I hope you all enjoyed the way I wrote Bastion. It isn't easy, writing about a robot, I mean, it isn't like it has a gender! I mean, haha, I don't wanna ASSUME anyone's gender in 2016 O_o. Anyway, Since I'm going to have a more relaxed semester soon, chapters will be a bit longer, like they used to. I'm trying to push some drama out of my life as well, and writing is a nice little cure, haha. For those of you not in college yet, you've got a lot to look forward to. So, without further a do, here is the chapter.
XXXX
Water dripped off the irregularities and crevices of the cavern walls, gingerly dropping into the moat around the platform, which Doomfist stood upon, silently scanning over the monitors in front of him.
The monitors. He had been staring at them for God knows how long. It seemed like an eternity was spent, lying in this cave, watching, waiting, wondering when the Iris would reveal itself to him. How fortunate was he, to have everything he needed fall into place when he had almost lost hope of ever avenging his father's death.
He stroked his chin, watching as the number of Omnic minds, slowly being processed through the Iris, increased, one by one. Yes, it would take time, years in fact, but he was willing to wait. There were more gears to set in motion, before anything else could be done. He'd preoccupy himself with that. He heard footsteps behind him. They had returned.
"Ah," he said, turning to face Reaper and Widowmaker, "welcome home,"
The duo stopped at the foot of the steps leading up to Doomfist's platform, not wanting to get any closer to their new boss.
"We did what you asked," Reaper reported, folding his arms over his chest, the leather of his jacket rubbing up against itself, making that all too familiar stretching noise that leather makes, "Talon is now under your complete control,"
"Good," replied Doomfist, a hint of satisfaction in his deep voice, "I expected nothing less from either of you. And you accomplished your mission, as I saw on the television,"
He gestured towards one of the monitors, displaying live news footage of the permanently decommissioned Watchpoint: Gibraltar. Doomfist continued.
"You've sent Overwatch crawling from their nest. Now they are scrambling to find a new one, no doubt, and we will burn that one down as well. There is no wall that they can hide behind. However, I am afraid to say that there will be no time to revel in our most recent victory,"
Behind his mask, Reaper rolled his eyes, expecting this.
"You've got something else for us to do?" he said, a twinge of subtle annoyance in his tone.
"Indeed, I do. The first time you went to Watchpoint Gibraltar, you were trying to obtain the locations of all the Overwatch agents, where you not?" Doomfist asked.
How the hell does he know that? Reaper asked himself. He decided not to ask the question, however. This man was his ticket to ending his curse. He'd listen obediently, for now.
"Yeah, what about it?" asked the hooded mercenary.
"I need you to finish what you had started," Doomfist replied, simply.
Reaper shook his head in disbelief, not understanding why Doomfist would ask him that.
"What are you talking about? You saw for yourself, the base was destroyed. Even if we went to all the other Watchpoints, the UN completely purged all the data from those facilities. There's no way to retrieve the information," Reaper rebutted.
"There are two Watchpoints that have remained untouched by the United Nations, forgotten due to the test of time," Doomfist replied, turning on his heal and approaching his monitors.
He pulled up a video feed of two places which Reaper was all too familiar with.
"The training grounds… and Eco Point: Antarctica..." Reaper responded, taking a few steps up to the platform.
"Yes," Doomfist said, "one hidden deep in the Himalayas. A place where fresh recruits and old veterans alike could hone their skills, test their abilities. It was used until the very last day of Overwatch's reign. And the other, the decommissioned ecological hide away for the late Mei. Either of these places could still have the information we seek. I want you to go there, and test our little theory,"
This was something that really bothered Reaper, for some reason. How did this guy find out about both locations? This was kept secret even from the President of the United States.
"How do you know these places even exists?" Reaper demanded an answer.
Doomfist faced Reaper, and curled one side of his mouth upward in a mocking smirk
"I have my eyes and ears in the United Nations. You'll meet them soon enough, and that is all you need to know. Don't forget who is doing you the biggest favor of your life, Gabriel,"
Reaper groaned under his breath, not appreciating being talked down to. However, he'd listen obediently if it meant ending this curse, if it meant being human again.
"Alright, fine. I'll go on your little scavenger hunt. Let's go, Widow," Reyes replied, turning on his heal to walk back to the ship.
Widowmaker motioned to follow, until Doomfist held up his hand, prompting her to stop.
"Actually," he interjected, "Amélie stays with me,"
The two assassins gave the towering man glances of confusion, then looked at each other in equal confusion. The pair hadn't split up ever since Widowmaker's assassination on Tekhartha Mondatta. Though they were not unaccustomed to doing jobs alone, it always felt awkward to split up every once in a while.
Reaper just shrugged it off, though. He was certain he could handle this assignment on his own. He knew the two locations in question were abandoned long ago. This would be a cake walk.
"Alright, fine. Goin' solo," he turned and headed down the walkway, back to the ship they had acquired, back at Talon HQ, "Catch you two later,"
After Reaper had left, Widow turned to face her new boss.
"And what mission would you have me carry out? Assassination? Reconnaissance? Both?" Her tone was cold and calculating, expecting him to say assassination, her personal favorite mission.
Doomfist just smiled at the anticipation of the sniper, amused at her eagerness to kill.
"Neither," he said, much to Widowmaker's surprise, "We are going to run an errand,"
Widowmaker was taken aback, raising one eyebrow in confusion.
"Quoi?" she asked, "What kind of errand?"
Giving a soft chuckle, Doomfist walked down the steps of his platform, and walked past the French assassin.
"Well, I was planning on having steak sirloin for dinner, with a side of potato salad with deviled eggs, but I seem to have run out of sirloin and potatoes. You're going to accompany me to the market,"
The absurdity of this mission puzzled Widowmaker. A grocery errand? The last time she ran an errand was when Gérard asked her to go fetch them duck for dinner. Right before Talon abducted her. Right before they took her, and beat her, and broke her, so that she could murder her own husband. She pushed the memory aside. That had nothing to do with the task at hand.
She followed Doomfist down the walkway towards a door on the left side of the cavern. The door split open upon their approach, revealing a long, seemingly endless hall, adorned with dozens upon dozens of portraits.
Each portrait depicted a person, each of African descent, bearing a gauntlet on one hand or the other, each one different from the last. Widow drew the conclusion that these were Doomfists of the past, each one passing the title down to their heir. There were even female Doomfists, something Widowmaker had never heard of.
"I thought the only Doomfists were the first three, including yourself," She stated, interested in learning more about her new boss's heritage.
"The moniker of Doomfist has been passed down for generations," Doomfist replied, as they walked down the hall, gazing upon every portrait which they walked by.
They did indeed span for generations. Widowmaker saw Doomfists from the 80's, 60's, 1800's. There was even one who fought in the American Revolution.
"It is said that the first Doomfist was a farmer named Ammon. He lived in ancient Egypt, during the time of the Pharaohs," Doomfist said. Widow listened intently, as they walked.
"But one day, his peaceful village was stormed by the Pharaoh's armies. The young and elderly were slaughtered, the women were taken, and the men were used as slaves, including Ammon. He was put to work, building limestone bricks for the pyramids of the self proclaimed god. Months passed, years passed, and Ammon's hatred for the Pharaoh grew with every month and every year. He had decided he had enough,"
The two stopped in front of another door, finally reaching the end of the hall, but Doomfist did not enter. He was determined to finish his story before continuing any further.
"He decided it was time to prove that even those chosen by gods could be bled. Every day, when he had the chance, he would go to work on a weapon that would prove just that. It took five years to complete it, but Ammon finally finished his weapon: a gauntlet, fashioned from the very same limestone used to build the pyramids.
One night, he evaded the watchful eyes of the Pharaoh's guardians, and snuck into the tyrant's quarters. He waited in the shadows, for his prey to lay his head upon his bed. And when the Pharaoh did so, Ammon attacked, bringing his gauntlet down upon the Pharaoh's face, crushing his skull in one fell swoop, the blood of his enemy staining his limestone fist. The next morning, Ammon displayed the headless body of the Pharaoh to the people of Egypt, to prove that even those chosen by the gods could be killed,"
Widowmaker honestly expected something a little more befitting of the Doomfist title, like if Ammon was the tyrant all along, ruling with an iron fist, or, in this case, a limestone fist. But, he was just a farmer turned slave, and slave turned revolutionary? Seemed like the classic hero story, if you asked her.
"Well, merci for the history lesson," She said, resting her hand on her hip, "But why did we walk down this way, in the first place?"
"Ah, forgive me. I forgot to mention," he replied, pressing his hand upon a palm scanner next to the double doors, "This is the wardrobe,"
The doors split open, revealing a massive walk in closet, rows upon rows of different articles of clothing hanging, just waiting to be tried on.
Widowmaker couldn't help but gawk, wide eyed at the sight, her legs instinctively pulling her inside the wardrobe. Her eyes darted left and right, examining each shirt and pants pair. One side of the closet held men's wear, while the other held women's.
"You have women's clothing?" she asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow at Doomfist.
A subtle look of melancholy crept up in his face, as Doomfist joined Widow inside the wardrobe.
"My mother's and sister's, before they passed," he clarified, simply.
"What happened to them?" Widow asked, almost coldly, not necessarily meaning to sound like that. It was just the way she spoke.
Doomfist was not so quick to answer this time, feeling the rock of anguish fall into his stomach. The memory of their deaths was not something he wanted to discuss, not now anyway.
After a brief pause, he released the breath he didn't realize he was holding, and smiled.
"Over dinner, I'll tell you,"
Widow just shrugged and accepted the answer, not bothering to probe any further. It wasn't that she understood the pain of loss, she just didn't care if he told her or not. She had just asked to learn more about her new boss.
If working with Sombra taught her anything (where ever the hell she was, right now, anyway) it was that knowledge is a powerful tool, regardless of what it was.
Doomfist gestured to his mother's and sister's clothes, prompting Widowmaker to start looking.
"Go on. Feel free to experiment,"
Most of the shirts, shorts, and dresses were bypassed, simply because they were not purple, or black, or blue. Most of them were woven with patterns of golds, and reds, and greens. However, when she did find something with one of her preferred colors, she immediately took it down and draped it over her arm. Doomfist found it rather amusing as he watched her pick out every single black, blue, and purple garb she could find, while he searched for his own public attire.
Widow wouldn't admit it, but something about the search for clothes seemed to entertain her, almost please her. She could feel a simple enjoyment creeping up inside her, without her even noticing. It just seemed to come to her so naturally. One corner of her mouth slowly curled upward, as a memory snuck in.
"I haven't looked for clothes like this ever since Gérar-…"
She realized what she was saying, what she was thinking, what she was feeling, and she tried to stop herself from continuing any further. Her brows furrowed together, not understanding why or how that memory found its way into her brain.
Gérard… she hadn't thought of that name for years. Why now? Why think of him after all this time? Her eyes cast downward and to the side, her shoulders slumped, her mind now being consumed with the memory of her husband, taking her on their first date, the biggest shopping spree of her life.
Doomfist noticed the sudden halt in her voice, and turned his head to see her, seemingly frozen. She just stood there, letting the memory flow through her mind. He could tell his strategy was working on her. He predicted she'd be the easiest to mold.
Widow stood still, feeling her heart beat faster in her chest as the memory played. She saw Gérard's smiling face, heard his contagious laugh, feel the warmth of his hand on her own. Feel? She didn't feel anything. She hadn't felt anything for years. What the hell was happening?
She shut her eyes and shook her head, knocking the thoughts, the feelings, the memory, out of her mind. Her programming kicked back in, and she felt nothing, not even the beating of her own heart.
Widowmaker had no idea how she started thinking of her late husband, all of a sudden, but she would not let it happen again. He was dead to her, both literally and figuratively.
"Let's just get this over with," she said, coldly.
She set the clothes she had selected on the floor and began to undress, slipping her one piece off her shoulders.
Doomfist couldn't help but stare for one full second before turning his head to face the row of clothes in front of him, not wanting to see her change. It wasn't that she wasn't attractive to him, hell, she was the most attractive woman he had ever met, but his respect for women's privacy still outweighed his lust.
Widowmaker noticed the sudden head turn, and felt obligated to acknowledge it.
"You don't have to turn your head. I feel no embarrassment," she said, fully undressed, and slipping on the black turtleneck tank top she had chosen, and proceeded to examine herself in the mirror.
Doomfist chuckled.
"What kind of gentleman would I be, if I didn't avert my eyes from a woman, changing her clothes?" he asked, beginning to change as well.
Widowmaker huffed, halfheartedly, "I guess chivalry isn't dead,"
XXXX
Data retrieval, probably the most boring mission possible, but, if that was what Doomfist wanted, then Reaper would do it. It was just one step closer to getting his body back. He'd be damned, even more than he already was, if he dared to squander this opportunity.
He jumped into the pilot seat of his stealth ship, punched in the coordinates for the Overwatch training grounds, and activated the auto pilot. The ship rumbled to life and ascended until it cleared Doomfist's hangar doors, and sped off, cloaking itself as it left Numbani airspace.
Through the cockpit, Reaper saw the bright blue sky, speckled with cumulus clouds which intermingled with their cousins, the stratus clouds. The sun's rays of light bounced off the surfaces of the white clouds, illuminating them for all to see.
Reaper could almost gag at the sight, it was so damn cheerful. He would much prefer a dark, stormy day, filled with gray, depressing cumulonimbus clouds, and lighting striking trees, setting them ablaze, thunder clapping immediately after. Yes, he would much prefer a day like that.
The bright charming day was giving Reaper a headache. He punched in the commands to tint the windshields, so that it wouldn't seem so damn delightful inside the ship. He then pulled off his hood and removed his mask, setting it on the copilot's seat, beside him.
If people though Jack Morrison had deep scars, they haven't seen Reaper's. They weren't so much as scars, but more like burns, burns that have yet to heal, burns that have stayed with a man for as long as he could remember.
His skin hardly resembled that of a man; pale and pealing, cold and dead. It was for this reason why Reaper hadn't looked in a mirror for years, not wanting to see what he had become. It was why he was so willing to help Doomfist in his ridiculous quest for world domination, or what ever the hell he wanted. If the man could get Reaper's body back, he'd be more than willing to help.
He rubbed his eyes in his hand, and brought it down over his face, trying to rid himself of the headache. It was also painfully quiet in the ship, as it contently soared through the clouds. The silence and solitude of the ship had never much perturbed Reaper before, but the recent events had clung to him, and the silence only tightened their grip on him.
He was thinking about the little girl he saw, during his threat to Overwatch, as he killed the ice bitch. He couldn't tell why she stuck in his mind so much, but something was telling him he knew her, that she was important, like she was someone who he cared for.
Who was she? Why was she in his head? Why did she matter to him?
Reaper rubbed his temple and pushed the thought away, clearing his mind.
"It's probably nothing," he said aloud.
Reclining the chair, Reaper folded his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. He needed sleep.
"Computer," he said, "wake me up when we get there,"
The AI of the ship had no voice, but it flashed a green light with a soft beep, in response.
"And put on my death metal album. I need something to listen to,"
XXXX
A droning alarm went off in the cockpit, pulling Reaper out of the pleasant dream he was having. The subconscious images of Jack Morrison begging for mercy, only to have his mid section have a cantaloup sized hole blown through it, was so satisfying, almost arousing. Reaper would wait for the day he could finally make that dream a reality. But, for now, he had to wake up to the harsh realities of the present, like an unwanted Monday morning.
He yawned, sat up from his reclined chair, and voice commanded for the alarm, and his death metal music, to kindly shut the hell up.
He was there already? The trip should have taken at least half a day. It felt like he only slept for fifteen minutes. Reaper looked out the windshield and, sure enough, he was looking straight at the training grounds. He never thought he'd see this place again. He remembered he would train the rookies a thing or two here, show them how to be real killers. Now, it was a frozen shell of what it once was. It almost seemed tragic to Reaper, almost.
The auto pilot landed the stealth ship and uncloaked, its black armor plating shining brightly in the sunlight. The ramp lowered itself onto the landing pad, and Reaper briskly strode out, adorning his hood and mask once again.
The Himalayan winds echoed throughout the desolate base, snow gathered up in mounds and piles, unattended for God knows how long. It was only a matter of time before this place fell apart to the forces of nature.
As Reaper walked towards one of the quarters, no doubt riddled with computers in every one of them, he came across and all too familiar machine.
"Intruder Alert! Intruder Alert!"
A floating robotic training sentry, composed of a torso, head, two pellet guns for arms, and a single eye, approached Reaper, its weapons firing endlessly at the mercenary. The pellets bounced harmlessly off of Reaper, like cotton, gently landing at this feet. Who the hell designed these things, anyway?
Having enough of the nuisance, Reaper drew one of his weapons from his coat, and promptly blasted the training bot with a single shot. The little machine screamed and exploded into a thousand pieces, reduced to scrap metal, its parts clinking on the metal floor.
"I always hated these things," Reaper said to himself, aloud.
He walked into a random room, and sure enough, he found a computer, If Doomfist's intelligence was correct, the UN should have left this facility untouched, leaving all the valuable data with it. He started the computer, and it hummed to life, displaying a satisfying Windows 13 loading screen.
Reaper began to access the Overwatch database, checking every file, searching every folder, to find something that would give him what he wanted. After what seemed like hours of searching, Reaper gave up.
Dammit. He'd have to go all the way to Eco point Antarctica, and freeze his undead ass off. Coming here was a complete waste of time. Frustrated with his immensely boring mission, Reaper leveled his shotgun at the monitor of the computer, and blew the thing apart, the glass of the screen exploding in all directions, clinking all over the table top.
Satisfied with his handy work, Reaper decided he'd wasted enough time here, and headed back to his ship. He stepped through the doorway and headed towards his ride.
It was then that he started to sense something; something wasn't right. He was getting that feeling, the one where you know you're not alone, the one where you feel like someone is watching you, the feeling you get where that same someone is lurking right behind you.
Reaper half spun on his heal, and drew his gun, aiming behind him, expecting to see the someone who was following him. His sights met with nothing, just empty space. But how? He knew he wasn't alone. It was that feeling, like a natural sixth sense, that every hardened soldier has. And when you get that feeling, you never second guess it, because that's when they've already killed you.
They'd show themselves, eventually. What was even worse was that his trigger finger was itching to blast something else to smithereens. He needed to kill something that was actually alive.
Then, unexpectedly, something began to materialize in front of his weapon, something that resembled purple hexagons. He recognized those shapes. He hadn't seen them in a while. That's when it hit him.
"Where the hell have you been?" he asked with an irritated tone, lowering his weapon.
A gloved hand with long violet nails emerged, the index finger extended. It playfully poked the nose of Reaper's mask.
"Boop"
Sombra emerged from her invisible state, a mischievous smirk plastered on her face, as usual. Reaper had wondered where she'd run off to. Ever since the failure of the Volskaya mission, she'd been missing. All the Chairman would tell him, and Widow, was that she had went rogue and abandoned Talon. But none of that sat well with Reaper.
"I'll ask again. Where the hell have you been?" He repeated himself.
Sombra rolled her eyes, and raised an eyebrow at her partner in crime.
"Really? Not even a 'hola', Gabe?" she asked, walking past him towards the ship.
"You can't just go missing for a year, show up, and not expect any damn questions. Now talk!" he barked, frustrated with her avoiding the question.
Sombra gave an irritated sigh, and turned to face her hooded partner, who folded his arms across his chest, waiting for her answer.
Sombra wasn't very keen on spilling her guts. She knew when to give information, and when to withhold it. She'd just give Reaper a taste of what he wanted to know.
"Okay, fine. I'll tell you. Not that it would matter, after what happened to Talon," she said.
"So you know, already," Reaper confirmed. He was surprised that Sombra knew, considering her absence for a whole year.
"Yeah, I found out when I came back," she replied, tapping her purple nail on her lip, "Look, don't freak out, but, about a year ago, after our Volskaya mission, Doomfist found me, and gave me an offer I couldn't refuse,".
Of course, Reaper thought to himself. It seemed like The Successor had his hands in everyone's pockets, by this point. It wouldn't surprise Reaper if the President of the United States owed Doomfist a favor or two. Sombra continued with her explaination.
"So, in return, I had to do a job for him. It took me a hell of a long time, as you've noticed, but I got the job done,"
"And what was this job, and what did he offer you?" Reaper asked, much to Sombra's annoyance.
"That is for me to know and for you to find out. I gave you as much as you needed to know, amigo, now how about you answer my question. What are you doing here?" she demanded.
Reaper grumbled to himself. If that was all she was going to tell him, fine. She was off the hook, for now.
"Our new boss had me come here to get some info, but it's not here,"
"Oh, really?" Sombra replied, her head at a slight tilt, "What info you lookin' for, chico?"
He considered telling her what she told him, that it was for him to know and her to find out, but thought against it. It could be possible she could speed up the process a thousand fold, since hacking was her forte, after all.
"Big Doom wanted me to find the locations of the remaining Overwatch members, so that we could find em and waste em sooner than later. But, just my luck, there's nothing here," Reaper said, a wave of irritation washing over his tone.
Sombra's eyebrows shot up, then narrowed forward as a small smile sprawled across her lips. She giggled to herself as she just realized something.
"Well, today's your lucky day, chico," she said, as she materialized one of her purple holoscreens, suspending it in midair, "I just happen to have what you need,"
Reaper took a full two seconds to process that. He walked up to the purple screen before him, and saw it was a list, with names, and places, and faces, of Overwatch agents. He scrolled down the list, further, and further, till it hit the bottom. They were here, they were all here, on this tiny screen. A smirk grew on Reaper's face, not that Sombra could see it, but she could tell he had a twisted grin on his lips.
"Heh," Reaper began, "Good to have you back, chica,"
She nodded to him, and closed the holoscreen, tucking it back in her cybernetic graft.
"Alright," Reaper said," Let's get back home. I didn't want to go to that frozen wasteland anyway," referring to Ecopoint: Antarctica.
The two headed back to the ship, until Reaper realized something he had yet to ask.
"Wait, how did you get here, anyway?" he inquired, turning to face Sombra.
A blush of embarrassment crawled up into her cheeks, not really wanting to say anything.
"Well, on my way back, I kinda decided to celebrate a job well done, so… I turned on the auto pilot and had a few shots of tequila… and passed out. This is my ship," she said, pointing to the vessel they were walking towards.
Reaper looked at the stealth ship, then back at her, then back to the stealth ship, then back to her. He didn't believe what he was hearing. He didn't see her at all when he boarded the ship! Where the heck was she?
"Were you cloaked the whole time?!" he asked, bewildered.
"… I guess," Sombra replied, giving a small shrug and an embarrassed smile.
Reaper just shook his head. She needed to fix her damn drinking problem. She's probably lost more braincells than all the information she's gathered in her entire life.
"Let's just go home. I'm freezing my ass off, here,"
XXXX
They completed their mission, or rather, their errand, as Doomfist dubbed it, and were headed back to headquarters. Widwomaker had to admit that Doomfist's taste in cars wasn't objectionable. The Successor drove the latest model of a Lamborghini Aventador convertible, modified to have the chassis of the new, environmentally friendly, hover craft that every vehicle was equipped with now.
Doomfist admitted he much preferred having proper wheels and tires, physically on the ground, being able to feel the road beneath him. That was how his father taught him, after all. But, times change, and you have to learn to change with them, or you'll be left behind.
The errand went smoothly because no one in Numbani knew who either Widowmaker or Doomfist were. They just assumed that they were ordinary citizens, like them, since Numbani was such a peaceful city. Doomfist would make sure that its peaceful nature would change as well.
They were about half way back to headquarters, the rush of wind grazing against the tops of their heads, the hot Numbani sun baking their faces. Widowmaker didn't mind, however. She felt neither heat, nor cold. In fact, she felt nothing.
She just laid her arm on the door and rested her cheek against her fist, obviously brooding in her own boredom, her eyes cast forward, waiting to be assigned a real mission.
Doomfist decided it was time to give Widowmaker what she wanted, no, what she needed. He knew her programming would do its best to reject what he had planned, but he was confident in his methods. It would solidify her place by his side.
"So, when was the last time you ran an errand, like this?" he asked, seemingly out of the blue.
"I'm not one for small talk," Widow replied, keeping her eyes on the road ahead, not bothering to face Doomfist.
"Well, I am," he replied, calm and gently, "and I'm in the mood for it. So, let's talk,"
Widowmaker rolled her eyes. It couldn't be helped. She might as well talk, since she was bored out of her mind.
"Very well," she said, "The last time I ran an errand was…" she took brief pause to think, recollecting her past life, "when I was still Amélie Lacroix,"
Doomfist gave a slight nod as he kept driving, wanting her to continue remembering.
"Go on," he said.
Widow sighed in response and sat up, reclined her chair slightly, and looked up at the sky. The sky, so bright and blue, speckled with wisps of clouds. Why was he doing this? Widowmaker just kept on thinking, trying to remember what her life was like back then.
"It was- the anniversary of our wedding," she continued, "I was running errands for dinner, but I wanted to get a present for Gérard,"
The memory kept flowing through her mind, slowly, almost painfully, as she recalled every moment in vivid detail. She remembered how excited she was when she found the perfect gift for her husband, how she raced to her car, after purchasing it, and how she never got in that car, never celebrated her anniversary, because-
"That's when they came… out of nowhere. That's when they took me, tortured me, molded me into the perfect weapon," she said.
Then it hit her, again, that sensation of feeling, of, what was it this time? Pain? Anger? Sorrow? All three? She couldn't tell. All she knew was that she didn't like it, the feelings, brought on by the memory. Widowmaker took deeper breaths, trying to calm herself. She could feel her mind getting clouded with thoughts, as more memories caved in on her, like a collapsing building, inside her head.
Doomfist noticed her silence, her programming trying to resist the feelings she was having. Perfect, that was just what he wanted. Time to push further.
He kept driving, seeing the warehouse just breaching the horizon.
"Do you regret what you did?," he said, not looking at Widow.
That triggered something in her, something she didn't want to talk about. She knew exactly what he was referring to: the assassination.
"Of course not," she replied, sternly, "It was my mission. I carried it out, without remorse,"
But now, that was a lie, and she knew it. Her heart rate increased at the memory, thumping almost violently in her chest.. She saw that night, clear as day, moment by moment, in her mind. It was like she was reliving it right before her eyes.
Widowmaker didn't want to think about it, but she couldn't help it. Resisting a memory only amplifies its presence. She saw how peacefully Gérard slept, as he laid in bed, believing that his beloved wife was back with him, ready to move on with his life, with her.
She remembered how she got on top of him, while he slept, and gingerly placed her hands on the sides of his head.
She saw how he opened his eyes from her touch, how he smiled so warmly up at her, thinking everything was alright, everything was as it should be.
She stared back down at him, with eyes not of love, but of cold, unrelenting blood lust. She remembered what his last words were, right before she carried out her mission.
"Mon amour?" he asked, drowsily.
Then she snapped his neck, without a second thought.
She was feeling it, regret. Oh, she regretted it, alright; every damn moment of it. She regretted not taking her guards with her, that day, on their anniversary, regretted not being strong enough to resist Talon's torture, regretted laying in bed, with him, that night, and regretted letting him say those last two words to her.
Widowmaker didn't realize it, but she was trying to fight back something she hadn't had in years; she was fighting back tears.
"Gérard..." she whispered, "Mon amour..."
Doomfist side glanced Widowmaker, and saw his work was done.
Holding her face in her hands, she cried, softly and silently, but she was crying. It was too much; she could feel it, all the emotions, the pain, the agony, the guilt, that was building up for twenty years, all crashing down on her, with the force of a tidal wave.
She couldn't help it. She cried, cried for Gerard, cried for every victim she ever killed, cried because she knew that there was no turning back.
She pulled her hands from her face and shot a glare right at Doomfist, who kept his eyes on the road, entering the warehouse, right above their head quarters.
"What are you doing to me?!" She screamed, demanding to know why he asked her those damn questions.
"Holding up my end of the bargain," he said, turning his head to face her.
She stared back into those dark, brown eyes, seeing something she never thought she'd see in this man: compassion?
Widowmaker turned away from him and pressed her palm against her face again, rubbing the tears out of her eyes. When she pulled her hand away, she noticed something was even more off. The skin of her hands… they weren't blue.
They were a pale, slowly fading back to a much more natural, fleshy color. And her body, the blood in her veins, it wasn't cold. She felt something else, something much more comforting and welcoming; she felt warm.
Her heart was pumping more blood into her than it used to, and she could feel it; her own heart beating like it used to, years ago.
This was wrong. This wasn't her, was it? She was confused, scared, she didn't know what to make of it. She looked over her hands, her fingers, her arms, her legs, she looked at what ever she could look at, what ever she could touch on her person. She was… who was she?
She looked back at Doomfist, who only smiled.
"Welcome back, Amélie," he said.
XXXX
Been a while. Sorry, but nearing the end of first semester, got my priorities. But, Good news is that I sent in the major change request, so I should be on my way to being a more professional writer. Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. I felt it was only fitting to make a chapter completely based off of our fearsome trio, Widowmaker, Sombra, and Reaper, since we just got our latest, and greatest animation.
(I totally called that shit, btw, with them releasing Sombra with an animation. Ahaha so happy I called it XD)
Anyway, I hope you guys critique this chapter, give me your thoughts. I want to see what you guys and gals think of what I did with Widowmaker. You guys know I love comments, may they be good or bad. It only betters my writing.
I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving! If you don't celebrate that, then I hope you guys had a wonderful November! Until the next chapter! Buh Bye!
PS
oh wait! There are 76 reviews for this story! You know what that means!
I'VE GOT YOU IN MY SIGHTS!
*aimbotaimbotaimbotaimbotaimbotaimbotaimbotaimbotaimbotaimbotaimbotaimbotaimbotaimbotaim*
