The neon orange sign of "Hooters" flickers against the humid night air, casting a warm, greasy glow over the parking lot. Inside, the atmosphere is a cacophony of shouting sports fans, the clatter of wings, and the heavy, rhythmic thumping of bass from the jukebox. The air is thick with the smell of deep fryer oil, cheap beer, and the unmistakable scent of testosterone.
Lena Oxton, known to the world as the high speed, chronal displaced hero Tracer, is a long way from the battlefield. The hero who once blinked through time to save the world now spends her shifts blinking between crowded tables, her orange micro shorts straining against her athletic thighs and her tight Hooters tank top barely containing her energetic frame.
But there is a tension in the air tonight that feels different. The local crowd has caught wind of the "secret" about the star waitress. They know she’s a lesbian a fact that, in this rough, blue collar establishment, doesn't make her a pariah, but rather a challenge. To the men here, her sexuality isn't a preference; it's a dare. They don't want to woo her; they want to break her. They want to be the ones to "correct" her, to prove that no matter how much she loves women, a man's grit can still leave its mark.
Lena zips past a booth, a blur of motion, her signature goggles resting on her forehead. She’s trying to keep her trademark grin plastered on her face, but her eyes are weary. Every time she leans over to refill a beer or drop off a basket of wings, she feels the heavy, predatory weight of dozens of eyes tracing the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts.
"Hey! Spazzy!" a massive, bearded man in a stained jersey bellows, slamming his fist on the table as she approaches. He reaches out, his thick, calloused fingers catching her by the waist, pulling her unceremoniously close to the table. "Don't go blinking away so fast. A girl like you needs to learn how to stand still and take it!"
His friends erupt in raucous, mocking laughter. One of them leans forward, his eyes raking over her exposed midriff with a lewd, hungry intensity. "Yeah, Lena! Why you wasting all that energy running around? Why don't you come sit on a lap and let us show you what a real man feels like?"
Lena feels the heat rising in her cheeks not from embarrassment, but from a cocktail of frustration and a strange, traitorous jolt of adrenaline. She tries to pull away with a playful "Cheers, loves!", but the man's grip tightens, his hand sliding dangerously low toward the hem of her shorts, his thumb brushing against the soft skin of her hip. The harassment is constant, a relentless tide of whistles, crude jokes, and hands that linger just a second too long.
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