Canon Typical Violence
[SAINT MICHAEL HOTEL - ROOFTOPS - 07:06]
The next morning Amélie stands on the hotel's roof watching Rome awaken. Far below cars start to move on the streets, shop owners prepare to open, and beggars set up their signs. The air around her is already hot despite the sun rising only an hour ago.
She brings a synthetic cigarette to her lips. Pearly white teeth hold the plastic tube in place as she twists it on in a practiced movement from forgotten moments before exams and performances. She takes a drag, feeling the vapor seep into her lungs. She exhales, watching the pale 'smoke' twist and climb into the air. The mist catches the sunlight and sparkles pink and orange. The vapor flutters as the air pressure on the roof changes. A shiver runs down her spine.
"Those things will kill you," a gravelly voice announces from behind her.
Widowmaker turns and examines Reaper. Black whips rise off his body and the terracotta tiles. His shotguns are hidden, but he is dressed in his "work" uniform. All that black and dark grey, he'll soon be sweltering in this heat. Reaper lifts his chin, telling her to be at ease. She gives him a small nod, telling him he's not her target today.
Reaper is a heartless mercenary with a chip on his shoulder the size of Europe, but he was one of the few allies she had at Talon. They worked well together. They were similar. Overwatch destroyed their lives; Talon gave them new ones.
Widowmaker tells herself to relax. If Reaper wanted to kill her, she'd already be dead. If he wanted to kill Tracer he wouldn't be here chatting her up. Besides, she would have heard the fight. He never could do anything quietly. Always demanding to be the center of attention with the shotguns and the smoke and the shouting Die, die, die.
"Everything does, eventually. Want one?" Amélie asks.
"No."
"Good taste. They don't do anything. Garbage," she says taking another drag from her synthette.
"Consorting with the enemy I see."
"I believe you are familiar with the term 'necessary evil'?" she says with a meaningful look at his outfit.
Reyes says nothing. She feels his glare despite his eyes being hidden in the shadow of his mask.
"I haven't told them anything about you," she says breaking the silence.
"Good."
Widowmaker traded information about Talon to Overwatch in exchange for their discretion about her corporeal state of being. She pumped Soldier 76 full of intelligence, lies, half-truths, and rumors. It took four months and two weeks for her knowledge to become obsolete. While she was incredibly observant, she was a distance killer; a tool unsuited for either the IT department or presidential board meetings.
But she refused to speak about Reaper. She may be taking risks she had never taken before, but she wasn't suicidal.
"Why are you here, mon Cher?" she asks.
Reyes grunts unfolding his arms. He shifts his weight onto his left leg and ticks back his shoulders. All the movements are subtle. She wouldn't have seen them if she didn't know to look. Reaper's posture is familiar to her; he's getting ready to complain.
"Fifteen hours ago I got called in from Ohio, Ohio Widowmaker, to look at this random field agent who was stupid enough to get their brains blown out. Headshot from an impossible angle, 50 caliber, zero collateral damage, not a single other soul touched. Just like you use to do. So I go and look at the body and despite everything I tell Talon this isn't you. Because you're dead.
Because I spent six hours on a waterlogged toilet pretending to be a boat to pull your shredded remains from the stomach of a bull shark. Wouldn't have been able to confirm it was you if it weren't for your chips in its gut."
He pauses.
"I'm here because you're being obvious. You're slipping, ma chére."
Merde.
"Hmm," Amélie says.
She exhales. Some of the 'smoke' blows into Reye's face.
"How did you find me?" she asks.
"... Sombra," he reluctantly growls.
"Ah."
Amélie's phone buzzes. She pulls it out and reads the screen: Incoming Call from Guess Who. She raises and eyebrow and glances at Reyes. He mutters something under his breath. Widowmaker's phone accepts the call on its own accord.
"HEEEEEEY! Good morning, Araña! Long time no see, eh?" Sombra exclaims.
Sombra's face fills Widowmaker's entire screen. Her tone is light but her smile is sharp, and her eyes glint with mischief. Widowmaker holds her phone at eye level. Her face slips back into bored indifference. It is too early for this. She reached her limit for too peppy annoyances three days ago. On the screen Sombra leans in close, practically shoving her nose into the camera on her side.
"My, my, my," Sombra says looking her up and down, "You're looking good girl. Death agrees with you."
Sombra opens her mouth to say something else; a joke, a demand for information, or a backhanded compliment. Widowmaker lets the phone slip between her fingers. The device bounces once on the tiles and then tumbles off the roof. It twinkles as it falls, Sombra's shocked expression grows smaller and smaller until the phone shatters on the sidewalk below. The specially treated Plexiglas is designed to survive small falls, not being chucked off buildings.
"Oops," Widowmaker says flatly. "Ah well. C'est la vie."
A sound escapes from Reyes, something between a snort and a cough.
"She's right. Death does agree with you." Reyes chuckles and then says, "Keep staying dead. I'll be in touch."
Reaper crosses his arms and disappears in a cloud of smoke. After the last whips fade, Amélie lets her lips turn down in a frown.
She sits down and tugs off her boots. Her feet press into the roof tiles. The baked clay should be burning; instead, it feels mildly warm. Amélie rests a hand on her stomach and her brain slowly concludes that this sensation in her gut is a feeling, an emotion, not a sign of illness. She doesn't know which one though. A problem for later.
Amélie sighs and lets her mind take her back to the day Talon betrayed her.
[LOCATION CLASSIFIED - TALON BASE "THE WEB" - 9 MONTHS AGO]
She had been sitting alone in the D Mess hall taking her glucose injection and reviewing information from her last mission. She watched the videos before her; looking for weaknesses to strengthen, mistakes to correct.
"Squad Twenty report to Training Room C. Squad Eighteen report to Training Room C," Reaper's voice growled in her earpiece.
Technically she wasn't supposed to be wearing it outside of assignments but the constant chatter could almost be considered comforting. And it was informative. Information was power, after all. Not that it mattered to her.
"Squad One go to Training Room C. Squad Sixteen report to Training Room C. Squad Seven report to Training Room C."
That was a large number of soldiers to be called in for a training exercise. She shouldn't worry about it. It wasn't her problem and Reaper knew what he was doing.
"Widowmaker and Squad Fifteen report to Training Room C."
Widowmaker stood immediately leaving her tablet. She wasn't scheduled for sparring for another three hours and she had far surpassed the average foot soldier years ago. She ran through her timetable in her mind. She wasn't scheduled for anything. This was odd.
She met Squad Fifteen in the D-C hallway. The four men acknowledged her with brief eye contact. She outranked them but they didn't need handlers. They took up positions around her, two in front and two behind, as was protocol. Their feet hit the ground in unison; a drumbeat of military grade rubber on concrete. The hallway was empty except for the group of five.
Widowmaker softened her gaze, focusing on her peripheral vision. The mercenary at Eight O'clock had touched his ear twice now, a nervous tick. She could see sweat beading on the back of another's neck. She was acutely aware of how all the soldiers' hands had drifted to their weapons. Fingers glazed gun hilts. Palms floated over stun batons.
Her instincts screamed at her. Danger. Talon told her to obey her orders. Reaper told her to trust her instincts.
Widowmaker pirouetted slamming her left heel into the Four O'clock Talon agent's throat. She felt something crack.
One.
At the same time she fired her grappling hook, the claw embedded itself in the guard at her Eight. She yanked the line pulling his foot out from under him. Ten and Two turned around, weapons drawn. Four clawed at his crushed trachea before dropping to his knees. Eight's head slammed into the concrete floor. He wouldn't be getting up anytime soon.
Two
Widowmaker let out more line, tossed it into the air, and rolled between the two remaining soldiers. The line looped in the air and landed on the shoulders of Ten. She retracted the grappling hook. The line snapped taut cutting into the mercenary's neck while choking him. Eight was yanked across the floor, the hook still buried in his calf. Ten fumbled his gun and dropped it while trying to loosen his noose.
Two turned and leveled his gun at her. Widowmaker disarmed him in flash while stabbing him with her baton, stolen from the man currently impersonating a lassoed cow. Two's body trembled under the electric shock and then collapsed to the floor.
Three.
Widowmaker stood and pressed Ten's Glock into his temple, keeping herself at an arm's distance. She let the line slacken. Ten sucked in a breath and coughed. He raised his hands in surrender and met her eyes with a hard glare.
"Why were seven squads called into the Training Room?" Her voice was flat; she could have been reporting elevations or patrol patterns.
"Reaper's order," he replied.
Widowmaker tightened the line, not enough to choke him but enough to cut into his flesh. The Talon agent let out a hiss of pain.
"What was the order?"
"Code eighty-eight. Eliminate Operative Widowmaker," he gasped out.
Widowmaker frowned and then stabbed the baton into his thigh. His muscles locked up and then gave out. He dropped to the floor.
Four.
She untangled her grappling hook and wound in the claw with a snap. She dragged the bodies into an adjacent room, which was thankfully empty.
Her mind spun. Reyes had just ordered her to be killed.
She paced back and forth in the room trying to sort out what just happened because. Because using a public channel and a massive amount of squads was sloppy and noticeable and not like Reaper at all. This sorry attempt at an execution was not the work of a soldier of Reaper's prowess. No, if Reaper wanted her dead he would have done it in person while she was still disorientated from her latest treatment. It didn't make any sense.
Unless. Unless, he had made the terrible plan on purpose. A terrible, attention getting plan that would serve as a warning, giving her time, giving her a chance to run. Which meant... a Talon senior officer had ordered her death.
Her breathing hitched. She was a Talon agent to be used and disposed of as they saw fit. No more, no less. Everyone in the organization had an expiration date. She knew this. So why was her body acting like it had just been shot?
She should, had too, follow the command and face whatever awaited her with dignity.
Widowmaker clenched her hands into fists, hiding trembling fingers. She left the room and marched down the hall, head held high, at an efficient but not rushed pace. She entered the C Building.
And then turned left, away from the Training Room.
Or she could run like Hell.
Amélie opens her eyes feeling the memory's grip loosen. Being so immersed in her thoughts is a vulnerability. She could have been killed several times over. But she hadn't. No harm done, she supposes.
She walks to the edge of the roof and lowers herself down with her grappling hook. She lands on the first balcony, the one connected to the living room, and pauses. Widowmaker stands on the concrete gripping the surface with her toes, feeling the ridges and gouges. The sensation is not pleasant or unpleasant, it just is. How long has it been since she simply observed her surrounding without searching for frailties or advantages?
Widowmaker hums to herself, such pointless thoughts. She slings her boots over her shoulders and enters the safe house. The décor is still hideous but Tracer's jacket and various weapons are sprawled about make the apartment feel more welcoming.
Tracer is in the kitchen watching a newsfeed on her tablet while eating breakfast. Closer inspection reveals Tracer is eating Widowmaker's leftovers, straight out of the Styrofoam container, cold, while standing. Such savagery. Was this woman raised in a barn?
Widowmaker walks closer, peering over Tracer's shoulder; half of the huge portion of noodles and meat is gone.
"Do you plan on leaving anything for the rest of us?" Widowmaker muses.
Tracer inhales sharply and shoves a pulse pistol in Widowmaker's face.
This may have not been her best idea.
Expressions flicker over Tracer's face, so fast if Widowmaker had blinked she would have missed them.
"Widow? Blimey." Tracer drops the gun and takes a few steps back creating space between them. She laughs. "You almost gave me a heart attack. I didn't hear- I thought- I thought you were still out doing assassin-y stuff."
"Obviously I'm not," Widowmaker says her own heart rate dipping.
Widowmaker feels something wet on her feet. She looks down. There is red sauce between her toes. Tracer dropped the leftovers on the floor. Sauce and noodles exploded out from the clamshell dotting the tiles. Such a pity.
"Well that was one hell of a way to wake up. Nothing like a shot of adrenalin first thing in the morning. Good Lord. Guess I don't need any coffee today," Tracer says mostly to herself.
Widowmaker watches her reaction with curiosity. Tracer takes to walking back and forth behind the island. She runs her fingers through her hair still holding the pistol. The fork she was using to eat is clamped between her teeth. It protrudes from her lips like some bizarre cigar.
So this is what it feels like to be on the other side of their dance. She must say that scaring Tracer is quite... entertaining. Although, next time she'll make sure that both parties are unarmed.
Translations
mon Cher - my Dear
ma Chére - my Dear
Merde - Shit
Araña - spider
C'est la vie - It is what it is
Let me know if you see any errors; grammar, spelling, translation or otherwise.
Thank you to everyone who commented
Shout-out to Blackadder261 who has commented on all my fics so far! I have no idea what I did to capture your attention but I really do appreciate it. You're awesome!
/Introducing Team Talon, AKA those assholes.
Don't do drugs kids.
Widowmaker you are in no position to judge Reaper's outfit.
I don't think Widowmaker would ever leave Talon willingly where she is now in canon. It would take something rather extreme for her to rebel on her own.
How about some of that canon typical violence I promised.
Fight scenes are hard.
Widowmaker didn't shoot anybody because of the noise it would have made./