers with mine, the touch sending an electric spark up my arm. "My apartment is just two blocks away. Let's go there. We'll talk properly, without the risk of Talon spotting us on the street. And then… we'll see what else we can do together."
The walk was short but full of revelations. While we walked along the wet streets, Lena spoke with controlled animation. She told me how Overwatch had been declared illegal years ago, but a small core of agents still operated in the shadows, resisting Talon. She spoke of Amélie Lacroix—Widowmaker—with a complex mix of anger, sadness, and stubborn hope.
"She was my friend, you know? Before Talon's conditioning. Cold, precise, lethal… but there's still something of her in there. I refuse to believe she's gone forever." Her voice sped up, as always, but there was genuine pain behind it. "I run all the time because stopping means remembering everything I've lost. But with you here… it's strange. I feel less alone."
We arrived at the futuristic apartment, decorated with soft holographic panels, blue and orange neon lights, and minimalist furniture that blended advanced technology with cozy touches. Lena closed the door and turned to me, her eyes sparkling.
"Rule number one, Mark: no paradoxes. You can't go around telling people you came from another world. Normal people would freak out, and Talon would love to use that against us. Rule number two…" She approached slowly, pressing her curvy body against mine. Her heavy breasts brushed my chest, sending waves of heat. "If we're going to do this, let's do it right. No rush. I like to talk first. I like to know who I'm connecting with. Because in the end, even with all my speed, I still want something real."
I smiled, gently pulling her by the waist.
"Agreed. I've always had a huge crush on you, Lena. Not just for your incredible appearance or the curves that seem designed to drive anyone crazy. But for your determination, the way you turn fear into action, the smile that insists on existing even when the world is falling apart. In my world, you were inspiration. Here… you're so much more."
She blushed again, her eyes softening.
"You know exactly what to say to disarm a girl who lives in hyper-speed, huh?" she whispered, bringing her lips close to mine. "Then show me, Mark. Show me how you really see me."
The kiss started slow and exploratory, full of mutual curiosity. Her hands roamed my chest while I held her waist firmly. Between kisses, she murmured against my mouth:
"It's been so long since I felt this… present. The Accelerator keeps me always a step ahead of time, but sometimes I feel disconnected from everything. With you here, suddenly I feel anchored. Real."
I slowly removed her jacket, revealing her soft, warm skin. My fingers traced the generous curves of her breasts, and she let out a trembling sigh mixed with a light laugh.
"You have gentle… but firm hands. I like that. Keep going."
In the bedroom, lit by soft neon lights, the intensity grew, but always interwoven with conversation. I laid her on the bed and explored her body with calm reverence, kissing every inch while she shared fragments of her life between soft moans.
"It's hard to have relationships when you can jump seconds, minutes, hours…" she confessed, her voice broken. "People get left behind. But you… you fell straight into my time. That has to mean something."
She came for the first time with my mouth dedicated between her legs, her thick thighs trembling around my head, fingers tangled in my hair as she whispered my name like an anchor.
"Mark… damn, you're good at this… don't stop…"
When I finally entered her, it was slow, looking deep into her eyes. Each rhythmic thrust was accompanied by low, intimate words:
"You're so hot, so tight… I want to feel every part of you." "Mark… deeper, please… I want to feel all of you inside me." "I waited so long for someone who would look at me like I was more than just a heroine running against the clock…"
We spent hours like that, alternating intense passion with moments of genuine tenderness. In the third round, when she asked for anal in a whiny, desire-filled voice ("I want to feel you everywhere, love… show me you want me completely"), I was careful, attentive to every reaction, every moan, making sure the pleasure was mutual.
At the end of the early morning, as I moved slowly on top of her, connected in a tender rhythm, Lena wrapped her legs around my waist and whispered against my lips:
"Come inside me, Mark. Fill me up completely… I want to feel you coming deep. I want to carry a piece of you with me when the sun rises."
I came hard, moaning her name. We stayed embraced, sweaty, breathing in the same rhythm. She traced lazy patterns on my chest, her voice now calmer, almost dreamy.
"I've never felt such a quick connection with someone. You make me want to slow down a bit, Mark. And slowing down isn't exactly my style. But with you… I think I could try."
I smiled, kissing her sweaty forehead.
"Then I'm honored to be the exception to your constant-speed rule."
She laughed softly, a sweet and satisfied sound.
"Stay with me tonight. Tomorrow we'll figure out what to do with this temporal jump of yours. How to register you, how to protect you. For now… I just want to sleep in your arms, feeling your heart beat at a normal rhythm. No accelerations."
I was about to answer that I wanted this every day when the window glass exploded in a shower of shards with a violent crash.
A slender and lethal figure leaped inside like a living shadow. Pale blue skin, long dark hair cascading like a waterfall, an absurdly curvy body wrapped in a tight purple-and-blue suit. Golden eyes gleamed with cold predation. Widowmaker.
She observed the scene on the bed with a slow, disdainful smile, her weapon still smoking slightly in her hand.
"What a… pathetically touching scene," she said in an elegant, icy French accent, her voice loaded with aristocratic contempt. "The little time runner has finally found a human toy to feel less alone. How sweet. How fragile. What a shame I have to interrupt this fairy-tale moment."
Tracer reacted instantly, activating her Chronal Accelerator with an intense blue glow, already jumping off the bed.
"Amélie! Don't you dare!"
But it was too late. Widowmaker fired a precise, silent tranquilizer dart directly into my neck. A cold numbness spread through my body like liquid poison. My legs failed.
"Mark!" Lena screamed, her face filled with pure fury and desperation, running naked toward me.
Widowmaker lifted me in her arms with superhuman strength, as if I weighed nothing. Her body pressed against mine for an instant, and she whispered close to my ear, her voice low, venomous, and laden with sinister promises:
"You now belong to Talon, mon cher. And I have very… interesting plans for a Temporal Displaced like you. Let's see how long you can last before you beg for mercy."
The world spun and darkened quickly. The last image I registered was Tracer, naked and desperate, reaching out for me while her scream echoed full of rage and pain:
"MARK!"
Everything dissolved into darkness.
End of Chapter 1