Tracer is Hypnosis-susceptible.

“Is this a joke?” Tracer stared at the security camera in the corner of the room, “You managed to catch me, and all you want to do is make me watch TV?”
“Just watch the screen,” a distinctly French-accented voice crackled through a hidden speaker. Tracer glared.
“Just give it up! Whatever your plan is, Overwatch will stop it.”
“Oh, ma chérie, I’m afraid that your little band of vigilantes can’t stop us this time, “Widowmaker cooed, “Now, watch the screen – or Reaper will make you.”
Growling, Tracer turned to the monitor. She didn’t recognise the show, though that was hardly surprising – she didn’t have much time for television lately. Some mediocre soap, from the looks of things. It was far from engaging, but strapped to a chair in an otherwise empty white room, there wasn’t exactly anything else to do but watch. She gazed on with disinterest as the characters lived out their melodramatic lives, hoping only that the other members of the reunited Overwatch would rescue her before she died of boredom.
The image seemed curiously unstable, it occurred to her after a few minutes of watching. Every few seconds it seemed to flicker, the picture distorting for a moment before continuing as normal, and she took a little comfort in the incompetence on display. If Talon couldn’t even get a monitor working properly, they didn’t have a chance of keeping her captive here for long.

After a couple of episodes, she heard her stomach growl. She craned her neck again to look at the surveillance camera.
“Can you bring me some food? Or is your plan just to starve me to death as I watch Coronation Street?”
There was no reply, and Tracer sighed. She hadn’t really been expecting them to indulge her, but it had been worth a try. She was just turning back to the monitor when the door slid open, and Widowmaker stepped inside with a tray of food.
“We can’t have you starving now, can we? We have much bigger plans for you than that,” she foreshadowed ominously, placing the tray down on the table and freeing Tracer’s arms from the restraints so that she could actually eat. Tracer stared down at the food with genuine surprise.
“Soaps on television and home cooking? Am I a captive or a guest at your grandmother’s house?” she asked, blinking up at Widowmaker, “Are you going to bring out tea and biscuits next?”
“Just enjoy it, little flower,” the blue-skinned assassin smiled, “All will become clear in time.”


They didn’t, however. Every evening, they took Tracer to a small yet surprisingly comfortable little room to sleep, then every morning she was returned to the white room to watch television. It was bizarre, ominous, and, worst of all, mind-numbingly boring. The most interesting parts of every day were those occasions when Widowmaker dropped by to give her another tray of food, the lack of other entertainment making the simple act of eating into a fascinating, entertaining activity. With each passing meal she felt she was enjoying the food more and more, taking a strange delight in the passage of fork to mouth, of chewing, of swallowing. At first she’d left much of her meals, Widowmaker’s servings being decidedly excessive in their generosity, but soon she was having great fun forcing it all down, eating far more than she’d normally choose to. The feeling of her stuffed belly aching for a few hours afterwards was even somehow entertaining, the sensation of uncomfortable pressure in her overfull stomach at least providing something to think about besides the inane melodrama on the screen.

After what seemed to be a couple of weeks or so, she even noticed that she’d put on a little weight. That wasn’t surprising to her. After all, she’d been far more sedentary these past days than she normally would be, what with being strapped to a chair and all, and she was eating considerably more to boot. What did surprise her, however, was how… how little she cared. She’d always been slim, almost skinny at times, and superbly athletic. The thought of putting on weight had always been unpleasant to her, a complete antithesis to her philosophy of speed, agility and skill. Now though, when she looked down and saw a slight pudgy belly rounding out her bomber jacket, she wasn’t dismayed. If anything, she was somehow… pleased? Excited? She found herself eating her meals with more enthusiasm than ever, even looking forward to putting on more weight. She found herself fantasising about how she’d look a little bigger, a little softer, and though there was still some part of her mind that resisted, that was horrified by the ideas that dominated her conscious thoughts, it was weak and growing weaker with every passing hour.


“I’m still hungry,” Tracer complained, pouting up at Widowmaker as the assassin came to take her tray away, “You didn’t give me enough.”
“Not enough? My, hasn’t your appetite grown? To think that you were barely eating when you arrived, and now you’re eating more than the rest of us put together. You really are getting greedy…”
Tracer swallowed, strange feelings suddenly surging through her body. She suppressed them with difficulty, shuffling self-consciously in her restraints.
“I- uh, maybe a little,” she grumbled, face red, “It’s hungry work, watching television all day. Just- can you just bring me some more food?”
“Are you sure, ma petite chérie? It looks like all my cooking has done some harm to your figure…” she reached around and patted Tracer’s bloated belly gently, making the chunky English girl blush redder than ever, “The way you’ve been eating these past weeks, it’s almost like you’re trying to get fat.”
Tracer gritted her teeth.
“I-I’m not trying to get fat, that’s ridiculous,” she growled, not even sure whether she was lying or not, “I’ve just- just put on a little bit from all the- the sitting around watching your stupid television shows.”
“A little bit?” Widowmaker’s hand crept along Tracer’s plump thigh, brushing against the stretched fabric of her leggings, “Just a little?”
“Y-yes! Just a little. I’m not trying to get fatter!”

Widowmaker suddenly withdrew her hand.
“Well, then you really don’t need any more food now, do you? You’ve had plenty already. Any more food and you’d just be overindulging yourself, acting like a pig… and you don’t want that, do you?” she tutted, “You don’t want to stuff yourself with as much as you can handle. The idea that you want to gorge on unhealthy, fattening food until you can hardly breathe is absurd. Obviously you’d rather eat small, modest, scarcely satisfying meals, lose this extra weight you’ve put on, and stay a skinny, bony little thing for the rest of your life…”

Tracer broke.
“I do want to be fat! I do! Feed me, feed me! I want to eat until I can’t move,” she raved, tugging against her restraints, “I want to get fat and lazy and- and eat all day! I want to be huge! I want to be massive! I don’t want to ever stop eating!”
And Widowmaker smiled.
“That can be arranged.”


The live stream couldn’t be shut down. It seemed to defy every attempt the cyber-security firms of the world made to take it offline, refusing to shut down or divulge the location of the streamer. It would pop up seemingly at random on supposedly secure computers, mobile phones, even advertising billboards, always displaying the same live feed – that of an increasingly obese woman being tube-fed in a plain white room. Those who had known her in the past might recognise the woman as Tracer, though at this point her nude, swollen body was scarcely recognisable, never mind her pale, flabby face. Her belly drooped down between thick thighs, bloated and stretch-marked and enormous. Her backside overflowed the narrow chair on both sides, sagging further towards the floor with each passing day. Even her breasts, once modest and unremarkable, were now undeniable massive, huge pillows of flab that sat heavily atop her belly and horrified moral guardians the world over.
Most horrifying though, at least to those who had once known her, was what happened when the feeding tube down her throat was removed. She would beg desperately for more food, pleading without a shred of self-consciousness for it to be returned so that she could become yet fatter, unable to resist the indoctrinated urge to gorge and grow heavier. She lived to indulge herself, and the slightest delay in her relentless pursuit of massiveness was intolerable to her obsessed mind.