[ROME - TABULARIUM - 19:54 - 16.5 METERS ABOVE STREET LEVEL]
The sun dips lower in the sky as Widowmaker shifts in her perch. She sits roughly five stories in the air on top of a tower, a clock tower possibly (irrelevant), overlooking the Campidoglio. The Campidoglio is a hilltop plaza surrounded by several museums. The square's cobblestones display a white on black design that looks like a it was made by a warped Spirograph. In the center stands a bronze statue of a Roman soldier on horseback.
Behind her is the Forum, meters and meters of decaying buildings and crumbling stone. Widowmaker did not understand the appeal of traveling thousands of kilometers just to stand in the sun and look at collapsed government buildings. To look at paintings, sculptures, mosaics, and actual art? Yes. The remains of a few hundred pillar that all looked the same? No.
From her position she has a great view the multitude of travelers, human and omnic alike, all dressed in bright, gaudy colors and, ugh, fanny packs. Somewhere below Tracer is playing tourist, running from one free entry site to the next, as she has been for the last hour, all under the pretense of RECON. Widowmaker is careful not to complain too much. Tracer's short attention span has given her time to scrutinize the area, plan escape routes, and actually prepare.
"You know, I didn't expect the Coliseum to be all crumbly. I mean it's really impressive and all but almost half of it is missing. They don't show that in the vids," Tracer says.
Widowmaker gives up reminding Tracer that the secure line is meant for important communication and glances at the image on her phone. Tracer, like the hundred of tourists around her, is maintaining a live vidcall as she explores Rome. Right now she's showing Widowmaker the outside of the Coliseum.
"Most historical landmarks are only shown from a specific angle to keep up the illusion that they are untouched by time. Both the Pyramids of Giza and Stonehenge are only a few minutes away from civilization but are depicted to be out in the wilderness." Widowmaker shrugs. "Such is marketing."
"A tour guide said that gladiators dueled and big cats were hunted for sport in front of crowds up to sixty thousand!" Tracer whistles in appreciation. "Those Romans sure knew how to party."
"Many events were held there beyond Hollywood's clichéd gladiatorial combat," Widowmaker snaps. "Circuses preformed, criminals were executed, dramas were acted out. And the staged hunts starred deer, elephants, hyenas, bears, and giraffes just to name a few."
"Hmm. You sure do know a lot about history, luv."
"You would too if you paid an ounce of attention in your classes, idiot."
"Hey! I paid attention plenty! I memorized pages about air pressure, dial readings, weather patterns, flight formations-"
Widowmaker mutes her phone, which now shows Tracer's irritated face.
Gérard was the one who was interested in ancient civilizations. Greek gods, Indian Trade Routes, Chinese Dynasties, Roman Emperors, Feudal Japan, Native American Tribes, African Kingdoms; if the society was dead and forgotten he wanted to learn everything about it he could.
He. They... Hadn't they... They went to Rome for a celebration. An anniversary? A birthday? A promotion perhaps? Widowmaker can't remember why. They spent a week here, traveling, eating, shopping, and seeing the sites. They visited ruins for him, museums for her. Their first outing was cut short because she wore heels instead of flats. Stupid. Gérard insisted on visiting five shops to find a pair of walking shoes that wouldn't irritate her feet.
Widowmaker jumps down from the tower. She moves swiftly over the rooftops, stopping at another hiding place she scouted out earlier. Mechanically, she raises her scope to her eye and focuses on one tourist and then another, inspecting them. Not a threat, not a threat, pickpocket, not a threat, who let you dress yourself, ex-military, not a threat. The familiar routine calms her, forcing her mind back on the mission.
Her ear com pings. Tracer has sent her a text. The informant has finally contacted them. They will be arriving at the Musei Capitolini in a few minutes. Widowmaker watches Tracer cross the plaza through her scope. The Overwatch agent pushes her way through the crowd of people and up the steps to the hilltop. Aviator sunglasses and a cap pulled low hides her face. The museum's security forced her to dump her pistols. (Widowmaker doesn't know where and she didn't ask.) Tracer's harness is hidden in the backpack on her shoulders. She managed to pass it off as a medical device after bribing a security guard with Overwatch paraphernalia.
Tracer stands in the courtyard and takes a long slow look around at the upper windows and gutters. After a few seconds she wipes her nose with the back of her hand.
"You can't tell but I'm winking at you," Tracer whispers over the com.
"Just focus on the mission," Widowmaker hisses.
Tracer's heat signature moves through the museum. She flirts from room to room, oohing and aahhing at this sculpture or that fresco. To Widowmaker's relief Tracer does remember to keep to the perimeter of the building so she can follow her through the windows.
On the third floor Tracer stops in front of a tapestry. After a moment another tourist (Japanese male, early thirties, noncombatant) comes over beside her.
"The eyes are bit odd dontcha think? The way they follow you around the room. Spooky," Tracer says.
"Yes. It almost feels like they are watching over you," the tourist says.
His choice of words does not go unnoticed. He must be the informant. Tracer keeps up friendly chatter as Widowmaker moves to another roof so she can see down the hallway. Tracer throws her arm around the man's waist, insisting that she take him to lunch so they can compare tour guides. Widowmaker reluctantly acknowledges that Tracer does make a very convincing vacationer. The duo turn their backs to her, retracing their steps down the hallway, subtly making their way to the exit. She needs to cover them until Tracer regains her pistols or moves the informant to a secure location.
A museum employee shushes Tracer for being too loud. Tracer apologizes explaining that she just loves antiques and tends to get excited. The employee says something the com can't pick up. During their conversation a tour group enters the hallway, filling it with loud and sweaty tourists. Widowmaker frowns. Another complication. She needs to make sure she doesn't lose the informant in the crowd. Widowmaker shifts her weight preparing to relocate but stops. Something about the tour group is bothering her.
She scans the hallway again. The tour guide has stopped and is explaining something to the group. Most of the tourists have started to spread out along the corridor. A few are too close to the informant for her liking. An omnic (humanoid, clothed, noncombat model) approaches them. It makes its way down the hall a bit too directly. It will collide with Tracer if it does not adjust its course. Something about the way the omnic moves unsettles Widowmaker.
No. Not an omnic. A threat.
Widowmaker lines up the shot, prepares for the pause between heartbeats, and pulls the trigger. Several things appear to happen at once: her suppressed rifle lets out a crack, a hole appears in the window, Tracer's hair flutters, and the supposed omnic drops dead centimeters away from the informant's shoes.
Widowmaker waits for the electric tingle in her chest, the satisfaction of another kill so masterfully completed. Nothing. She frowns. That was a difficult shot, not hitting Tracer, any of the antiques, or the tourists. She should feel something. She should feel alive.
The tour group erupts into a panic. Some rush away from the omnic, some rush towards it. The museum employee yells at a family of Americans who backed into a tapestry. The tour guide is trying to call for order and an ambulance at the same time. And the informant is... gone. That could be a problem.
Suddenly her scope is wrenched away revealing the face of a furious certain teleporting Overwatch agent.
"What the bloody hell, luv," Tracer growls.
Widowmaker takes a half step back. Tracer is showing an emotion other than some shade of cheerfulness. She would consider this a victory if she weren't so concerned about her immediate future.
Tracer grabs her by the shoulder and blinks them away to a more secluded rooftop.
Widowmaker's body does not like that. Her stomach was behind left two blinks back. Her heart is pounding off rhythm. Her brain feels its been compressed and stretched out like putty. She's pretty sure her left leg just went numb.
Tracer takes a wild swing. Widowmaker slides to the left of it. What a relief, she's still as predictable as ever.
"Why'd you have to go an' kill the omnic you bint? They weren't doing anything!"
Widowmaker slaps another punch away.
"That wasn't an omnic, ma chère. Calm yourself. You're acting like a child."
"Wha- How do you know?" Tracer sputters, "You weren't exactly there."
"Omnic movement's are precise, calculated, designed. Always on the second or some fraction of. This one's was not."
"So what? Some bot's off-kilter and that makes is A-Okay to blow their central processing unit out!"
"It was a man or woman wearing a suit, a disguise and armor all in one. I've seen it before on missions." Widowmaker draws herself up to her full height. "It was walking right towards the informant, whom you were supposed to protect. I made a decision and eliminated the threat."
"And shooting it was obviously the best solution. You don't think dropping a body won't draw some attention. You didn't think 'Well golly gee, I see something suspicious. I'll ring up Tracer on my com and warn her.'" Tracer jabs at her earpiece. "That's what these are for, mate! Communication!"
Widowmaker lifts her chin and crosses her arms. Her superiors never questioned her. Une balle, un mort. As always. She glares down at Tracer, reveling in the almost fifteen-centimeter height difference.
"I stand by my decision. If you don't like it go back and change it," she says.
Tracer's mouth opens and closes, looking like a fish out of water.
"That's not how it works!" Tracer explodes, throwing her hands up in the air.
She spins on her heel and paces back and forth across the rooftop. Tracer grinds her teeth and lists some very creative place Widowmaker could put her rifle and venom mines.
Widowmaker tsks to herself. Tracer's foul mouth would make Commander Morrison roll in his grave. For a second she allows herself the pleasure of imagining the ghost of Morrison floating above the rooftop screaming "Language!"
Tracer turns back to her, face still flushed and breathing hard.
"I'm going to go for a run, try and work out how to recover this dog's dinner. You go do whatever the fuck you want. Be back at the hotel at twenty-one hundred. Got it."
"Oui."
A/N
As always I'd love to hear what you think good or bad about my work.
Please PM me about any corrections grammar, spelling, translation or other problems.
Now with Italics because I didn't realize FF stripped out the formatting...
Translations
Ma Chére – My dear
Une balle, un mort – one shot, one kill
Oui - yes
/All that stuff about the Pyramids, Stonehenge, and the Coliseum is true.
The Campidoglio and the Museum are real places.
The level of violence will vary by chapter but it will never be super graphic or gory.
No time travel in this fic. Not only is not something you can't do in the game but it also causes to many problems. Once you introduce it you have the solution to every problem or you create *shutters* paradoxes.
Widowmaker does know who Soldier 76 is but she respects that Commander Morrison is dead. /
2/23/19 Edited, Betaed by Dot