Disclaimer: So I made an assumption when I wrote this chapter that you can treat hypothermia the same way you treat frostbite. It turns you can't. I don't want to tempt fate by giving you guys bad info so below the correct way to treat both.

Frostbite is when the outer layer of skin of fingers, toes, ears or nose freezes. Skin may turn white, yellow, blue/black; feel like it is burning; and appear hard and waxy. Frostbite is treated by soaking the frozen or discolored areas in WARM water (104-107F, 40-42C) until the extremities thaw. Go to the ER if you have blackened skin or the blood flow won't return.

Hypothermia is when a person has a dangerously low body temperature. Simply they're freezing to death. Hypothermia is treated by warming the person's core by wrapping them in blankets NOT by putting them in hot water.

If you have hypothermia you probably also have frostbite. Treat the hypothermia FIRST by raising their core temperature. Warming extremities first can cause shock.

[ROME – ELEVATOR OF SAINT MICHAEL HOTEL – PRESENT 13:14]

Tracer sings a jaunty tune under her breath as she and Widowmaker ride the elevator up to their floor. An old song from the 00's had popped into her head, so she decided to supply her own elevator music.

"Its funny, now that I think about it," Tracer starts, "but I don't think I've ever been in a lift with music. Not in hotels, not in Overwatch, not even in different countries. In Japan, they've got music that covers up when you use the loo and sidewalks that work like piano keys, but no music in the lifts.

"But it's such a universal thing. Everyone knows what elevator music is, soft and light, not too popular but not obscure. But I can't think of one real-life example where songs have played while I've been in one. It's so weird."

"Is this the same hotel?" Widowmaker asks eyeing the elevator's grate.

"Yep! Safehouse, sweet safehouse."

Widowmaker frowns and stiffly rubs her hands together.

"This is a security risk and undoubtedly against regulations," Widowmaker says in a tone that is both flat and disapproving, "There is zero chance that our incident on the highway hasn't been noticed by various government agencies if not the media by now. Returning to this location vastly increases chances of Talon finding us."

"Alternately, it could give us an advantage," Tracer says holding up a finger.

Widowmaker just glares at her.

"See the bad guys already know we're in Rome. And they know that we know that they know. So we would have to be absolutely mad to go back. Therefore it will be the last place they'll think to look."

"So our first line of defense is stupidity. Wonderful."

Amélie turns the hot water on halfway and drops the stopper in the drain. While the tub fills up (Dieu merci the bathroom has a tub) she turns her attention to the tablet she "borrowed." It takes a few tries and a bit of hot water but she finally gets her fingers to cooperate enough to search for News Tracer. The first result shows Tracer pointing finger guns at the camera with a trainstation clearly in the background. The article is titled, Adventure Lena "Tracer" Oxton Takes Out Baddies on Train From Rome. The time stamp is a few hours ago. Merde.

She would like to retract her Dieu merci. This was supposed to be a stealth mission. At least Reaper and Sombra knew what that meant. If anything else goes wrong she might as well hand herself back over to Talon, no force required.

Amélie shuts the tablet in a drawer and turns off the hot water. She lets out a frustrated sigh before picking up the Medkit off the floor. Tracer shoved it at her when they returned along with a bundle of clothes she hadn't had the courage to examine. The kit is well stocked, no doubt because of Dr. Ziegler. It contains plasters, wraps, tape, tourniquets, liquid skin, a pocket mask, along with gloves, tweezers, duct tape, pain meds, sleep aids, scissors, and a box of instant stuffing labeled Nanobiotics in rough Sharpie.

The pain meds and sleep aids are set aside on the sink. Amélie shakes out an injector, a scrap of paper, and twelve glowing refills out of the cardboard box. She skims over the instructions. Rigid fingers slide a reload tube into the slot. She injects herself twice in the neck and follows that up with half a dose into each calf, contrary to the instructions.

Light worms its way down her legs forming golden spider veins. She frowns. The nanobiotics are moving far too slowly for her liking. Amélie pulls her hair up into a sloppy bun and disrobes. She inhales steeling her nerves. Might as well get on with it. Widowmaker directs her numb legs into the hot water.

At first, she feels nothing other than water moving around her. Then a slight tingling sensation starts in the soles of her feet. Slowly, the tingling becomes a raw burning. Suddenly, red-hot pins and needles stab her toes, heels, and the balls of her feet. Widowmaker hisses in pain. Control her breathing. She can always control her breathing. Long inhale; long exhale.

Widowmaker focuses on her left hand. It is still stiff from the cold but does not hurt. The tile under her fingers is slick with precipitation. The tile dips away and changes to rough grout. She runs her finger along the seam feeling the tiny pockets and bumps. Widowmaker experimentally flexes her toes. Her feet still hurt, but the pain is no longer overwhelming.

She lowers herself into the warm water and grimaces. If she knew working with Overwatch was going to result in so many regular brushes with death she wouldn't have lobbied so hard. To distract herself from her blood rushing around uncomfortably Widowmaker reminisces about her interrogation.

[WATCHPOINT: GIBRALTAR – INTERROGATION ROOM – 7 MONTHS AGO]

Widowmaker sat relaxed but alert in her chair. Her hands folded neatly before her; the cable of her handcuffs hidden under her fingers. Once the arrowhead had been removed, she had been stitched, stripped, searched, secured, and left to wait.

She flexed her bare feet beneath her and examined the holding cell. The room was roughly two by two and a half meters in size and suffered from a terrible lack of lighting. It was the cleanest piece of Overwatch property she'd seen all day, and she had to admit the embellishments were rather unique. The walls, floor, and ceiling were covered in raised hexagonal tiles.

Widowmaker's toe followed the grooves in the floor tracing the shape. It had to be some sort of force absorption or power dampening technology. A holdout from Overwatch's old days of apprehending enhanced criminals instead of licking the UN's boots. Whatever their purpose was they weren't helping her headache.

She glanced around again. She'd been in here for over thirty minutes, and she was getting bored. She could assume the door to the cell was in front of her meaning the camera should be in the upper left corner. Right about, there. A small glint in the gap between the tiles. Widowmaker tilted her head and gave the glint a knowing smile. A few more minutes passed. Nothing happened. Hopefully, she hadn't just smirked at a wall.

Finally, Widowmaker heard a faint click. The lights in the room flared to full brightness. Widowmaker scowled and blinked rapidly. The wall opposite of her began peeling itself apart. Tile sliding over tile until just the edges of the wall remained.

A gorilla entered the room followed by a female soldier.

This was not who Widowmaker had expected.

Dr. Winston sat down across from her not bothering with a chair. Captain Fareeha Amari took a seat next to him. Behind them, their door vanished as the wall repaired itself.

Winston had an air of calm about him. No jerky movements or over exaggerated facial expressions this time. Widowmaker didn't know if it was forced or not. Amari was hiding her feelings under textbook good posture. She was dressed for action, black BDU pants, and a shoulder holster. Widowmaker would bet anything she was armed with a stun pistol on its most painful setting. At least they were taking her seriously.

"Good afternoon, Captain Amari and," Widowmaker trailed off.

"Acting Commander Winston," Amari provided.

So the monkey was running the circus now? Talon knew he was a dreamer trapped in the past but this was something else. It made sense for Amari to be involved somehow. She had experience leading men in combat and a shadow to crawl out of.

"That's quite a career change," Widowmaker remarked.

"You've seen the state of the world. Someone had to step up." Dr. Winston's tone was borderline accusatory. "I believe you have a proposition for us?"

Widowmaker gave them a tight-lipped smile. "It's quite simple. Talon thinks I'm dead. I wish to continue this notion. You don't turn me over to the appropriate authorities, and in return, I tell you everything I know about my previous employer."

"You're asking us to aid and assist an international criminal with strong ties to a terrorist organization," Winston said, "If this is discovered the legal ramifications will be quite severe. Not considering what it will do to Overwatch's reputation."

Widowmaker squinted at her two interrogators. She didn't understand why a group of paramilitary vigilantes who frequently acted with authority they didn't have would be concerned about legal issues.

"Oh," she said after a moment, "You're hoping to be re-legitimized."

"The ultimate goal is to have the Petras Act repealed, and Overwatch reinstated as an official peacekeeping organization. Yes," Dr. Winston said.

"An admirable goal but how long do you think that is going to take? A year? Two?" Widowmaker shook her head. "No. You're talking about mountains of red tape, multiple bureaucracies, and you want to repeal something. That's going to take four to five years minimum."

"We are aware of the difficulties ahead of us. I don't see how it's relevant to why you think we need your knowledge," Amari said crossing her arms.

"Do you know what will happen as soon as your enemies figure out that there are more than three of you?" Widowmaker asked. "That your group is organized? That you have goals? They're going to burn you to the ground and salt the earth so you can never become a real threat.

"And that's only the big players: Talon, LumériCo, Vishkar. We're not even talking about the wanna be groups trying to make a name for themselves. Trying to be the ones who killed Reinhardt, The Overwatch Crusader. Or Mercy, the Doctor Who Could Reverse Death. Or even Tracer, Overwatch's Beloved Mascot.

"You're going to need an edge."

"And what happens when your information becomes obsolete?" Amari asked, indifferent to her prophecy of doom.

"Well, I am the best in my field."

"We already have a sniper."

"I have other skills," Widowmaker protested. "A large part of my job involves reconnaissance. Tactical evaluation of locations. Finding weaknesses in enemy patterns. Strategic positioning. I'm offering... What is the phrase? Another pair of eyes?"

Amari went stone still and her brown eyes flashed dangerously. The muscles on the sides of her jaw flexed for a moment before Amari forced herself to relax.

So this was just some sort of exercise in self-control for the Captain. Lock herself in a room with her mother's "killer" and prove she's the bigger person. Typical.

Amari returned to her previous impassive expression. Winston looked vaguely disappointed, of course, that could just be his face.

"Let's assume we do accept your offer," he said. "You've maimed and even killed Overwatch agents before, some close friends of mine." The gorilla reached up and adjusted his glasses; muscles rippled under his fur with the movement. Widowmaker had seen those hands rip cars apart. "How can we trust you?"

"You shouldn't," Widowmaker said with a shrug, "But you can trust me to do what is in my best interest."

"And what happens when that's no longer helping us?" Amari asked.

"Then I cooperate as needed and one day you never hear from me again. I'm currently outnumbered ten to one. Despite all evidence to the contrary I'd like to keep all my limbs."

Amari leaned back in her chair, trying to judge her sincerity. Dr. Winston stared at her like she was some sort of intricate puzzle.

Widowmaker did not like this lack of enthusiasm. The plucky group of misfits had been doing rather well so far. Their roster was well balanced. And currently, they didn't have to worry about anyone going off and murdering everyone else. An uncomfortable sensation started in her chest. Widowmaker tightened her calf muscle as she recognized the drawn-out fluttering of an irregular heartbeat. There was a chance that what she had to offer was not enough to secure what she needed.

Widowmaker let out a bored sigh.

"Guillermo Portero is going to be taking a vacation on a very extravagant and very vulnerable yacht in two weeks. I think you'll find something of interest at 18°51′S 41°56′W. And it's suspected there will be an attack on the Shambali monastery in three months."

Now she has their attention.

"Do what you wish with this information. You know my price for more."

Widowmaker held perfectly still, staring into the light despite the fact that her eyes were watering. Apparently, Overwatch did think she was useful after all because was now being given a general check-up in the med bay. Her medic made a thoughtful noise. The penlight was pulled away to reveal the blond hair and blue eyes of Doctor Ziegler.

Angela Ziegler is rightfully considered one of the most brilliant minds of the century. She earned her doctorate at the age of 19, pioneered an entirely new branch of medicine, designed her Valkyrie Suit and Caduceus Staff despite having no formal education in such fields.

She saved Gérard's life three times.

"Ears and eyes look good. No signs of infection," Ziegler remarked adding something to her tablet.

She also ultimately doomed it.

Dr. Ziegler continued talking as she crossed the examination room, "Only major injury is the puncture wound on palmar antebrachial region of left arm. No arterial damage."

The doctor grabbed a wheeled stand and passed Solider 76 as she returned. Widowmaker held out her right arm for Dr. Ziegler to slide a blood pressure cuff over. The sequence was different, but the steps were the same. Widowmaker obediently placed the thermometer under her tongue. A heart rate monitor was clipped to her index finger. The pressure cuff started to inflate. Widowmaker softened her gaze letting the familiar sounds and smells wash over her.

76 had taken up residence near the countertop to her right. His position gave Dr. Ziegler room to work and blocked the only exit of the med bay. The Soldier lacked his signature pulse rifle but made an imposing wall of meat anyways.

Widowmaker had to give credit to whoever had been put in charge of her. She'd have to be crazy to attack the doctor on her home turf, and Mercy's nanites would allow her to recover from almost any injury. Soldier 76 was a seasoned combatant with both the speed and strength to subdue her in hand-to-hand. Plus SEPs were durable little bastards, and they tended to hold a grudge.

It was apparent Overwatch was trying not to make the same mistakes twice.

The computer on the stand beeped. Dr. Zeigler took the thermometer from her and recorded the data.

"I must admit I was surprised when Winston told me you had defected," Dr. Ziegler said in a faux-conversational tone, "Especially with so few difficulties."

"Being heedlessly tossed aside by the organization you dedicated your life to doesn't exactly promote loyalty," Widowmaker said.

Dr. Ziegler frowned at this. To the side, Widowmaker saw Solider 76's attention snap to her.

Widowmaker suppressed a smile. Hello, Commander Jack Morrison. I see the reports of your death were greatly exaggerated.

Truthfully, between the unusual amount of attention Reaper placed on the man and the fact that the Strike Commander had not changed his weapon, fighting style, or uniform at all Widowmaker was already 85% certain of the vigilante's identity. But it was still nice to be proven right.

Dr. Ziegler finished what she was doing on the computer and picked up her tablet again.

"I'd like to make a quick review your of general condition and options but before I continue would you rather be addressed as Widowmaker or Amélie?" she asked.

"I have no preference," Widowmaker said.

"I see."

This answer did not please Dr. Ziegler, but she pressed ahead anyway.

"Frankly Ms. Lacroix, beyond general wear and tear, you suffer from a number of extraordinary issues. Your heart rate is ridiculously low. Your blood pressure seems to have been artificially raised to compensate. Somehow your core temperature is stable but within the range of hypothermia. Your body seems to be in a constant state of extreme peripheral vasoconstriction as a result.

"Without intervention, your problems: heart palpitations, dizziness, and shortness of breath are only going to get worse. With your permission, I would like to start you on some cardiostimulatories to increase your heart rate. Specifically phosphodiesterase inhibitors most likely."

"My permission?" Widowmaker scoffed, "The last time I checked I couldn't even get a stick of gum without approval."

"Unlike my colleagues I am a doctor first and a soldier second. I took an oath to respect my patient's wishes even when it runs contrary to my advice."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I keep you alive the best I can until your condition deteriorates to the point where an emergency procedure will be needed to save your life, with or without your approval," Dr. Ziegler said without malice.

"No doubt a costly and risky process that the others will have arguments against," Widowmaker said catching on.

Dr. Ziegler dropped her tablet in front of her, holding it with both hands. Her fingers tapped out a rhythm. She looked Widowmaker directly in the eye; her face a picture of controlled professionalism.

"Raising your heart rate, even slightly, to a more natural level is the best thing I can do for you right now. I don't know the extent of your modifications and I doubt you do either. I simply don't have the necessary information or equipment to keep you healthy over an extended period of time. Not when your body is so, so, altered."

Inhuman.

One hot soak later and Amélie feels well, better isn't quite the right word, but definitely warmer and less murderous. The color has returned to her legs, as much as she can expect it to anyways. Her feet are still numb, but she can move them. Something else for Ziegler to use as leverage to run more trials.

Widowmaker supposes she should be grateful. The new drugs were probably the only reason she wasn't in a coma right now. That and spite.

She finds a bathrobe hidden among towels with suspicious black stains. After a moment's hesitation, she slides it on. She reaches up and wipes away the steam on the mirror. Her fingers and toes look much better, but she needs to check her ears for signs of frostbite. Her eyes flicker up. Gold meets gold.

A gasp escapes her lips. Her shocked expression is repeated in the glass. Her irises are still an unnatural color-her face is too hard but with her hair in a bun and her skin flushed to a pallid rose she looks like Before.

Amélie is six, eight, twelve, fifteen, seventeen, twenty-one; fiercely staring at her reflection as she does pliés, relevés, and sautés again and again and again until she gets it right.

Amélie is fifteen years old and covered in more glitter and stage makeup than she ever has been in her life. Other costumed danseurs and danseuses surround her for the Nutcracker Promotional photograph. They stand or kneel knee-to-knee and elbow-to-elbow in fourth position to fit everyone in the frame. The final product captures the prestige and elegance of a group of dancers from L'Ecole de Danse de l'Opéra de Paris. One of the surplus pictures is pure chaos: danseurs mock fainting, legs sticking up into the air where heads should be, danseuses making rude faces, one attempted murder, and Amélie dramatically looking up to the heavens for salvation.

Amélie is seventeen, standing in a blood red full-length dress pressed into Papa's coal black suit. They're giving the family photographer the signature Guillard smirk. Both are posing with a firearm, Amélie with her high-powered hunting rifle and Papa with his custom Olympic class 0.22. The photo was never publicly displayed.

Amélie is looking up at her twenty-year-old self at an awkward angle. She's watching a recording from Gérard's phone. Outside the frame Gérard asks her opinion on a certain choreographer. She gives an off-handed snarky reply. The recording shakes as Gérard laughs. Amélie glances over and huffs in fake frustration at the camera. Her hand engulfs the lens.

Amélie is now Amélie Lacroix, Gérard's twenty-three-year-old wife. The eyes of the world, a camera drone flying above the Overwatch Medal Ceremony, watch her watching Gérard. Her husband steps forward and has the piece of metal pinned to the breast of his suit. Amélie claps politely with the crowd. As Gérard returns to his place beside her, he gives her a look. Amélie squints at him keeping her public smile in place. Gérard pulls her into a kiss.

She hasn't moved. Her reflection stares at her. A mockery of what once was.

Amélie shuts her eyes and turns away. She doesn't want to deal with this. She doesn't want to feel this. She misses the time when her memories didn't hurt. They were just there. Like a vid of the sun, just as blinding as the real thing but without the heat.

Now is not the time for these thoughts.

She needs to direct her attention elsewhere.

Amélie eyes the lump of clothes on the floor. She supposes she will have to leave the bathroom eventually. She reaches down and picks up an article with as little contact as possible.

Tracer has supplied her with two t-shirts, a pair of sweatpants, a sweater, three socks, and a ball cap. Amélie tries on the sweatpants. They're too short. The pants stop halfway down her calves, but they do have pockets. She's missed pockets. The t-shirts are better both are a generic one size fits all. The sweater, which she assumed was tourist merchandise, is actually hand-knitted. She recognizes it.

After Overwatch decided against handing her over to the United Nations Widowmaker spent a lot of time down in her personal high-security subterranean cell. Her cold, cold, subterranean cell. Dr. Ziegler was the first to notice her tight posture and aversion to metal surfaces. A generic sweatshirt with the Overwatch logo was provided. Somehow, Ana Amari caught wind of the situation and soon personalized passive-aggressive gifts began appearing in Widowmaker's drop box. Dr. Ziegler allowed it in hopes that the presents would be therapeutic. She didn't say for whom.

The first time Widowmaker unwrapped a bundle of yarn to discover a boxy yellow sweater endowed with the words Hon, Hon, Bodybag. A baguette and beret had also been included. She assumed the bread and hat were supposed to be insulting, poking fun at French stereotypes, but it was mild compared to what Sombra had put her through. (She considered waiting for the baguette to dry out and use it as a weapon but decided it wasn't worth it.)

She now has a fair sized collection of malice sweaters. Most were subtle spider themed insults or outdated references. One depicted a frog on a unicycle for reasons Widowmaker couldn't fathom. She knows she didn't pack any of these for the mission. Dr. Ziegler must have thrown it in during her pre-release check-up.

The one in her hands is newer and higher quality. It is pure white with the words Thug Life in purple swirling script. Amélie slides it on.

If everything is going to go to hell in the near future she might as well be warm this time.

Translations

Dieu merci – thank God

Merde – shit

Plié – to bend, barre exercise in which the dancer bends their knees while in first position

Relevé – to rise, dancer rises onto their toes

Sauté – to jump

Danseur – ballet dancer, male

Danseuses – ballet dancer, female

L'Ecole de Danse de l'Opéra de Paris – School of Dance of the Opera of Paris

/A huge thank you to my Betas 2JRC6 and Peasant. Without their feedback this story would be much worse.

Honestly the most unbelievable part of this chapter is that the elevator got repaired.

Hopefully I used all that medical jargon right. And all the ballet jargon.

Alright so canon Widowmaker actually has purple skin, her outfit just makes it look more blue. Sass!Widowmaker is blue cause she's got a little bit more blood moving around./

Edited 3/3/18