This chapter is brought to you by villainous friendship.
Swearing
The quartet piles back into the van.
"… and we didn't even kill anyone. See, Speedy, you didn't need to come at all," Sombra says buckling into the driver seat.
"That is precisely why I went with you." Tracer turns the holo-rings of her Accelerator back on. "What type of point even is that?"
Widowmaker sits down across from Tracer and rolls her shoulder with a grimace. Reaper slips into the seat next to her.
"Twelve point five minutes arrival to departure," Widowmaker says.
"Still would have been faster without her," Reaper replies crossing his arms.
"You can't get everything you want, mon chèr." Widowmaker leans back against the worn leather.
Her back is on fire; her shoulder protests every time she moves, and her right calf throbs where she was clipped. Not to mention how her legs are going to feel over the next few days. She didn't exactly warm-up.
She's out of practice. It was a good thing that her opponents were quite outdated.
The rush that comes from flinging herself into the air with only a wire for support is wearing off. Widowmaker settles in a bit closer to Reaper than necessary. She'll rest her eyes, just for a second, to block out Tracer and Sombra's jabbering. She's not in danger, after all.
"What possible rational argument could you have to follow that?" Tracer demands.
"I'm just saying you didn't really do anything. Your involvement was kind of a moot point."
The voices begin to fade, and a high-pitched ringing fills her ears. Widowmaker frowns. She tries to open her eyes but finds she can't. She feels like she's slipping underwater, and then everything stops.
[L'ECOLE DE DANSE DE L'OPÉRA DE PARIS - SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO]
Amélie reached the far end of the dance room. Breathing hard, she lowered her feet out of en pointe. Her legs and arms were quivering from the exertion, but she still had to do the finale of her routine.
She shook herself out and took three deep breaths. Centered, she stepped away, closed her eyes, and let her mental soundtrack engulf her.
She stepped across the wooden floor. The music swelled. She pushed off with one leg and extended her other into a grand jeté. She raised her arms above her head and leaned back. At the jump's apex, her back foot almost touched her head. She hovered in the air for a brief moment and then she was already coming down. Amélie controlled the impact as she landed. She took a small step, finishing in fourth position.
Slowly she lowered her arms and then bent at the waist until her hands touched her feet, bowing to imaginary thunderous applause.
"Your arms were too far apart on that leap," Charlotte said in French, pulling Amélie out of her visualization. "You're supposed to make an arch, not look like you're holding a laundry basket."
"Feedback later," Amélie said into her knees, "Basking now."
"You landed with too much weight in your heels. Also, I hope you're not calling that 'fourth position'."
Amélie stood up to examine her critic. Charlotte leaned against the wall, pulling at her dark curls. She wasn't practicing today so she could get away with wearing the school's green tracksuit.
As arguably one the best dancers of their age group and Amélie's good friend. Charlotte constantly pushed Amélie to be better, which meant she was annoying as hell. Amélie enjoyed returning the favor.
Charlotte threw a hand towel at her. As she moved, her jacket revealed a strap across her stomach, a back brace. Charlotte had been benched after her leg almost gave out a week ago during rehearsals. Diagnosis: a bulging disc.
"Come on, the results of auditions are up," Charlotte said.
Amélie hid her expression under the towel. The days after auditions were both tedious and nerve-racking. Waiting for the panel of teachers, directors, and other judges to sift through half of the student body too cut your performance to pieces was enough to give any student an ulcer. But Amélie was dreading the results for different reasons.
"There's going to be a bottleneck," Amélie said dabbing at her face. "And I already know who's going to be what. At this point everyone does."
"Well it doesn't matter. You can't hide in here forever. You're going to suffer along with the rest of us." Charlotte grabbed Amélie's wrist and started towards the door.
Amélie groaned as she was dragged off to the changing rooms.
Amélie and Charlotte made their way through the crowd of students clad in various types of athletic gear. Ages ranged from twelve to seventeen; the student body was made up of a dizzying array of nationalities, techniques, and specialties. Charlotte pushed her way to the front, but Amélie was tall enough to see over the mob of bunheads.
Amélie scanned the bulletin board for the casting results of the Spring ballet, Coppélia. It was a comedy that was technically a romance. It involved a young couple in love, a life-sized mechanical doll, and the 1800s equivalent of a mad scientist. While the show itself would be a very serious affair Amélie was glad that they would be performing something more lighthearted.
~ Corps de Ballet ~
The corps were made up of every dancer onstage that didn't play a named character. If the main characters were the face of a performance, then the corps were the body. Not a position that would get you a fan club, but without them there wouldn't be a show.
Villager #3 - Kjetil, Paul
He was too slow and a good five cm too tall.
Coryphée, Doll #1 - Bernard, Agetha
She had the skill but not the extremely slender figure. Despite the steps modern dance had made prejudices still lurked under the surface. That situation was a lawsuit waiting to happen, Amélie mused.
~ Secondary Characters ~
Playing any character with a name was a step up. To get one of these roles you had to make yourself stand out from a third of the student body in auditions.
Town Councillor's Wife
1) Dubois, Maya
2) Indira, Zydre
Maya had recovered from a strained hamstring physically but not yet mentally; couldn't risk her being center stage.
Priest
1) Thomas, Gabriel
2) Antic, Russ
Russ was built like a classic danseur, strong and light; but his face, however, left some things to be desired.
~ Understudies ~
Understudies learned two parts, their original and the understudy role along with the cast dancers. Twice the work for half a chance to get yourself noticed. It had worked for Amélie, but the process was exhausting.
Dr. Copplius (Understudy) – Jackson, Francis
Swanlda (Understudy) - Robert, Louise
She was a fantastic dancer but tended to second-guess herself on stage.
~ Leads ~
And finally, the stars of the show. These positions hold the most prestige and the most pressure. Amélie skimmed over the results for Dr. Coppelius, Coppélia, and Fraz till she reached the casting for the lead.
Swanilda
1) Motta, Charlotte
2) Guillard, Amélie
3) Moon, Concepta
The clamor of students discussing their positions grew louder as the seniors found their results. Some celebrated with high-fives or squealing, others complained about the politics that played out behind the scenes. One or two shot her a glare. More flashed her a smile or a thumbs-up. Amélie waved weakly in response.
Charlotte sighed heavily beside her. "You could at least act excited that you're replacing me," she grumbled, "Most would kill for a chance to star, even if it was under suspicious circumstances."
The world of professional dance was quite cutthroat. A few years ago Amélie would have been elated to moving closer to securing a job after graduation. But a promotion due to default, especially an injury, was not something she considered a victory.
"Well done, Amélie," Paul said lightly hitting her shoulder as he passed.
"Thank you," Amélie said on reflex.
Rehab would make it more difficult to hangout with Charlotte as it was, but becoming first cast would make things even more awkward. Refusing the position would make it look like she lacked the dedication needed to go pro. Where would they even put her? Sure, she auditioned for other parts but casting results were final.
Amélie rolled her neck. Was this hesitation really based on social concerns or was she just afraid? The damage that stumbling on the 'world's most watched stage' was not something to be taken lightly. She glanced at Charlotte's back. And there were other factors to consider.
"Congrats, Amélie."
She refocused to find Maya shaking her hand. The other dancer squeezed hard, making Amélie flinch.
Maya leaned in close and whispered, "Everyone knows you got the position because of a fluke. You'll be out of here when Daddy's money runs out."
Under her t-shirt, Amélie's shoulder blades tightened.
"Good luck," Maya said with a bright smile, "You're going to need it."
"What?" Charlotte asked touching her arm. Amélie ignored her. "What did she say?"
"Charlotte," Amélie said shouldering her bag. "I'm going to outshine the fucking sun."
"-maker? Lacroix."
Widowmaker jerks awake. Her eyes snap open; her body freezes in place.
She's in the back of a van. Three possible exits, none obstructed. Her body hurts but no major injuries. She's functional. Widow's Kiss is accounted for; other possible weapons are nearby.
Sombra's voice fills the small space as she hits the high note of a song on the radio. Widowmaker can feel the hover pad's vibrations filter up through the floorboards. Tracer has squished herself back into a corner and is focused on her phone. Reaper half-looms over her.
"What?" Widowmaker snaps.
"We're back," Reaper says.
She sits up, ignoring the weird sensation in the back of her head. Shifting, she can see out the van's windshield. Their hotel is visible further up the road.
"Noted," she says leaning back.
Reaper's mask tilts slightly, his version of raising an eyebrow. Widowmaker shakes her head. They'll talk later.
[SAINT MICHAEL HOTEL – PRESENT 06:24]
Widowmaker checks the time and looks towards the front door again.
Once they got back to the safe house, Sombra more or less took charge despite Tracer's protests. Under her "orders", Reaper moved the couch while Widowmaker dragged out a card table so they could sit down and eat. With the heavy lifting done, Sombra left to go hunt down some food. Reaper went off somewhere, leaving Widowmaker alone with Tracer.
Currently, Tracer is doing her best to entertain herself. This involves tapping out a beat with her fingers and glancing sporadically around the safe house as if the solution to her unwelcome guests will magically appear. Widowmaker examines the card table. She still doesn't understand why Overwatch, with all its UN money, couldn't have purchased better accommodations. She swipes at a spot of discoloration. The spot remains and her fingers come back sticky. Widowmaker curls her lip and wipes her hand on the underside of the table.
Widowmaker hears the sound of a bolt unlocking. The double patio doors open and close, apparently under their own power. A second later Sombra de-cloaks in front of them.
"I'm baaack!" Sombra exclaims lifting bags of takeout into the air.
Tracer perks up at Sombra's arrival and proceeds to sniff the air a few times. Widowmaker gives her a sidelong look. A swirling mass of black smoke settles over one of the empty chairs and condenses into Reaper. With two clunks he sets his combat boots on the table.
"Finally," he says.
"Sorry I took so long. It took ten minutes of searching and the threat of eviction but I finally found a decent place open this early," Sombra says sorting through the bags.
"For Reaps, ten with everything except olives. Just the way you like it." Sombra shoves an entire bag at him. Reaper doesn't move, letting the bag slide to a stop next to his boots.
"Azul, I got you a purse." Sombra throws a medium-sized bag at Widowmaker. Her hand snaps up catching it before it hits her head.
"It belonged to a stuck up old lady so you two probably have similar taste," Sombra says.
Widowmaker opens the purse and examines its contents. Mirror, makeup kit that won't work with her skin tone, hand sanitizer, perfume from a brand she recognizes, gum, and an e-reader. Not a tablet; the device is designed like its ancestors, only able to download and view text, not surf the Internet nor take pictures. Curious.
"Lena, I know what you like, but I don't care." Tracer barely catches the bag of food that hits her square in the chest.
"And a normal sized meal for me!"
With everything distributed Sombra plunks herself down in the remaining seat and turns off her hardlight nails. Reaper shuffles through his bag while Tracer unwraps one of her items with more caution than necessary. When she is done, Tracer looks at Sombra in confusion.
"We're in Italy, and out of all the pasta-bilities you got calzones?" Tracer asks, sounding offended.
"I– Wow. Just wow. That was terrible. Never speak again. Wow." Sombra blinks a few times. "I'm starting to see the appeal of shooting you in the face."
"Starting?" Widowmaker asks while browsing the collection of novels on the e-reader.
"Unless you want my half digested food and stomach acid all over the floor I hope you brought something else for me," Reaper growls.
"Yeah, yeah." Sombra waves away Reaper's attitude. "I got you some real meat out back. Not your favorite but I had a hard enough time getting that bucket across town. Just do it out there, 'kay? I still want to be able to eat this."
"Do what?" Tracer asks as Reaper leaves the table.
"Do what?" She repeats, this time nudging Widowmaker.
Widowmaker ignores her. She has found the electronic version of a series she's already read. She remembers being fond of them but can't call back the feeling. The author has produced twelve more volumes over the years. Reaper used to give her paperbacks; during those long missions they had together. He wanted her to "Stop being so creepy, staring at nothing like in The Shining." She read them out of boredom. She has no opinion on those stories, good or bad.
One title catches her eye. It was the last novel she checked out years ago. She never got to finish it.
She is struck by twin urges to lock herself away in a room then re-read the entire novel in one sitting or snap the e-reader in half, scream, and flip the table for good measure.
Widowmaker lets out a long shaky breath.
There's no reason to be so dramatic. She powers off the e-reader and sets it aside.
Reaper steps out onto the balcony and closes the glass doors behind him. He looks around before dragging a large plastic pail closer to him. One of his armored hands dips into the bucket. It comes back with a crab dangling from his fingers.
Reaper does not look impressed with Sombra's choice of live edibles.
"What-" Tracer starts.
Widowmaker watches him crush the crustacean in the palm of his hand. His gauntlet smokes, nanites eating away at it until the crab's shell and organs dissolve. Mollified by his taste test Reaper kneels and reaches into the pail. This time his entire arm changes into a hungry cloud. The rest of the bushel is absorbed in a similar manner. The faintest traces of ash will be all that remains of his meal.
"Okay then," Tracer says.
Reaper stands. A shiver rolls down his body. He is splicing the organic material into his own, mending wounds, re-growing organs. When he's done he solidifies and opens the door.
"You must get out less than I thought if that shocks you," Sombra says, "Besides, who gets emotional over a few shellfish?"
Tracer glares in response to Sombra's playful grin. She crosses her arms and lifts her chin, showing off her bruise.
"I am a friend to all animals. Unlike you people," Tracer says.
"All animals," Sombra repeats, "Even, say, roaches? Mosquitoes? Leeches? I mean dang girl, that's kind of creepy but I gotta give you points for being honest."
Tracer presses her lips into a thin line but doesn't rise to the bait. Reaper takes his seat.
As much as she is enjoying this, Widowmaker needs to keep their little group from imploding for the next few hours.
"Are we really having this discussion?" Widowmaker ask, shooting Sombra a look and making eye contact with Tracer. "They were going to be someone's dinner anyways."
Sombra rolls her eyes buts starts eating, letting the topic drop. Tracer picks at her food. She looks at Reaper who's taking off his gauntlets.
"So what do you prefer to, uh, eat?" She asks him.
Reaper glances up, "Mammals. Dogs, cats, the like. The closer it is to my base genetics the better. But I thought your organization already knew that," Reaper shakes his head laying his gantlets down. "It's dangerous not to brief your agents."
Tracer's face pinches in confusion but she hesitates, not waiting to be harassed again.
Sombra stifles a laugh. "He's called the Reaper for a reason chica. Surely, you're familiar with his work."
Widowmaker can see the gears turning in her brain. Tracer pales.
"Suddenly, I've lost my appetite," she says pushing away from the table.
Widowmaker closes her eyes in frustration. More childish antics. At this point, she should expect Tracer to pull something like this.
"By all means, do whatever you want," Widowmaker says, "Just keep in mind when you faint later it will make things so much easier for me."
Widowmaker has never experienced Tracer with low blood sugar, and she wants to keep it that way.
Tracer stops where she stands and grimaces at the logic behind the comment. She grabs her bag off the table and walks away. Widowmaker hears her put it in the refrigerator.
"So, how come she is 'ma chére,' but I'm not?" Sombra asks between bites.
"Because you're a little shit," Reaper says.
Widowmaker smirks. Reaper is always so much more pleasant to be around after he gets to feed.
"Reaper, I am hurt and offended," Sombra says placing a hand on her chest.
"I don't hear you defending yourself," Widowmaker says.
Now these conversations she's missed. It was a rule among the three of them. If you dish it out you have to be able to take it.
"Et tu, Brute? Whatever did I do to you guys?"
"You mean besides sabotaging six missions?" Reaper asks tilting his mask forward so he can slip food underneath it.
"Not all those for my fault. You know we work with some real pieces of work," Sombra protests.
"How about the time you closed a door on my hair so you could have a forty-five minute "conversation" with me?" Widowmaker asks making air quotes.
"Oh, come on, amiga. I needed a sounding board, and all you had to do was stand there and look irritated, which you did wonderfully!" Sombra says, "I named the virus after you."
"You broke into my safe," Reaper says pointing with his calzone
"And it ate my hand," Sombra shoots back splaying her fingers, "I was in a cast for three weeks."
"I only rigged it because you were getting into everyone's stuff."
"Come on Reaps. We all have hobbies."
"Get some better ones."
"You reprogrammed my visor to say those ridiculous video game phrases," Widowmaker says.
"Oh yeah," Sombra says, "I forgot about that one. Good old Samuel L Jackson. Did you like the extra encouragement?"
Widowmaker thinks back to the over enthusiastic male announcers shouting "Headshot! Double Kill! Triple Kill! Cluster Headache!" nearly making her fall out of her sniper's nest.
"... no."
"Ah well," Sombra says.
"Are we just forgetting about the time you translocated your sorry ass into an air duct?" Reaper demands, "I got you out, and how did you repay me? You replace my guns with rubber chickens. That scream."
Widowmaker has seen the video. It was amazing the amount of emotion the human body could convey despite being fully covered. And she had never heard Reaper swear with such vigor or multilingual ingenuity before. It was the most entertaining thing she'd seen all year. She'd almost laughed.
"That set up took four months of planning, a dozen bribes, and over eighty hours of coding and testing, by yours truly. That was some of my finest work. You can't hate me for that."
"The mission failed. My team died. I lost an arm, Sombra."
"It grew back. And you never cared about those guys anyways."
"What about the time you threw chips at my face and called me a demon?" Widowmaker asks.
"You deserve that one," Reaper says, his mouth full. Widowmaker rolls her eyes at his table manners.
"That," Sombra says holding a finger in the air, "was not my fault."
"First off, unlike normal people, you like to prowl around silently in the dark for no apparent reason. Second, you have coyote eyes. It's freaky. Third, I refused to be judged by people who unironically referred to themselves as Death Farmer and Husband Killer."
Reaper starts to defend his title of choice, but Widowmaker is no longer listening. She realizes she hasn't heard Tracer leave. She glances back to see Tracer leaning against the island; watching them with sharp, inquisitive eyes. For some reason that concerns her more than the speedster's pulse bombs ever did.
Translations
Mon chér – (French) my dear
Azul – (Spanish) Blue
Ma chére – (French) my dear
Et tu, Brute? – (Latin) Even you, Brutus?
Amiga – (Spanish) friend
Betaed by 2JRC6
Betaed by Dot Edited 7/11/18
I'm not dead just busy
A big thank you to everyone who commented or left kudos.
Please PM me if you see any grammar, spelling, translations or other errors. If anyone knows anything about ballet and sees that I got something wrong PM me.
Video Grand Jete is based on - six-worlds-difficult-ballet-moves-captured-slow-motion/
The Reaper's-Guns-as-Rubber-Chickens joke was not completely my idea but it was just too good to pass up. This is the original comic. Enjoy and give humming-fly lots of love. – post/165818977410/humming-fly-ok-but-if-reaper-really-is-made-of
Ballet is /weird/.
In Widowmaker's defense Talon was incredibly straight laced before Sombra showed up.