Widowmaker had passed out the moment her head landed on Lena's plushy pillow. Lena, while lying down, ran her warm fingers against the cool of Widowmaker's back, endlessly tracing the details of the black widow spider that permanently encompassed the entirety of it. The pair stayed in bed practically the whole day.

"Non..." Lena heard Widow mumble in her sleep, tossing the bedsheets to the side.

Amélie woke up with a bandage around her cut hand. Her arm was stained with a few streaks of aging, crusted blood. Once Tracer noticed that she was awake, she grabbed a washcloth and applied warm water to the area.

"What time is it?" Widow asked, checking the clock before Tracer could respond.

"It's 9 pm, love. You've been out the whole day."

Widow groaned, before shaking out her arms and legs in order to wake them up. The turbulent rain screamed and pounded against the windows of Tracer's room.

Widowmaker absolutely loved the rain and snow. It always made her missions ten times more exciting. Executing a perfect shot in the temple of someone's head with less visual clarity than usual was so satisfying. The rain gave her some advantages, too. For instance, it's much harder to spot a blue skinned sniper in a torrential downpour.

Another part of the rain that Widow would never admit to most people was that it provided tranquility. She could think and breathe.

Amélie shuddered. Her mind went back to the day she placed a single rose on Gérard's grave. She could remember the feel of the elements, the brisk, chilly air, the snow pitter pattering itself against her locks.

Widow waited until Lena was fully asleep before changing into Lena's undersized uniform and covering her neck and face with foundation.

She hoisted the Widow's Kiss on her shoulder, before opening Tracer's copy of the watchpoint directory. The shooting range was all the way on the other side of the facility. She knew it was dangerous. But, she needed a release. What better way to release than to shoot things?

She scurried out the doorway at around 10, impatiently walking past all her visual cues.

Widow slid in Tracer's keycard, before being greeted by a large hallway and a sign with posted rules and guidelines.

Widow saw the targets illuminated against a rather dim light. She smiled. She had the shooting range all to herself.

Or did she?

The hairs on the back of Widow's neck stood straight up, signaling to her that someone was nearby. She rapidly turned around, instinctively pointing her rifle at the intruder.

"Woah! Easy there," a male vocalized, boldly tipping the barrel of Widow's rifle down.

Widow sighed. "Désolé," she murmured. Thank the gods that McCree was oblivious to the poorly applied foundation underneath the bleak lights.

"Oh. You're French. No wonder. Trigger happy people."

"Hm. Americans," Widow snapped back. "I'd expect a snarky remark like that from a Halloween styled cowboy."

Jesse McCree smirked and crossed his arms. "What's your name, darling?"

"Wouldn't you love to know, sugarplum?"

This woman's banter reminded McCree of Ashe. This woman was definitely not a force to reckon with. She gave off huge alpha energy.

"Never seen you around here."

"I'm new."

"Nice rifle ya got there," McCree beckoned, noting the W plastered on its side. "Where'd ya get a beaut like that?"

"Gifted to me." Widow began walking out the door, not willing to stay at the shooting range with another person occupying it.

"So you're just gonna up and leave without shooting anything?"

"I assumed that nobody would be in here. I don't practice around other people."

"Cadet, you're gonna have to practice with other people one day, especially if you're in the sniper division. Ana's got no patience for fooldickery."

"Who?"

"Wait, what are you being trained for? Who are you affiliated with?"

Widow had no idea what to say. Yet, she showed no signs of hesitation as she said, "Sniper class. I worked under the Légion étrangère before deciding to join Overwatch on my own accord."

"No idea what that means. But okay."

"A military service branch. Where's the ammo around here?" Widow decided that leaving would make her seem more suspicious than she already was. She would stay, so as long as she kept her distance from the cowboy.

"To your left." McCree also reloaded his revolver, before making his way up to one of the targets. He drew in a sharp breath of air, before promptly placing several bullets dead center of the target's chest and head.

Widow couldn't deny the fact that she was impressed at his marksmanship. She strutted up to an aisle sizably distant from McCree, before doing the exact same thing.

"Ever shoot a revolver?" McCree asked after some time of silent shooting had passed.

Widow had no intention of speaking to the man, but she found herself talking anyways. "No. One of the very few firearms I never got into."

"Wanna take my Peacekeeper out on a date?"

Widow hadn't thought about ever shooting other guns besides her own. "I'll pass, Cowboy."

"I'll teach ya the basics. Ya ain't afraid of a little revolver, are ya?"

"Is that a challenge?" Amélie retorted, finally giving into McCree's request. If there was one fatal flaw Widow could work on, it was her tendency to not back down from anything. It often got her into trouble...

McCree showed her how to properly grip it, before handing his trusted weapon to her. "You have a hand injury?" McCree beckoned towards her bandaged hand.

"Mmhmm. But I can handle a gun properly."

"Alright, I'll take your word for it. For this one, ya don't wanna stand in a bladed stance like ya do with your rifle. Here." McCree placed his hands respectfully on Amélie's waist.

She immediately stiffened in his hands. "What are you-"

"Relax, darling. I'm just repositioning ya. Straighten your elbows. Good. Now, place the front blade in between the back sights. Once you're lined up, don't hesit-"

McCree jumped as Widow made a succession of shots, cutting through the target's head with each individual bullet. "Jesus! Warn a man next time!"

Dead silence passed through the stuffy air. McCree looked at Widow, waiting for a response. Or not.

"I'm so-sorry," Amélie choked, pointing the revolver down and placing it on the ground so she didn't accidentally shoot anything as she genuinely laughed at the absolutely ridiculous situation she found herself in. A fucking metal-armed cowboy was teaching her how to shoot a revolver at midnight in an Overwatch shooting range.

McCree could help but begin laughing too. God, Amélie's giddy laugh was so contagious. "I thought you said you've never shot a revolver."

"I haven't."

"You're either a natural or a lucky shot. Or both."

McCree and Widow locked eyes for a moment, before Widow turned her head. When in public, she always diverted her eyes away from strangers. Part of it was social anxiety. Another part of it was so that nobody could truly notice the discoloration of her eyes.

McCree cleared his throat. "How confident are you in your sniping abilities?"

Widow appeared to be anything but modest with her skills. There were few people in the world that could match her abilities. And she knew it.

However, there were moments of humility when it came to her skills. Underneath her confident and resolute facade, underneath her self-assured remarks, she was doubtful of her abilities. So, so doubtful. Under Talon, it was simply expected of her to perform highly. She had to be confident that she could execute the shot with unmatched accuracy. But, the more her brainwashing wore away, the more she felt that she couldn't exceed or even match her own expectations. There was just always something she didn't do well enough.

Widow shrugged. "Confident enough to finish the job."

"Even moving targets?"

"You can make the targets move?"

"Yup. Just installed last week. Wanna try?"

Widow shrugged, picking up her rifle.

McCree booted up a computer and typed something in, before the sounds of clunking and clacking awoke the machinery. Widow stood at a certain distance from the slow moving targets. She heaved a deep sigh, before scoping in.

McCree took in a deep drag of his cigarette, leaning back against the wall and observing Widow as the targets moved progressively faster. Everything, the pace of her breathing, the targets' speeds, the whirlwind of adrenaline brewing inside her, moved and jostled in slow motion as she concentrated on placing a bullet in each individual target's head. She didn't even notice the rapid speed at which she was working.

McCree gradually began to realize that he was observing a prodigy in her respected discipline. There was nothing ordinary about this woman. McCree knew almost nothing about the art of sniping, but even he was aware that her movements were borderline inhuman.

There was something unsettling about it. Who was she?

McCree couldn't even get an accuracy report because the computer couldn't process her shots in time. He had seen enough. He stopped the program.

Widow noticed the speed of the targets slowing down. She stopped shooting and looked over towards McCree, before she hoisted her rifle over her shoulder. "I'm afraid I have to scram, Cowboy." Before McCree could react, she disappeared into the dark aisle.

"Wait! What's your name?"

There would be no reply from her.

He looked back at the computer. The report score came back. 100% accuracy overall, 100% critical shot accuracy...


He walked with an air of superiority, a relentless, cruel walk. He glided towards the stealth fighter Lena had piloted before its wing gave way.

Tracer and Hana, in a rush to get to cover, failed to bring any belongings and possessions that they took with them for the mission.

All Hana virtually brought were the clothes on her back and a spiral notebook containing notes. She was never a fan of taking notes on electronic devices.

However, Tracer did leave something behind.

Reaper went across the aircraft, ignoring the fire that erupted on the right wing as a bad mother would ignore her distressed child.

If it weren't for Tracer, Reaper would have been at his destination by now. He had already killed the main pilot after Tracer and the other person with her got away.

Reaper didn't so much as flinch when debris fell from the rooftop in front of him. He set his sights on an orange and black backpack left by the control panel.

An obvious name tag confirmed that the backpack belonged to the time traveling pest. Reaper was about to leave, when he had the pressing urge to look through Tracer's belongings. Perhaps he'd find something of value.

There were very few things that shocked, let alone faze, Reaper. Especially when it came to humans. He was a great predictor of character. He knew who in Talon would betray his interests before the said person even knew.

The very photo he held weeks before was in his cold, dead hands once more.

Widowmaker's wedding photo was in the possession of Tracer.