Widowmaker sits in the dark on a single bed reviewing the results of Athena's search. Her bed is the one of the two closest to the balcony and on the same wall as the doorway. Any intruders will see her last, giving her a few extra moments to escape. Tracer chose the bed closest to the bathroom and opposite of the doorway. She will be the first in the line of fire if there is an attack. Widowmaker suspects it is on purpose.

Tracer opens the bathroom door stepping out in loose shorts and a t-shirt. Her harness is draped across her shoulder. She looks up and lets out a squeak.

Widowmaker smirks. A sniper's habit of hiding in the shadows is a hard one to get rid of, but occasionally it creates amusing situations like this. And Tracer is so much more expressive than any of Talon's goons ever were.

"You just sitting here all creepy like in the dark, luv?" Tracer quips turning on one of the lamps.

"Please. I have been researching the informant. This is his face, no?"

Widowmaker holds out her tablet to Tracer who walks over and takes it. Tracer squints at the screen before making it brighter.

"Pic is a bit blurry, but yeah, that's him alright." Tracer nods.

"Athena ran the image through Overwatch's database. There were a few hits: a talk show host, painter, petty thief, and this-"

"Tanaka Ken, deceased 2079. Suspected of posing as a clairvoyant, selling holistic remedies without a license, possible pyramid scheme connections. Looks like they couldn't get anything to stick though. What, you think he's got an evil twin? Or a good twin in this case?"

"A large number of Talon's top agents are considered deceased by their governments."

"Being dead is the perfect cover for joining the big leagues. I still don't see the problem... Oh. You think it's a trap."

"You don't think it's a little suspicious that a dead man has information your organization needs and he will only meet with an Overwatch agent in person?"

"I think if someone's on the run from Talon they have the right to be a little paranoid."

"One does not just leave Talon," Widowmaker snaps.

"You did," Tracer points out.

"I made a choice between a slow death and a quick one."

Widowmaker never really understood the English expression 'Between a rock and a hard place' until that night.

[ABKHAZIA – 7 MONTHS AGO]

Widowmaker had been forced to descend to street level. Her left arm and grappling hook were rendered useless by the arrow sticking out of them. As her boots pounded on the pavement, she was forced to admit she was running out of options. She shook her head trying to clear the fog surrounding her thoughts. She needed to think of a plan.

There was a metro station up ahead. If she could reach it, the confined space might give her the advantage she needed over Tracer and the Archer.

"Behind you!" a female voice sang out. Not Tracer's. The Archer's?

Bullets erupted on the pavement around her. The gunfire did not help her headache. Widowmaker slid behind a parked minivan, taking cover. Her visor showed her a bright pink MEKA drop out of the sky. That was not good. More gunfire tore through the car. Glass shattered. Metal strained. Widowmaker stuck her assault rifle through the broken window and fired blindly. Instead of cries of pain, she heard her bullets hitting a shield.

"Hey! Watch it!" Tracer shouted.

"That tickles!" the MEKA pilot said.

The gunfire stopped. The MEKA must not be able to fire and shield at the same time. Tracer sounded like she was taking refuge near the MEKA. She wouldn't stay there long, the hyperactive hummingbird. Widowmaker's heart started thudding in her chest. She ignored it and added competent doctor to the rapidly growing list of things she wanted right after rocket launcher and foot massage. The sniper pulled out her last venom mine and threw it at the voices.

"Oh, bollocks."

She heard pulse pistols firing and then the whump of compressed gas exploding. Widowmaker took off towards the metro. The lack of coughing told her Tracer, and the MEKA were not in the mine's range. The cloud would obscure their vision for a moment. She zigzagged and fired randomly behind her. A quiet whiz alerted her to another arrow. Widowmaker leaped to the side. The arrow hit the pavement beside her and exploded into metal fragments. She covered her face with her gun. Her body armor absorbed the shards. No permanent damage. Not to say that it didn't hurt. Who is this Archer?

"Dance for me Smurf!" the MEKA pilot yelled.

Bullets filled the air. Pain flared in her skull. Widowmaker darted from cover to cover, her visor giving her the edge she needed to stay a millisecond ahead of the MEKA cannons. The metro entrance was only meters away.

It was only when her feet hit the sidewalk did it register how much trouble she was in. She had been too busy with Tracer and the MEKA to notice it before, but the block had been completely silent during the shootout. No screams, no sirens, no law enforcement. Besides the occasional car alarm, she hadn't seen hide nor hair of a civilian during the last ten minutes.

Overwatch must have corralled her into an abandoned district. They had predicted her. (She had become predictable.) Planned for her. Trapped her. Merde.

Widowmaker continues running to the metro's underground entrance even though she knew it was useless. Heavy metallic steps and the glow of a barrier field rose out of the stairwell.

"Justice will be done!" bellowed Reinhardt.

A blur of blue told her that Tracer was cutting off her right, which meant the Archer was taking her left. There was a slam, and the protests of mechanical joints as the MEKA landed behind her.

Widowmaker's options flashed through her mind. She could grapple away, and destroy her arm. Death. She could run and be torn apart by the MEKA. Death. She could stand her ground, guaranteeing a swift end. Death.

Instead, she rolled through Reinhardt's shield and spoke as loudly and clearly as she could.

"I surrender."

"Wot," asked Tracer.

"WHAT!" roared Reinhardt.

"Can she do that?" the MEKA pilot asked.

Widowmaker simply raised her hands above her head. Tracer disarmed her with a blink. She appeared on her left with the Widow's Kiss and her bag in hand. Tracer fumbled with her rifle almost dropping it. Widowmaker felt her eye twitch.

Widowmaker lay on the ground, her hands cuffed behind her back. Reinhardt stood guard as he and Tracer argued with some higher-up about her capture. The MEKA's pilot watched her warily. She also felt the eyes of the Archer on her.

She forced her jaw to relax when she heard Reinhardt argue that there was "No honor in executing prisoners without a trial." Her gamble had paid off. Thank God for the German's predictable code of morals. She was going to live another day. That was what her life had become, a summation of calculations and risks to survive one more day.

Presently, Tracer rolls her eyes. Her face shows that she thinks Widowmaker's statement is ridiculous.

"You haven't even talked to him," Tracer says pouting. "You didn't hear his voice. He's the real deal. He wants out, and he's counting on us to do it. So we're going to get him out, trap or not."

"Vous avez le cerveau d'un sandwich au fromage," Widowmaker mutters. She can feel a headache coming on.

"I'm choosing to take that as a compliment," Tracer says with a tired smile.

Tracer returns to her bed, she sits down and reaches for the lamp. Her hand stops halfway to the lamp's switch and she looks at Widowmaker.

"Er, you know you can change into your PJs, right? Nothing's going to happen. This is a safe house," Tracer says pointing at her battle suit.

"Just keep telling yourself that," Widowmaker scoffs.

Safety is an illusion. She has counted no less than twelve weaknesses in this "safe" house.

A frown flirts across Tracer's face. She shrugs but fingers the straps of her harness before putting it on properly. The lamp clicks off. Tracer pulls up her covers, mostly hiding the blue light from her chest. Widowmaker doesn't miss how Tracer placed her pistols on her nightstand.

Widowmaker straightens her back and lets her thoughts slow. Piece by piece the memory of the lake fills in. It is a summer camp or something similar from her childhood. Amélie spent time here when the pressures of the world were too much, when Gérard was in the hospital when... when she was becoming Widowmaker. Widowmaker spends time here when she is bored or is suppose to be sleeping.

"Hey, Widowmaker?" Tracer's hushed voice calls out.

Mercy.

"Are ya still awake?"

Why?

"Well, I was thinking. Do you want to hear something weird?"

Why me?

"That's not a no. So, all these words have meow in them. Meowing, meowed, meows, obviously, and homeowner. Isn't that weird?"

There's a pause. Widowmaker breathes a sigh of relief.

"Do raccoons have people hands or do people have raccoons hands?"

Widowmaker wonders if there is a way to put Tracer in a sleeper hold without it looking like attempted murder. Maybe she could force a sleeping pill down her throat. No, if they were attacked Tracer would be useless. Half a sleeping pill then.

"I thought of something else. Cats and dogs are mammals, right? They grow inside their mum's belly and have umbilical cords just like humans. I mean they have too. But have you ever seen a dog or cat with a belly button? Or am I just crazy?"

"Shut-up," Widowmaker says through clenched teeth moving off her bed.

Widowmaker stomps out of the room. Infuriating, stupid, idiotic girl. She goes to the couch, sits down, and returns to her meditation. She certainly does not search for dog bellybuttons? then erase her browsing history.

Translations

Merde - shit

Vous avez le cerveau d'un sandwich au fromage. - You have the brain of a cheese sandwich

Ma Chére - My Dear

Please let me know if you spot any mistakes grammar, spelling, translation or otherwise.

So thank you for reading. I would really appreciate if you leave a comment even if it is something like OMG. If you do feel inclined to be more verbose constructive criticism is welcome or you could just tell me what you liked about my story.

/So much translating. This was a mistake.

Place your bets, place your bets, is Lena doing this on purpose or are her meds wearing off?

How I think Tracer & Winston's friendship works

Tracer: Do raccoons have people hands or do people have raccoon hands?

Winston: Well raccoons are from the Carnivora order while humans are from the Primates...

-cut to three hours later-

Tracer and Winston are arguing about how to best market shoe-gloves for raccoons

Dogs and other mammals do have belly buttons they're just really small./

Edited 2/24/19