The perfect assassin? More like the perfect ass.
There's a catsuit, and then there's whatever the hell this woman's wearing. If she's wearing anything at all, mind. Tracer likes to think it might just be elaborate body paint. She figures the suit's designed more for Talon's pleasure than the Widowmaker's comfort. Either way with the view she's got, the time-jumping lass ain't complaining. You'd have to be a right dolt not to appreciate those fine, round cheeks. They're wrapped up in fabric so tautly stretched Tracer spies certain intimate details with ease. A lopsided grin finds her lips as she kicks her legs, hanging over the edge of the billboard she's parked her own butt on top of.
Below her, Lacroix - that's the woman's real name - lies flat on her stomach, legs a little more than a shoulder width apart as she peers through the scope of her rifle. The roof of one of the tallest buildings for ages makes for somethin' of a decent vantage point. Pretty standard affair, really. Lacroix's only gone and propped herself up in prime position to find her target. Can see for days with that HUD pulled over her eyes, too. It'd take a mighty strange thing to distract her now, that's why Tracer can blink into being behind her and Lacroix's none the wiser.
Tracer of course, all eager like, mistimes the jump by a fraction and winds up flapping her arms like a wild goose. Lacroix doesn't hear the sole of a boot scraping against the billboard's edge, nor an audible sigh of relief. Probably since she's busy making last second, mission critical calculations that'll send a bullet tearing through a poor man's noggin. See, Lacroix doesn't miss. Takes aim, one slow squeeze of the trigger, and blam! Has the coppers in a tizzy 'cause all they have after is a dead body and nothing to show for the killer. All in a day's work, eh? Except today there are two possible futures, and Tracer's seen 'em both.
In the one she chooses, the Widowmaker never takes the shot.
Messing around with a shorter writing form. Let's see how things turn out.