Tracer

Lena is going to try and learn a second language. She took French in school, didn’t she? And didn’t she graduate school? Right! So this should be an absolute walk in the park. French it is. Her first choice was Arabic, as it was, in fact, the prospect of Amari drama that made her embrace the wisdom of being a polyglot in the first place, but Mercy’s gentle suggestion that she start with something a bit closer to home base made her try for French. Arabic could be her third language. 

And it isn’t that Tracer is stupid, so much as she has the full confidence that she can try hard and find success. This has been true so many times in her life, that she was simply the one most dedicated to the outcome, and so she managed to wrench it from the hands of fate. She is quick, and clever, and capable! What’s FRENCH got that she can’t handle. 

Lena, five minutes in: Oh, right, I hated school. 

She tries, god love her, but it just doesn’t hold her attention. She’s trying so hard to write verb forms and study and study, but she doesn’t honestly care much to KNOW French. It reminds her of Amelie, for starters, and that always gives her a little bit of a pit in her stomach, and without Amelie, there seems very little reason to know it. Only one in the house who speaks it is Mercy, really. 

So she takes account of the languages her team knows. 

Hana...Korean, of course, and at least some Japanese, mostly for promotional reasons. Lena takes one look at the Japanese rules of politeness and deference and gently sets the language to the side. She thinks about Korean--Korea’s been so much help since the omnic crisis, and it’s a good thing to converse with your allies--but the daunting aspect of having to ask Hana, who seems not even to know herself whether she likes everyone in the house or not, overcomes her. 

Fareeha, well, that’d be Arabic, and that’s it, so far as Lena knows, and Ang’s already warned her off of that one. Fareeha’s feeling a it pricky about the whole Arabic situation since her mother’s come back, anyhow, and all her workout music has turned to English, and Lena’s not certain why she seems to be blaming the entire Arab world for Ana, but then again, Lena doesn’t understand Fareeha in the best of times. 

Winston, he’d of course help her, but a lot of his knowledge is tied up in Latin and Scholarly Greek, and she’s not sure why anyone would take all the effort when you couldn’t even properly go on holiday. He does know a fair amount of German, she figures, but if she’s going to do that, she may as well go to Ang, and besides all that, Winston dos so much for her. No need to throw in another thing. 

Ana: No. 

Jack: No, but a bit softer. 

Angela seems the natural choice, as she knows so many languages, comparatively. Her father was a linguist of sorts, to hear Ang talk around the edge of it, and so German, French, Italian, Latin, Hebrew, at the least, all come to her quickly and easily. It’s English she likes the least, and she’s better at it than she gives herself credit for, near perfect but for a few stange tenses. It really only Ang who notices. But Angela is, well, Ang, and with all the troubles of the world, she’s lost her mind, a bit. 

So there’s no real help to be had, and Lena buys a few Muzzy tapes in French and learns how to say “I am a young girl” and “I like apples” before deciding that her quarantine time is better spent ensuring that she can actually climb the drain to the roof, jump from the roof into the pool, and other extremely valuable information. No one was hiring her for the language department anyhow. 

Winston

WInston is more used to solitude than the rest of them, and as far as he’s concerned, it’s not really loneliness if Tracer is with him. THough he feels bad for her, and how stir crazy she’s getting. It makes him sad to see her so bored and glum, though she is trying to make cheer of it. 

And so Winston has a genius idea. Tracer LOVES gymnastics, and Winston loves a project. So the idea for the super bounce trampoline is born. 

You cannot tell Winston this is a bad idea. You cannot tell Winston this is a bad idea, because, on some level, he already knows. He knows, but he sees Tracer doing her little cartwheels in the yard, running laps, trying to create little games for herself where she creates time trials around the house, trying to improve on each activity lap. At the time where she breaks three plates trying to see if she can beat her time for table service, it even starts to sound like a GOOD idea. 

He’s fine making little picnic lunches together and watching TV and having her ‘help’ in the lab, but she is becoming despondent with the boredom of it all. It has been ten days. 

And so, he looks at the metals he’s engineered for use in his prosthetic limbs. Couldn’t they also be used to create a spring that would double your strength and energy return of a normal spring? Than Lena could do all kinds of maneuvers on the trampoline, and besides, it’s always important to know the limits of engineering. 

Angela tries to remind him hospitals  are full. 

Dva

The first day of quarantine, Hana Song pops a soda in her pj shorts and says, “It’s a pandemic! Why do we have to improve ourselves? God, isn’t it enough to be alive?” She takes a deep sip. “I’ll do some charity streams, okay?” 

As she’s walking away Tracer asks her if she’ll help paint the upstairs den. Tracer is making little physical projects for herself in varying levels of horror, sometimes while watching the Muzzy tapes to convince herself she hasn’t given up on the bilingual dream. Painting seems tame. Hana stops for a moment, then agrees. 

She is the only reasonable person in this house. 

Mercy

Angela is in a panic. The entire world seems to be crumbling at her feet, and though she is no epidemiologist, she knows that none of this is good. She wants to go. Pharah begs her to stay. She is afraid for Angela. To put her in some ICU where she could get the illness, where it could be, as such, that Fareeha would not be able to come to her. She understands Angela’s need to help, but also, she says, what if something happened to you? You are the only doctor with any real knowledge of Tracer. What would be come of her. 

Angela only looks at her for a moment before her face darkens, and Fareeha shakes her head, ashamed. “I was using Tracer to excuse my own fears. I am selfish. You should go.” 

And in that moment, Angela does not leave not because she is the only physician who can properly work with Tracer’s condition, but for the great love of Fareeha Amari, who for the first time since Angela has known her, is truly afraid. 

The days pass with difficulty. She is writing guidelines and ideas to anyone she can, coordinating donations and writing out thank yous and pleas, sitting in the bay window of their bedroom as the sleeting snow and rain fall against the window one bleak afternoon. The sun and storm come in patches, she’s noticed, but the grey seems to speak to her most all. 

Fareeha comes to her one day. She has a mug filled with hot chocolate and whipped cream and brandy and love. She gently places her hand on Angela’s knee. 

“I hear you crying in the night,” she says, though she cannot look to Angela’s face, “You should go. You must go.” 

She loves Fareeha so very much. 

She goes. 

Pharah

Which immediately drives the sort of disconnected and floating morass of ennui that is the Overwatch household into Von Trapp style whistle blowing order. 

Pharah’s project, you see, is everyone else. 

Fareeha is a lovely person in most respects, all of them would say in one way or another, but she has certain control issues, and these never become more pronounced than when her life seems, well, out of control. 

No more laying about. There is a kitchen to be reorganized, there are drills to be done, when was the last time you lifted? There is a color coded schedule posted in the kitchen and we should all take note of the way Fareeha has scheduled our time. Tracer balks, of course, that she’s the leader as well, and Fareeha has a terrible habit of assuming that it’s her who’s the leader entire and complete, and you know what else--

Winston pulls them apart. Neither of them, he tries to say, are actually angry with each other. He shakes when he says it. 

And so Pharah tries. God love her, she tries SO HARD. She improves herself, and tries to let others be. She reorganizes the entire kitchen. She labels every bulk container, She scrubs every floor in the house to a gleaming shine. Her clothes, and Angela’s all washed and organized by sshade and season. 

One night Lena comes downstairs and sees her looking out the window, drinking a Labatt, rubbing at her wedding ring. Lena wouldn’t embarrass her by asking, but her eyes seem to beglistening, jsut a bit. 

The next morning, all three of the rest of the OVerwatch team are lined up, at the bottom of the stairs, at 6 am sharp. 

It’s true that Fareeha takes herself on three hour runs across the prairie in all weathers to give everyone some down time where they don’t have to be doing anything, but they broker a sort of peace wherein they spend a certain amount of time doing Fareeha Amari’s Twelve Point Improvement Plan every day, and time doing their own thing, and Fareeha seems genuinely cheered to be plotting out their workout and meal plans, their online seminars to listen to. She and Lena even watch a few Muzzy tapes together. 

She even forgives Tracer when the first test of Winston’s trampoline finds Lena sailing through Pharah’s (Thankfully open) bedroom window. 

Ana and Jack:

cute! I also like how Haruka seems shorter than Mina lol, I can imagine them arguing over this point if they saw these

Mina: haha look, mine’s a little taller than yours

Haruka: ONLY BECAUSE YOUR HEAD IS SO BIG. MINE IS PROPORTIONATE.

Mina: okay buddy

Haruka: THEY JUST WANTED TO CAPTURE YOUR REAL LIFE EGO. LIKE, METAPHORICALLY. THEY KNOW I’M TALL. AND HANDSOME. 

Mina: I don’t know, seems like they think your main traits are “has messy hair” and “looks vaguely pissed off.” Not sure they’re wrong.

Poor boy, I want to roll him up in a blanket and feed him his favorite cookies. Poor baby.

these kids have trauma and we don’t talk about it enough imo. Honestly the last surviving people of an entire planet??? and they’re like 16/17?????? that’s gunna fuck you up

moonlight1130 replied to your post “He wakes with a start. Convulsing. Gasping. Clawing for something...”

This was really captivating to read. The opening descriptions of flailing and fighting against something are so emotive and I love the flow and pacing of it.

I LOVE THIS

THANK YOU SO MUCH ROSE!! :D

docholligay replied to your photo “Testing out a few new coloring techniques and i like it”

This looks amazing!

docholligay replied to your photoset “I did ittttttt ok now to sleep forever”

THis is wonderful!

Ahhh, thank you so much Doc!

docholligay replied to your photoset “so i’ve been practicing drawing female forms because believe it or...”

These look so good!

Also I fucking love your art style, you don't suck!!

I know I know - I started looking back at some of the stuff I’ve drawn over the years and I like, realized that I liked a good bunch of them too. It’s just...so easy to forget all the good ones and remember only the bad, aborted attempts sometimes, and while i feel really confident in doing some things, I’ve felt really out of sorts/embarrassed/ashamed of other things.

2019 is the year I actually do something about that, though! I’m gunna keep practicing until I get as good as I want to be

themiscyra1983 replied to your photo “TREAT YO SELF”

Yay new tablet! And that sketch looks great! POST MORE ART REN

themiscyra1983 replied to your photoset “I did ittttttt ok now to sleep forever”

These are great, I really think your figure drawing is working wonderfully!

THANK YOU CASSS!!! Seriously, I cannot express how thankful I am for everyone’s encouragements - it’s really pushing me to try to do bigger, better, more ambitious things!

fugicross replied to your photoset “so i’ve been practicing drawing female forms because believe it or...”

Hiiiiiiipppppppszszsssss

I KNOW RIGHT??? AND HIPS THAT DON’T LOOK LUMPY OR DEFORMED

moonlight1130

replied to your photoset

“so i’ve been practicing drawing female forms because believe it or...”

*gasp* pinterest?? xD these look great! I'm really proud of you

skylineofspace said:Jet, what was the deal with you saying Madame in the Albertson’s Pharmacy line? Inquiring minds want to know!

thoughtfulfuri said:Regale us with the time you said “madam” in the line for the Alberson’s Pharmacy!

I KNOW HOLLIGAY PUT YOU ALL UP TO THIS

VERY WELL

Come, friends, join me on this magical mundane tale of a goodhearted, charismatic, very sexy heterosexual, simply trying to keep her dumbass gay alive and in exceptional health while also protecting … THE WORLD.

So my aforementioned gay had been hrumphing and dragging her ass on getting her flu shot, and as we sometimes must, I grabbed her by her little ear and dragged her to our local Albertsons (okay we were going there anyway but going there THEN reminded me) so that we could get this taken care of. I’d been badgering her about this for a while, so was quite insistent on it today, and because I am of course cool and chill in every scenario in whcih I find myself, I was belabouring the point as we were walking into the place. “HERD IMMUNITY!!” I was yelling, to which Doc was saying absolutely nothing at all.

Now something I feel is important to clarify, particularly for those of you who’ve never had the misfortune opportunity to spend meatspace time with Doctor Holligay, is that sometimes Doc’s little ADHD brain whisks her away for a brief but intense vacation. You can be talking to her, and sometimes *POOF!* she’ll just be gone. Oh she’s still physically here, of course, but mentally, she’s out of office, and all you can really do is wait for her to clock back in again.

If I’m looking at her, I can tell when she’s popped out for a bit, but we’re walking side-by-side, so I can’t see her face at all, yeah? So it’s ALSO possible that she’s completely there, and present, and living in this moment, BUT SHE’S IGNORING ME, and that, of course, is a crime and also a sin.

So we’re in the store, going up to the pharmacy (she had a completely unrelated prescription to pick up, so her body could still well be on autopilot, this was proof of nothing), and I was determined to get her buy-in on this flu shot situation so I could once again know rest. But we’re in line now, and she still hasn’t even reacted to me, and so I need to get her attention. Simple! Easy! No problem whatsoever! These are all probably things you are thinking to yourself. You, sitting there, wrapped in your hubris and naivety.

There’s a particular way that Doc and I speak to each other. We’re hardly unique in this. Everyone who spends enough time with another is going to pick up little quirks and mannerisms, shorthand for their feelings and intent. Things intended just for them. Tones used that would never move outside of their personal bubble.

All of this would have been helpful for me to remember before I spoke next.

I most assuredly did not.

Standing there, in line at the pharmacy, intent on making my dumbass gay agree to get her flu shot, uncertain if I was facing the latest ADHD-related silence or being actively ignored, I spoke just one word: “Madam.”

“Spoke”, is perhaps not the best descriptor.

I didn’t so much say “Madam” as I did spit it out, fired it point-blank from the barrel of my mouth. There was no preamble to this; remember, my preamble had been given on the way in. I was looking for confirmation, not conversation. So there was no context for this “Madam”, it simply sprung to life, fully formed, like a very cranky and impatient Athena.

“MADAM?!” I demanded of Holligay.

“MADAM?!” I snapped at the little old lady I had not previously noticed standing in front of us in the pharmacy line.

To say that I startled this innocent soul would so undersell what happened. She’d been reading a magazine. That magazine barely avoided being ripped in two, she was so rattled. I would not have been surprised to learn she woke up the next day with aches and pains from how high and hard she physically jumped. I rattled the absolute fuck out of this poor woman’s cage. AND THE SPEED. She was already racing to the counter, leaving behind only the faintest impression of her needless apology for being distracted and not knowing it was her turn.

IT WAS NOT HER TURN. GODS HELP ME IT WAS NOT. HER. TURN.

“No! No, not you! I was talking to her!” Words are tumbling out of my face now, my stupid old-lady-scaring face. I don’t know if any of them were heard. I don’t entirely know what happened next. All I remember for sure is that the lady I had terrified into rushing to the pharmacy counter had gone to the second window, only to discover it was as empty as she had thought, and then the one that, yes, was still occupied, and had to come back in line to wait some more.

She had to come back and stand there in front of me.

AND YET THE EARTH REFUSED TO SWALLOW ME WHOLE DESPITE MY SILENT PLEA

It was at this point that Holligay – WHO YOU WILL NOTE HAS NOW DECIDED TO ENGAGE WITH THE WORLD ONCE AGAIN ISN’T THAT INTERESTING – pulled me out of line and drug me to paper goods, where I basically had a breakdown against a pallet of Signature Select Everyday Napkins.

Oh my god, there is EVERYTHING to make with cast iron pans! I cook almost everything in it, including the titular steak,but here’s a list of ideas. Let me know your favorites and I’ll post the two most popular! (tomorrow) 

Cast Iron skillet cookie (jill’s fave) 

Skillet pizza

A fucking fantastic grilled cheese

Dutch baby

Latkes a la holligay

Spinach artichoke dip

crispy chicken thighs