Lena Oxton, AKA Tracer, was diving out of the way of Sombra's machine pistol fire, having got the drop on the Talon hacker. The orange-clad British Overwatch agent was determined to capture the hacker.

Unfortunately, the hacker was planning to capture her too. Tracer had fallen for her trap, and as the time-shifting woman got close enough, Sombra released her secret weapon, a cloud of heavily modified nanomachines.

Tracer coughed at the cloud, briefly distracted, but still defiant as Sombra backed off.

"Nice try, love, but it'll take more than a little smokescreen for you to escape!" 

"That wasn't a smokescreen," Sombra replied.

Tracer was about to keep up the chase, when she realised she seemed to be... loosening out of her jumpsuit?

"Hey, what did you do to me?!" Tracer cried out, as Sombra cackled.

"Oh, you'll see... hopefully. My little nanomachines are pretty impressive. Amazing what you can do with those little things isn't it?"

Tracer's goggles fell off, and her chronal accelerator was very loose, and she used it to jump back in time... only to discover she was still in the same situation.

"You breathed them in, they're in your time shift thing too!" Sombra cackled as Tracer's clothes bagged around her, and a glove fell free.

"You're shrinking me?!" 

"Not exactly, but you'll be quite small when done if this worked."

Tracer looked at her now gloveless hands, and was puzzled to see them looking... pink? And cottony?

Down and down she shrank, feeling lighter and lighter, like she wasn't flesh and blood any more, until her own clothes placed her into darkness as she sank into them.  She couldn't speak, but could still hear, still feel... and smell. She could smell her own perfume from her clothes, and as she sank down she felt like she was empty, her vision shifting and twisting to stare at the inside of something that seemed black-ish with a tinge of orange light.

She realised it was her own panties. She'd been shrunk right inside them, and paralysed?! She was feeling warm, and cooling off...

Sombra's giggles neared, and then fingers reached down, grasping on her... and she felt the odd sensation of fingers on cloth, from the side of the cloth.

'What happened to me?!' 

She received her answer as Sombra held her aloft, a nearby window showing the Mexican hacker wasn't holding some shrunken nude female, but a pair of pink panties, with a purple bow.

"Can you hear me, little panties? I can hear you..."

'What?!' 

Sombra pointed at a small device on her ear.

"Your thoughts play here. And they'll be very fun to hear in a second. Tell me, you can hear, smell, feel? You can't really talk, and if I have it right your 'eyes' are about... here," Sombra poked at the panties.

Lena simply saw a giant finger ram into her, and almost expected to be blinded - but of course, she didn't have actual eyes.

'How is this possible? You can't turn people into knickers!'

"Uh, I just did, idiota? Anyway, you wait there."

And Sombra dropped her back atop the pile of her own clothes, and to Tracer's horror, the hacker reached under her skirt and began removing her leggings, along with a flash of red. And then she was picked up, felt herself slide up Sombra's legs, the warmth filling her as she slid up... and then was gently tugged into place, up the darkness of Sombra's skirt.

And she realised she could taste and smell. Sombra's own deodorant, a lingering perfume, and her sweat from the battle. Tracer wanted to heave, but panties did not have stomachs. The scent and taste was there, despite the fact it made no sense at all.

"Ah, and now to be decent again!"

'Wait, please, don't!'

But the cries of the panties were ignored as Sombra pulled the leggings back up, encasing her in darkness, trapped and filled by the hacker wearing her. The scent around her was heavy and warm now, the leggings having absorbed some of the musk.

"I should warn you, panties, I'll be on the road a little while. No stops for some time, eh? But first I'd better gather up this mess..."

---

It was days before Sombra stopped to do anything but run, move, sleep, or hack. Tracer only had a few moments respite as Sombra took quick showers, but that wasn't enough to counter the funk and stink of being worn for so long. She knew the hacker was changing everything else, so it was likely she wasn't going to be stinking the place out with her unclean self... but Tracer was the only thing dirty after Sombra's day, and stayed so.

Finally, Sombra announced longer respite, entering a safehouse.

"Well, home sweet home, or one of them. I can get some real laundry done now... and I bet you need it, eh, little panties?"

She sniffed at the sweaty and grimy undergarments, exaggerating a response.

"Ooh, yeah, you need a long soak!"

Tracer found herself tossed in a small pile with some other undies, her own scent overpowering everything else, before Sombra tossed her inside a metal drum...

'A washing machine?! Oh crap, I'm just laundry to her!'

Tracer felt herself become soaked as the machine filled and then span and span, tasting and smelling detergent, being buffeted around in the spin cycle. And then she was span and warmed and beaten against the drum and other clothes as the machine span onto the drying cycle.

Eventually, it ended, and Sombra pulled the clothes out. To Lena's dismay, she felt like she'd shrunk a little more - confirmed when her pull onto Sombra was a little tighter.

"Ooh, glad to be back, panties? Well, we'll have plenty of close-up time. I've got some sleep to do, and then, back on the road!"

Tracer's screams echoed in the earpiece, Sombra having left it on a table. This was now her life, to be worn, worn for far too long, washed, and worn again. Tracer began to snap mentally, practically chanting to herself.

'I'm a human, not underwear. I'm a human, not underwear...'

It was a few months of this that Tracer suffered through, feeling herself wearing down and fraying, feeling some of her elastic snap sometimes, before Sombra sighed one day.

"Ah, you're all stretched and holey now. A shame, you were so comfy... but I guess I need to find some new panties, eh? Plenty more Overwatch agents out there...." Sombra taunted, tossing the still-unwashed Tracer in small drawer, leaving the now-worn panties trapped with only the scent impregnated into her own cloth, and the musk of mothballs. 

She didn't scream. She'd stopped screaming weeks ago. She'd stopped thinking anything but her repeated mantra, trying to convince herself she was human.

But to all the world, she was just a worn-out and smelly pair of panties in a drawer.