If chapter 24 was pure fluff 25 is pure angst without a happy ending.

Canon typical violence. Warnings for exploration of Widowmaker's backstory.

Torture porn is overrated I say as I come up with something much worse.

A character dies in this chapter. You guys know who.

Pure angst without a happy ending. This is not a fun chapter. Warnings for psychological torture, implied attempted rape, murder, suicidal idealization.

Skip to "She's in the chair again." if you don't want to read all that and still get the plot points.

Thousands upon thousands of hours of her dance instructor's demands for 'posture, posture girls' and her pride is the only thing keeping Amélie from curling up into a quivering, sobbing ball.

"Do you recognize the name, Commander Reyes?" the man in front of her asks in a bored tone scratching down notes.

"Yes."

"Do you know who he is?"

"Yes."

She lets her voice waver the barest amount. Gérard's words echo in her mind, Show a man what he expects to see and he will look for no further. Amélie is a performer and right now she is on stage, just like a hundred times before. She did not buckle under the pressure of a thousand eyes. She will not buckle now.

"What do you know about his career?"

"He was an Overwatch Commander or General or some rank along those lines during the Crisis. Then moved down to Second In-command during the Rebuilding. Now the UN seems intent on moving him out of the spotlight."

The interrogator is a pathetic specimen Amélie decides. His hair is thinning, his shirt has armpit stains, and she can smell his entire lunch on his breath.

"Do you recognize the name, Blackwatch?"

"No."

There's a beep as colored lines dip and rise on the tablet before her interrogator. Her brain activity must have changed in a way that indicated she lied. Play the part, play the part, play the part. The interrogator looks back at her. She flinches. Her heart rate spikes and then drops back to a steady 130 bpm.

"I haven't heard of it before, but the name seems to be a combination of Overwatch and Black Ops. This implies that it deals with covert operations under Overwatch's payroll," she clarifies.

The interrogator hums. "Did your husband ever mention the project Glass House?"

"No."

"Do the words Recall Chamber, Shimada, or Deadlock mean anything to you?"

Amélie shakes her head. "I can define the words, but they don't mean anything beyond that."

The next two hours progress similarly. Questions and answers, small scares, and hesitations. But Amélie cooperates. She answers every question, every demand, every inquiry truthfully, and to the best of her ability. When they ask for Gérard's passwords, she hands them over without hesitation. She even clarifies the spelling.

There were several reasons for this. She doesn't really know anything of value. Sure, she complained about her chorographer was a demon from hell and he how incompetent his underlings were but never the nitty-gritty details.

Gérard is a smart man; wicked sharp and reasonably paranoid. There was no way in hell he uses the same passwords for home and work. There was an eighty percent chance everything she had just told them would trigger some sort of trap.

Finally, she is telling her captors everything they ask because doing so is preventing her from being tortured. She has no illusions about what type of people she is dealing with and everyone has physical and mental limits. She needs to hold out for as long as it takes for rescue or a foolproof escape opportunity to arrive. If her limits are going to be tested it is going to be over something important.

The questions end and the interrogator is cleaning up when the door opens and a group of men in bland military uniforms enters. A flurry of activity follows with the interrogator's notes being confiscated.

"She's clean," he protests.

"Doesn't matter," one of the men says as Amélie is pushed out of the room, "General Raven wants her."

They lead away from her holding cell, away from the weak sunlight, away deeper into the complex. They stop in a cell bare except for a man, a chair covered in restraints, and a machine that reaches the ceiling.

"Ah, Mrs. Lacroix, how nice of you to join us," the man says with a good-natured smile, wrinkling his tan skin and stretching his grey beard.

She's pushed into the chair. Leather straps dig into her ankles.

"You're quite the celebrity around here you know," he continues apparently just for the sake of it.

Calloused fingers work her engagement ring and wedding band off her finger before binding her wrist to the chair. The rings are probably for blackmail purposes, to serve as some semblance of proof, considering what can be done with audio and video clips these days.

"Gérard's been a torn in our side for quite some time now."

The final straps tighten around her chest and forehead forcing her to look straight ahead.

"Several of the Generals wanted to leave your corpse on his doorstep to break his spirit."

In the corner of her vision, she can see something being lowered over her skull. The object is concave but too fragile to be called a helmet. A wireframe with plates of some sort.

"But good news, Mrs. Lacroix, under my influence they saw there's some use for you after all."

With a hum, the machine starts up. It takes everything in her not to flinch when she feels something akin to a thousand ants crawling up and down her spine.

"Welcome to the winning side."

The tears prickling in the corner of her eyes aren't fake.

It's funny, Amélie bitterly muses, because she thought she was prepared.

She was prepared for pain. She is a ballerina. She leaped and walked on point until her nails cracked and her toes bled. She trained till she was so desperate for oxygen she threw up. She performed on a sprained ankle with a straight face. She was prepared for mind games. She had to be. Growing up with that much money and that few friendships without hidden motivations. Not to mention Gérard's passive-aggressive bullshit.

What she wasn't prepared for was this.

To be strapped to a chair day in and day out, not moving for hours on end, losing all sensation in her limbs, and fighting off suffocating boredom. All the while pushing back against the lies being pumped into her head; whispering, scratching, clawing, against her skull.

There are no hints to when the treatment will change or end.

Amélie quickly discovers that being unconscious leaves her mind bare before the Their persuasions. She adopts a system of catnaps and long periods of visualization, visiting memories that serve as sanctuaries. Gérard's arms, strong and warm, around her as they laze around on the couch. Her hands gripping the worn bar from the dance studio of her youth where she made her first real friends. The quiet shore of the lake surrounding her family Chateau.

The grinding of the bolt snaps Amélie back to the present. The door to her cell swings open and a single guard enters. He checks her restraints, the headpiece, and the cables as he's done every time before. Satisfied, he busies himself setting up her daily meal, an IV bag.

Amélie swallows the lump in her throat and takes a risk.

"Don't you know who I am?" she croaks out, her voice rough from lack of uses. The guard's eyes flicker to her face but don't stay there.

"I might but that don't matter down here," he replies.

There's no anger in his tone and he works on hooking up the IV line with the care that he always does. So far so good.

"If you know who I am, you must know what I can do for you."

Silence. Amélie pushes onward regardless.

"My family is stupid, filthy rich. Get me out of here and you'll have enough money to drown yourself in champagne. To have your own spacecraft, a fleet of sexbots, a dozen mansions, a personal army. Anything you want, it's yours. Just get me out of this room."

The guard's face is weathered by the sun and marked with scars. He stares at her before straightening up with a smirk.

"You have no idea the price I've paid to be here," he says. He pats her head once and leaves.

Amélie left in darkness once more.

That bodes well.

With a sigh, she slumps as much as she can. Her eyes wander to the IV line.

There is one positive.

As far as she can tell her glucose bags are unlaced, her bathroom trips are uninterrupted, and for everything that's happened, she only has suffered a handful of bruises. Someone has ordered she not be harmed.

She just doesn't know why. But does it matter?

They haven't touched her but, her attention wanes and a single whisper slips through her wall submit, they don't need to.

A wave of cold ripples down her body; Amélie shivers. They need her for something. A fact she clings to like a drowning man would a life vest. As long as They need her she has time. Time for Overwatch to find her. Time for Gérard to make a plan. Time for her to escape.

But it's a precarious balance.

She can feel her resistance wearing away. She sees it in the extra second it takes her to remember not to relax and trust Them. In the brief moments, she is alone in the shower when her fear almost convinces her to cave. These enculés cannot win.

But if she is to survive, they must think they have.

In her own humble opinion, she thinks she's played the part of the scared and broken trophy wife masterfully. She supposes she'll have to 'break' soon. Probably do something she'll hate herself for. She foresees many sleepless nights in her future.

Amélie chuckles humorlessly. Duei she's going to need a therapist after this.

"And how are we doing today, Amé?" the General asks.

Amélie says nothing, clenching her jaw at the pet name.

"Hm, I see." He replies as if she said something. "You know, Gérard has been working himself to the bone trying to find you. It's sad really to see such a great mind fall into such an obsessive pattern..."

She tunes him out, tracking his steps waiting for him to come close enough for her to touch his belt. Keys, phone, stun gun, she'd take with any of it really. General Raven is her only regular visitor other than the guards who deal with the machine, and the one who escorts her to the showers.

They're letting her learn faces and names and she doesn't know why. Amélie shoves down the thought, waiting for Raven to stop his lazy circuit of the room. His hand comes to rest on her shoulder, giving it a friendly pat as he continues, a habit he started over the past few visits. He leans over beside her, tracing the curve of her jaw. A new and entirely unwelcome development. But if his fingers get any closer, she can bite them off.

"... it must get to you, being down here all alone, especially since you're off your medication."

Amélie's eyes snap to his.

"Your records show you've prescribed an antidepressant recently. I wonder if you've started to notice things you never saw before, like that extra bit of joy in your husband's smile. I wonder how you've been coping in this environment without that additional push to get you through the day. I wonder how reducing your ability to feel, say anything positive, would affect that fighting spirit."

"Allez pousser un poignard rouillé dans votre âne et saignez dans un fossé, votre putain de démon!" Amélie spits, putting all her hatred and frustration into the sentence.

General Raven wipes off his face with the back of his hand. "There it is," he says pulling out a tablet. The upside-down words quickly disappear but she catches the command Override. His index finger taps START.

Something deep inside her brain burns.

"Wave frequency at level one. Increasing to level three," the computer called out. Its lifeless voice echoes in the small room.

Amélie's body jerks, every muscle spasm in unison.

"Contact. Commencing spectrum test."

Amélie digs her fingers into the armrest. Her jaw snaps shut barely missing her tongue.

How dare these pieces of shit cart talk about her like a prized cow, to be shown off at the market. She is going to peel the skin off their bones, tear the lungs from their throats, and drink in their screams.

Her heart stutters in her chest. Her stomach twists into knots. Beads of sweat run down her back. What is she talking about? She is alone and outnumbered and abandoned, and they have guns! One click and she'd be nothing but a sack of meat on the floor. Where was her rescue? Where was Overwatch?

Amélie snarls at her current predicament. How did Overwatch let this happen? They knew Gérard was a target. They knew she was a target. The cold metal beneath her hands is slick with sweat. Disgusting. Duie she needs a shower. Overwatch has saved humanity from destruction. How had they messed up something as simple as stopping her from being kidnapped?

Wait.

Amélie relaxes back in the chair. The steel cables of tension in her chest unwind. She is safe. Talon needs her. Gérard will come in time. If she cooperates, she will be rewarded greatly.

Something is wrong.

Tears prick at her eyes. She blinks them away. Her head dips toward her chest. Amélie battles the sob growing within it. A great weight has been placed on her body. Where is Gérard? He should have found her by now. She's going to be left to rot in this god-forsaken cell. Why is she trying anymore? They cannot be resisted. She can't win.

These are not her thoughts.

"Spectrum test complete."

Amélie sags forward in the chair, the strings manipulating her mind and body cut. Air rushes in and out of her lungs. Breathe. She has to breathe. She is too hot and too cold. She is shaking. The fucking adrenaline pumping through her body is making her shake like a leaf in the wind. She is doing her best not to vibrate right out of her chair.

Play the part, play the part, show them what they expect. She is on stage, she is performing. She is on stage and this is nothing compared to the opening night of Swan Lake, the first night she danced as Odette/Odile, when she threw up three times and nearly fainted on stage. This is nothing.

"You see, we can do so much more than just make you follow instructions," Raven says with his damned smile.

Amélie clenches her teeth and swallows a scream.

The back of his hand strokes her face, "Now then, perhaps you'd like to answer my question again."

Amélie holds down the trigger of the stun gun until the scent of burnt flesh starts to fill the air. Satisfied, she works through the corpse's pockets coming up with an ID badge, wallet, phone, car keys, flashlight, handcuffs, and one more round for the stun gun. Duie merci an ID badge and car keys. If she can just get to the ground level, she has an actual chance of getting out of here. Ignoring how her body recoils Amélie works off the corpse's suit coat and shoes. Pulling her hair up and looping it around she pulls it up into a scrunchy-less bun. She puts on the military hat and examines her reflection in the mirror. She looks pale and shaken but her prisoner uniform isn't immediately visible. It will have to do.

She holds the phone in a trembling hand weighing her options. It's locked and probably monitored but she could use it to call for help. Carefully, she works the screen under the deadman's fingers. It works and she's greeted by a picture of General Raven in casual clothes hugging the shoulders of a young man.

Hm. She's created an orphan. She'll deal with that later.

She has roughly three minutes until some realize something is wrong. Less actually, as the timer started when Raven escorted her to the bathroom. She doesn't have time to wait for someone to answer.

Shaky fingers punch in the number for Gérard's personal cell. It rings once, twice, three times. By the fourth Amélie is out the door leaving the ringing phone with the body of the General in the restroom.

It takes her a full forty-three seconds to find a janitorial closet and another fifty-seven to break into the massive fuse box. The fumes and tendrils of smoke rising from the bucket of incendiary cleaning chemicals is making her choke and her eyes water. This makes it much more difficult to yank the fuses out of their slots. The screeching fire alarm is also annoying. Note to self, start the chemical fire second.

The flames leap from a stack of paper towels and other toiletries to the very flammable ceiling tiles. Amélie yanks out a handful more fuses dropping them into the growing inferno. The floor finally plunges into darkness and the sprinklers come on. A pre-recorded voice encourages the members of the building to Exit in a calm and orderly fashion, and This is not a drill.

While the building is not in complete chaos, Amélie finds it easy to hide in the crowd working their way out of the building. Her pulse is pounding in her ears drowning almost everything else out. She's running on so much adrenaline doesn't think she'll ever stop shaking at this point. There's a door up ahead. She can see sunlight. Amélie practically sobs.

"Hey, are you alright? Excuse me-"

Amélie ignores the muffled voice and forces her way past them.

"Hey, hey!"

She's running now, not caring what attention she attracts, only that she gets out.

"Somebody stop her!"

Fingers slide over her coat; someone knocks her cap off.

"Stop!"

One second Amélie is running the next she's a crumpled heap on the floor. She desperately scrabbles forward.

Her legs. She can't move her legs. Why can't she move her legs?

The weight of bodies on top of her own. Hands wretch her arms behind her back. A stream of sunlight glimmers on the floor just out of reach. Amélie screams like a dying animal.

She's in the chair again. It's a different room, a different location, it's possible her fire did a fair amount of damage. But what does it matter? She's in the chair again. Someone else is in here as well.

"Considering, I'm in charge of this project now, I thought I'd come down and introduce myself."

Someone new trying to talk to her, a lanky woman with bright red hair in a lab coat.

"I'm Doctor Moira O'Deorain, the world's leading genetic researcher, who has been placed over this project because the idiots in charge don't understand there's more than one field of science."

A memory flickers in Amélie's brain and she expends some energy to glare at the woman. Gérard did always say in an organization as large as Overwatch the question wasn't if there was, spies but how many.

With a sigh, Moira sits down and begins scrolling through what she assumes is her file. Moira glances at her headpiece, "Magnets, what even are they?" she mutters. "If you don't mind me asking; why did you kill Raven? You had a stun weapon."

Amélie doesn't say a thing but the damned headpiece conveys her thoughts anyways. The woman glances over her tablet with a hum.

"Fewer complications. In case you failed or succeeded?" She asks rhetorically, "Either way people do tend to act impulsively after being humiliated, don't they? Well, doubt he'll be missed, despicable little man."

Moira crosses her legs and takes a moment to study her.

"The board wants to have you killed for what you did," She starts again, "I'm strongly opposed. Creating and executing a multi-step plan under extreme duress is no easy task. You'd make a fantastic operative. Keep that in mind when I say if you keep resisting your programming, you'll fry your brain."

Amélie scowls at the woman. She just wants this to be over. "I rather die than I help you monsters," she states, emotionless, voice raw, and coarse, "And no matter what happens to me Commander Reyes is going to skin you people alive."

Moira raises an eyebrow at her response but to Amélie's surprise, a small smile appears on her face.

"You're still hedging your bets on Overwatch? Despite all you've seen?" Moira shakes her head. "Overwatch's hay day has long been over. I can't fault the beginning installation, they saved my home after all, but the organization is bloated beyond its capacity now. It's drowning in its own waste now; corruption and infighting will drag it to its grave."

"Do you seriously think I'll fall for such a blatant attempt at manipulation?" Amélie drawls.

"Draw whatever conclusions you want I'm simply stating the facts. For example, did you know that Ana Amari forbade her daughter from joining Overwatch? Not for lack of skill either, she's quite the accomplished soldier for her age. No, Captain Amari simply being protective because she knows, she sees it every day. Overwatch is a death trap."

"You're delusional, just like the rest of them,"

"Possibly, I like to think I've simply chosen the path with the greatest chance of survival. I mean, really, how hard is it for an organization of millions to protect one woman?"

Moira stands, brushes off her coat, and turns to leave.

"My sponsor is looking for people like you; clever, driven, ruthless. I'll see what I can do for you, throw my weight around. Think about what I said."

The next time Amélie sees anyone that isn't a guard it's because she's going to be 'reintroduced.'

Gérard caved.

White walls, white sheets, white fluorescent lights; everywhere Amélie looks she's surrounded by the sterilized, soulless color. It irritates her eyes. She's back in Overwatch's hands now being watched in the Switzerland Watchpoint medical wing. She's been fed and checked on at regular intervals so she can say she's been here almost two weeks.

Over the sounds of the medical equipment and the adjacent room's TV a conversation echoes in the hallway. If she concentrates, she can separate the words.

"-about the blood tests but what about nanobotics?," a panicked male voice demands, "What about the brain? Did you check the MRIs for signs of-"

The second female voice cuts him off. "Gérard, I assure you, all the tests show Amélie was not physically harmed nor was her physiology tampered with. Her current state is normal for someone who's been through a traumatic experience. She simply needs rest."

Losing interest Amélie lets the rest of the conversation slip past her. Distantly she contemplates how having walls thin enough to allow patients to hear such a conversation is probably a HIPPA violation.

There's a beep as the room unlocks. One person from the hallway enters.

"Amélie?" Doctor Ziegler asks gently but not patronizingly. "Amélie, I need you to pay attention."

She drags her attention away from her view of the compound below to make eye contact with the doctor. She doesn't like to have her back to the window, but she knows the doctor; she wouldn't have cooperated with anyone else.

"Afternoon," Doctor Ziegler says with a small smile, "Congratulations, Amélie you're cleared to leave. Gérard is here to pick you up and take you home, liked how we talked about. Are you alright with that?"

Home, the word feels foreign now but anywhere away from the constant monitors and scent of sickness would be an improvement. She gives the doctor a small nod and slides to the edge of the bed. Ziegler moves to her side and rests a hand on her shoulder, clearly to help her balance.

"I can stand," Amélie snaps, batting the hand away. She blinks and rubs her temples. "Sorry," she mumbles.

"Because you've been such a good patient, I'll let it slide this once," Ziegler says dryly coaxing a soft snort from Amélie, "Do you feel dizzy?"

"No."

"Gérard is waiting for us outside, are you ready to see him?"

Amélie takes a moment and thinks about it. Gérard, her friend, her lover, her husband, the reason she's in here, and something, something else very important, if only she could remember.

"Yes."

The house has become dead in her absence, cold and much too large for a man who barely resided there anymore. All the rooms other than the garage, kitchen, and Gérard's office smell of musty air.

Gérard spends the entire evening fussing over her a mass of anxious energy, never knowing what to do with his hands, or feet, or mouth. He explains to her the upgrades to security, dashes away to get her a cup of hot chocolate, comes back offering her a snack, and one of her rifles thinking it might make her feel more secure only to dash away again to get the beverage. It's nice or at least she thinks it is.

Later, when they're both settling in for the night in the saferoom, Gérard sits down next to her and gently takes her hands. Her hands nestled in his own, the sensation is not a bad one. He gives her a watery smile before clearing his throat.

"I have something important to tell you," he begins, "We're leaving, moving to someplace safe, someplace far away from the news circus, Overwatch, their enemies, and all this mess."

"But what about your job?" Amélie asks slowly, "The commitments you made? Your… special project?"

He huffs in disdain. "They can hire someone else or replace me with an AI for all I care. If this is the price I must pay, the price is much too high. Besides, I don't think Overwatch will be too keen on keeping a traitor in their ranks."

"Gérard," she demands, her voice low and serious, "What did you do?"

"Oh, nothing major. Just ensure that every single one of Overwatch's dirty little secrets that I gave to Talon would also fall into the hands of all the major News corporations in the world," Gérard says with a weak devil-may-care grin.

Amélie feels her eyes widen in shock. "Putian de merde," she whispers glad she's already sitting down. He moves in closer and starts to put his arms around her.

"Ah," he says stopping, "would it be okay if I held you?"

She nods not sure if laughter or sobs are bubbling in her chest. His arms wrap around her, her head fits neatly into the crook of his neck, surrounded by Gérard's support staves off the sensation.

"Useless," he says with an almost mad grin, "everything I told them is useless now."

"How is it going to get out?" she asks, still reeling, "Surely the stations can't broadcast all of it at once."

"I've enlisted the help of a mutual conspiracy hound, shall we say. They'll make sure the information is released over time and the important pieces get the attention they deserve."

For the first time in weeks, maybe months, Amélie feels the barest spark of hope flutter in her chest.

Several hours later Amélie is still awake, reclining against her pillow, listening and thinking. Gérard's arms are loose around her waist, his sleep medication kicked in not thirty minutes after they laid down. His head rests in her lap, every time he breathes her shirt flutters. The room is dark but not devoid of light. The door's keypad glows softly and the face of the digital clock she turned away reflects off the wall. In the artificial twilight, she can make out Gérard's form well enough.

His mustache is thicker and rougher as if he couldn't be bothered to keep the edges sharp, the worry lines on his face are much more pronounced in the shadows, and even in the dim light, Amélie can see how his shirt and pants hang looser on his body, his frame having lost its softer edges. She cards her fingers through his hair taking note of the texture of his locks.

The silence is broken by a low repeating rumble, a new source of light is introduced as Amélie's phone lights up with an incoming call. She shouldn't answer it, but she has to.

"Hello?"

"Latrodectus"

She sits on a hard, plastic chair in a tiny room she doesn't recognize, an entire wall is covered in guns and weapons, bare militarist bunks take up one corner, a tiny kitchenette takes up the other, another chair has been set on top of a tarp, collection of bloodied medical tools lay on the counter. The other people in the room are arguing.

"I don't see how you're claiming this as a successful test," the man says pacing back and forth, "Lacroix is dead, Overwatch is already crawling all over this, there's no way we can use her as a sleeper again."

"She retrieved the information we wanted," the other occupant, a lanky woman with bright red hair, Moira, corrects, "and the Lacroix problem has been eliminated. All parameters were achieved; the mission was a success."

A drying blood spray adorns the leg of her sleep pants. She was holding a gun. Where did it go?

"He was supposed to be brought in alive," the man hisses strangling the air. "I was going to humiliate him for what he's done to us."

"The loop had to be programmed with flexible parameters to allow for adaptation," Moira shoots back.

While they are distracted, she discreetly brushes at the corner of her eye. Her fingers come away dry. No tears.

"A waste of resources and a problem is all she is now. We don't even know what happened."

"A problem is just another name for an opportunity. As for what happened, why don't we find out." The redheaded woman turns her full attention on her. "Why did you kill Gérard Lacroix?"

"There was resistance," she lies smoothly.

"There you go," Moira says smug, "adapt and overcome."

The man scoffs.

"Our new agent still needs a code name," she continues, "Would it kill you to contribute something?"

"Fine, fine." the man looks her over and returns to pacing looking at the ceiling. After a moment of silence, he stops again and faces them. "What do you think of Widowmaker?"

Her fingers twitch still searching for the grip of the pistol. She meets his eyes and gives him a cold smile.

"Fitting."

Translations

Enculés - motherfuckers

Duei - God

"Allez pousser un poignard rouillé dans votre âne et saignez dans un fossé, votre putain de démon!" – Go shove a rusty dagger up your ass and go bleed out in a ditch, you fucking demon!

"Putian de merde" – fucking shit

"Latrodectus" – Latin, genus of spiders that are referred to as "true widows"

I could have released this chapter back in January and left you with this depressing note for four months. But it didn't!

Welcome to Overwatch were the gays are canon, we bury our straights, and fridge the husband.