"Cheers love! The calv'ry's here!"
When Widowmaker opens the door of her swanky high-end hotel room in Prague, her face is one of utmost dismay, almost as if it might collapse on itself at any moment.
"Nom de Dieu," she eyes me for a second, before squeezing them shut and placing one hand on her forehead. "Bordel de merde," she groans out loud. "La vache," her head tilts back as she looks up at the ceiling.
"Calv'ry's 'ere!" I repeat, my grin stretching wide and showing far too much teeth to be pretty.
"How did you find me?" She glares. "What are you doing here?"
"Ain't it obvious what I'm doin' ere love!" I'm saying this as I hold up seven packets of brownish doggy bags, all with the trademark yellow M stamped on the front.
"I didn't know you now work for Mcdonalds' Delivery." She deadpans.
"I don't! But Overwatch's audio scan picked up your voice pattern from civilian frequencies when you placed your order! Doesn't take much to jet right on over and intercept!—You know love, you gettin' a wee bit sloppy with this whole Mcdonald's deal. Wee bit sloppy. Anyway, food's getting cold—can I come in?"
"Non." She folds her arms and blocks the door. "You cannot come in. You stay here outside. You pass me my food and you go away."
"Nope. Nope nope," I blink up at her, still smiling. "Either I get invited in, or you don't get ya paws on these babies."
Widowmaker stands there, stiff as a corpse in a coffin. Her eyes bore daggers into mine, they dart over to the seven doggy bags I clutch tight in my hands, and then back at me again, as though weighing her options.
I see her fists clench and unclench. I see her shoulders tense up. Her feet starts to spread apart just the slightest, and she seems to be bouncing a little on their balls. Uh oh. I know that stance well. I know what she's about to do, what she's thinking of doing.
She's planning to snatch.
"Nuh-uh," I shake my head at her. "Don't even—" I lift up a hand (still clutchin' the bags) and wiggle a finger. "Don't you even try! If you so much as point a finger in my direction, love, I'm throwin' all these on the ground 'n' stompin' till high noon. Try me! I can blink faster than you can punch—your call, love!"
A tense moment passes where I stare at Widowmaker, and Widowmaker stares back at me.
Finally, her shoulders visibly relax.
"Fine," she hisses, stepping aside to let me through. "Come. In."
I'm grinning as I brush past her and through the door and—
Whoa. The hotel suite Talon's put her up in is pretty darn nice to say the least. Usually when I stay in hotels, they only have one room, sometimes not even a shower. Sometimes they don't even have a bed or a window. Widowmaker's suite has a bloody lobby, and a bloody balcony that overlooks the city when you step through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room area, and oh look, there's also a fancy crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and a freaking swede-designed dining wing right there in the corner...
Oh well. At least we have a Mcdonalds there at Overwatch…
"You know, love," I say as I start making my way over to the dining area. I figure that's where she'll want to eat. "I must say I got a little worried after that InstaGrumps incident. Didn't see you out in the field nor hear a peep from you for awhile. What happened?"
"What do you think happened?" She scowls pointedly at me.
"Yeah… I figured as much.. welp, hope it wasn't too bad… did tell ya to run…" I place the bags on the table before digging into them, methodically taking out the food and arranging them neatly on the table—a line of burgers, a cluster of fries, a row of shakes—beautiful.
"Anyway, if you went through the reconditioning. Then how come you're like this now?" I gesture down at all the food on the table. "Let's see, you ordered 8 special Big Macs with extra cheese and extra meat without any vegetables; three full-fat, double-chocolate milkshakes upsized with extra whip cream on top, and four packets of L-sized special curly fries with add-on paprika shakers...—what happened? They didn't manage to beat the cravings out of you?"
"Clearly not," Widowmaker replies stiffly, wrapping her arms across her waist. "My last conditioning was nearly a month ago. Sometimes… sometimes... I relapse." She shivers slightly. "I've been told to inform Talon when this happens but, sometimes my body.. yearns. It can't be helped." She hugs her arms tighter around her belly.
I suddenly feel a strange sense of compassion for this woman. Just look at her, she can't even eat her beloved Big Mac when she wants to. Can't even openly indulge in a luxury as small as a burger. It should not be like this. Widowmaker deserves more.
Speaking of more. Think I might have forgotten something!
"Wait! Hold on a minute—!" I pat around my jacket for a bit before reaching into my pocket and digging out one last brown-bag. "Almost forgot this, love! It's your happy meal—"
Widowmaker perks up. "What's the toy?" She asks, almost eagerly, cutting me off mid-sentence.
"Of course you know what it is," I'm beaming as I'm saying this, my hands delving into the bag and pulling out a small, brightly colored orange figurine. "Cheers luv! Cal'vry's ere!" I mimic myself in an excessively high-pitched voice as I present her with an Overwatch Tracer collectible wrapped in clear plastic.
(Yes. Mcdonalds has been offering Overwatch figurines with their happy meals, that's how popular we are right now! It sells, but they are not politically endorsed though.)
"Merrrde." Widowmaker cries out softly as she closes her eyes, as though in great pain. "Merrrde," she repeats.
"Are you… are you alright, love?"
Shaking her head, Widowmaker doesn't reply. Only proceeds to mutter a string of fluent French phrases under her breath, all too soft for me to catch. Probably not anything good, because when she next looks up at me, her amber eyes are burning. Literally, they burn.
"You crétin," she bites out. "Imbécile."
"Hey! Hey! What did I do?! That was unwarranted!"
"It's the toy," she's saying this like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "The toy," her voice chokes up, and she suddenly looks overwhelmed.
"What is wrong with the toy?" I ask, feeling rather puzzled. "I was told the Tracer collectibles are the bestsellers! And look, they're really cute aren't they?" I look down at the toy in my hand—it's a tiny pop vinyl Tracer—really very cute, very well made. They did a pretty good job with the hair and the eyes, I must say, really captured the essence. This figurine has my stamp of approval and I can't imagine anyone not liking it.
"What is wrong is that—I specifically asked for the Bastion collectible." Widowmaker rears her head up at me, hissing.
"Oh you did?" I bite my lips. "Um.. Oops. Must not have gotten that order down… but hey, look on the bright side! A Tracer toy's good too!" I pass the toy to her. She takes it in her hands and… hurls it cruelly against the wall.
"Foolish girl!" Clunk. The toy hits the wall, it bounces; hits the ground, it bounces again. "Foolish girl! I already have twenty of these! What I really needed was that Bastion to complete my Overwatch summer set." She buries her head in her hands. I have honestly never seen her look more miserable.
"Wait, how come you have twenty Tracers?"
"What do you think?" She snaps. "No one wants them that's why! That's why they have a lot of it available—"
Hey! Not true! A lot of people want them, that's why they shipped a lot of it! I'm thinking this defensively in my head.
"—and I always, always end up with them," she grates out bitterly. "I also have three Hanas, one Winston, two Pharahs, two Zenyattas, and one Mercy, and what I really needed was that last Bastion to complete my collection. Nowhere else has it. It's that rare. That rare!—Merde. This outlet I ordered from was the 24th one I've called in this area. They promised me they have the last one. The last one." She stares dejectedly down at the ground, her eyes seem to be misting over. "One month of avid collecting. One month of sneaking around Talon…" she shakes her head. "All down the drain thanks to you."
"Aww shite." I'm starting to feel a little guilty as Widowmaker wordlessly strides past me, plonking heavily down on a chair at the dining table.
Viciously, she snatches up a Big Mac from the pile, fingers making short work of the wrapper before bringing it up to her mouth, biting into it with much vigour, as if to compensate for the darkness of the emotions swirling within her.
"Aww love. I really didn't know, I'm so sorry—"
"VonDeven," she says this in between a mouthful of food and a gurgle of shake. "VonDeven…" she holds up a hand.
Looking at the woman now, voraciously eating. Voraciously eating a lot because she has no other way of dealing with her wellspring of hidden emotions, I feel my heart cracking and splintering into a million tiny pieces.
What should I do now?
"Um… well then," I say. "I really ought to be headin' off, love." I start inching towards the door. "Will you… will you still be here the next few days?"
She doesn't reply me. Just continues attacking her burgers and fries with a strange sort of methodical precision.
I repeat myself, voice raised a notch: "Will you still be here the next few days, love?"
Eventually, she nods without looking up at me.
"Good," I tell her. "Good. Don't—don't you go anywhere, love!"
Don't you go anywhere! Cause I'm gonna get you that last Bastion toy if it's the last thing I do, dammit! I'm gonna get it for you, even if I have to fly the whole world to search for it!