Widowmaker couldn't say why Tchaikovsky was able to stir her soul.
She had discovered it by accident, and not even of her own volition. Reaper had been fiddling with a radio in the Dorado base while waiting for a transmission from their superiors, and that fool Sombra had reached in the back and locked it onto a channel she knew the man hated. As they fell to squabbling and shoved each other across the room, the music itself went unnoticed to all but her.
Swan Lake, act three, she thought to herself without realizing it. The White Swan pas de deux. I would recognize those violins anywhere.
Wait. How had she known that?
She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping it would clear her mind. "One shot, one kill," she whispered. But the music brushed aside the mantra, slipped into her thoughts and carried her away.
The dark walls of the Talon bunker vanished in a flash, replaced by the hazy image of a painted forest drenched in blue light. The music swelled in time with her shuddering pulse as dozens of ladies in sparkling white tutus twirled around her, always just out of reach. Her own limbs seemed to move of their own accord – she twisted and flapped and glided across the floor on her toes, powerless to stop.
Early on she had learned to count her heartbeats; the trainers insisted that she ensure she never got above forty per minute. It wouldn't be economical, they said. Perhaps fatal. What was it now? Ninety, one hundred? Yet she felt more alive than when she killed.
There was a face in the distance, obscured by the blinding lights. She found that she could control herself once again, and she danced towards it. Then another flash, and there it was. There he was.
A handsome face on a handsome body, sitting across from her at a small dining table. Dark, slick-backed hair and a mustache to match. A rich, swarthy complexion. A hooked nose with a crooked smile underneath. Deep brown eyes that glinted with wonder as he looked at her. "It's an honor to properly meet you, Mademoiselle Gauthier," he said.
"Amélie will suffice," she answered. "And the pleasure is all mine, Monsieur LaCroix."
"Please, call me Gérard." He smiled. "A stellar performance tonight, by the way. You're the best Odette I've ever seen."
"Have you seen many?"
"I'd be a fool if I didn't take advantage of all the travel Commander Morrison has me doing."
"I heard he's here tonight. We see him so rarely these days."
"I told him 'Jack, you simply have to come see this lady dance with your own eyes! YouTube doesn't count! And come for the fundraiser, too, I suppose.'"
She rolled her eyes. "A little ballet is nothing in comparison to all the service your team has done."
"It's part of what we're fighting to protect. And," he added in a softer tone, "the sight of it makes facing down Omnics a bit more worthwhile. Especially from you."
She reached across the table, offering him her hand. He took it in his own and pressed his lips to her knuckles. Nothing had ever felt so warm.
CRUNCH!
The dream was gone, shattered along with the radio that had just fallen victim to Reaper's fist. Sombra was off cackling in a corner, dodging his bullets every few seconds.
Widowmaker brought a hand to her cheek. Something hot and wet was slowly trickling down her face – a single tear.
Reaper muttered a curse under his breath and stood up. "We move out for patrol. Widow takes the first round on District 3. Understood?"
"Understood," she answered, wiping away the show of weakness.
She made a mental note to never listen to Tchaikovsky again. Too many strange dreams.