Widowmaker
When was the first time someone told Amelie they loved her? Family didn't count, and it wasn't as though those words of endearment were sincere to begin with. No. It was a fellow ballet student. Yes. That's right. She was in her early teens, training daily to become the best in France. He was the only male in class. The other girls seemed rather interested. He wasn't anything noteworthy, from what Amelie could recall, but when there was any form of shortage, the masses tended to reduce expectations.
Widow sat up, rubbing her head and pushing at her matted hair. The dim light was beginning to flicker. The cell wasn't well-maintained. It was rarely used, surely. Tracer's scent lingered. A touch of sweet sweat and kiwi? She could still taste the bizarre girl's lips. The interaction…wasn't as horrible as Widow may have anticipated, surprisingly.
She had asked him what he was doing, pushing at his hard chest and seeing the utter confusion upon his face. He laughed nervously, shrugging and simply stating that he loved her. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to be with her. Amelie rejected him swiftly; perhaps too harshly, upon reflection. She returned to ballet lessons as normal from then onward, but normalcy was lost as quickly as she shut the boy down. Rumours circulated, likely caused by him, and Amelie was shunned. It hurt her feelings, of course, but she was so focused on becoming the best at her craft, even at such a young age, she didn't quite care enough.
Widow felt the mattress against her back again. It was hard. Another day. She had no sense of time, but she anticipated Tracer had been gone for almost twelve hours now. She had promised she would return. Did Widow look forward to the young woman's presence? Slightly. She would admit that much to herself. Tracer grounded her, as much as she hated to admit it. The whispering in her head relented in light of the girl's brightness. Perhaps that's all it was; temporary relief.
The bullying escalated to the point that Amelie was forced to move to a different school of ballet. Tacks in her shoes. Hidden underwear. Soiled clothes. Graffiti on her locker. She was called a "slut" and "whore" over and over and over again. It was like being in a movie. Except Amelie felt more disconnected from her own reality when compared to a fictional character's cliched tragedy. Perhaps her ambitions elevated her beyond adolescent jealousy and rage. The boy claimed Amelie had performed fellatio for him, although his wording was much cruder. Amelie didn't feel the need to refute the statement. What good would it do her?
'Why…?' Widow uttered the question allowed, a small echoing bouncing within the room. Her memories were returning. At least Jack allowed her to keep the pills Dr. Ziegler had prescribed. But the question remained: why were these the memories at the forefront of her mind?
Widow almost chuckled to herself.
That girl. Her words. She felt something like "love" for Widow. How incredibly ludicrous. Widow had tried to kill the Overwatch agent three times – twice if one wished to be technical – and yet, Tracer had the gall to wish for some form of sexual interaction or, even more amusingly, a romantic relationship?
'Absurd.'
However, the memories flowed through Widow's troubled mind.
Amelie thought she was in love once. When she moved to a new ballet school, the teaching instructor had an assistant. He was charming, with soft, almost feminine features, yet he could dance like no other male Amelie had seen. A few years passed, and Amelie was somewhat content admiring the young man from afar. It felt safe; safer than any relationship she knew. Her new instructor often said it was impossible to dance the way Amelie did without extreme emotional capability and sensitivity. She had asked Amelie if everything was alright at home once. Amelie, naturally, claimed all was well. It was a lie. All was simply silent in the manor's halls. One could work to live or live to work. Her parents had chosen the latter long before Amelie was born.
One afternoon, Amelie was the singular student who made it to the lesson. There were generally only three other classmates at most, considering how prestigious the school was. The main instructor stepped out for but a moment, and Amelie counted her blessings for having what her young mind translated as a private date with the man who had caught her eye. He seemed nervous, but eventually found his courage, and asked Amelie to perform a variety of movements. He claimed he could teach her how to better improve her posture, and did so with a rather intimately physical approach. Before Amelie knew it, his hand slid from her thigh and up between her legs, gently massaging her body.
"Is this okay?" He had asked. It still bewildered her. Surely, he knew the answer.
"No." Amelie uttered.
"Oh."
But he didn't stop until Amelie stepped down and away, seeing her face in the mirror and shocked by the discomfort she viewed in her own quivering expression. When the instructor returned, Amelie immediately spoke out against the assistant. Only after he was told to leave did she cry. Only then did it settle in her mind that he had taken advantage of his position, age, and sex.
Amelie struggled with the notion of love after that. Ballet made more sense despite its abstract nature.
'Food.' A grunt called out, sliding a tray and bottle of water through the bottom slot of the door. Widow heard the footsteps walk away, and she was alone again. She observed the plate of a fairly well-made sandwich and pudding. She decided it was best she sustained herself, at the very least.
Why?
It was a valid question. Why, indeed?
To kill?
No. No more. She didn't want to live for that anymore.
Then why?
She couldn't shake the desire completely. It got worse the closer the time to take her medication drew. She lost all composure when she thought Tracer had died.
Why?
Why, indeed? Although she certainly didn't share the same feelings the young girl cultivated for Widow, she couldn't deny the way Tracer – or Lena, perhaps – had extended beyond her call of duty to help Widow. Without her, Widow would either be dead physically, or completely lost mentally. She owed her life to Lena.
What life?
That was still a work in progress, but the girl's suggestion wasn't a terrible one. Ballet. Returning to that world she found so much pleasure in regardless of the minor hiccups. Do it for Gerard. Do it for her unborn child. Do it for the life almost stripped from her. Harness the agony festering in her bowels and perpetuate it for the masses to see. What form of dance could she perform now with all this experience behind her? She could change the world.
Or kill. Kill them all.
The tray of food flew across the room, smashing into the wall and scattering her meal. Widow grunted, ringing in her ears, and bit back the voices. Realizing what she had done in a fit of panic and rage, Widow crouched down, compiling her sandwich back together as best she could, and clasped it between her hands, swallowing prior to biting into the dirtied concoction.
"You look beautiful when you eat. Did you know that?" Gerard's words. One of their first dates. He was charming, there was no doubt about that, but Amelie was cautious. She hadn't humoured a man in her thoughts since that incident quite some time ago, yet something about Gerard seemed harmless enough. She would see.
"You look beautiful with every action you take. Naturally graceful and, dare I say, seductive."
She wasn't sure about the comment. It was sexually suggestive, and it made her anxious. Was he like all the other lustful gazes she was all too familiar with now? How many dates would it take before he grew frustrated with her lack of "aggression"? She would hold his hand. She would hug him. She would even kiss him. But nothing more than that. Nothing at all. How long would it take before he realized she wouldn't make love to him without very good reason?
Widow placed her arm over her eyes, breathing heavily. Her index finger twitched. She knew what her body wanted. The thrill of the kill. It was almost time for her medicine. The anxiety was getting worse. She wanted to kill. She needed to kill. Talon would assign her a new target any moment now. The waiting. The watching. The perfect moment.
Widow groaned, fighting back at the thoughts. She pictured Gerard, but it hurt. She imagined Lena and…it didn't hurt quite so terribly. She had kissed her. Lena had kissed her. Her lips were…surprisingly soft. Perhaps the young girl's brash behaviour made her assume otherwise, but Widow wouldn't deny the experience's pleasing sensation. Even Lena's touch was much gentler than expected. Very different from a man's. Very different from Gerard.
"I apologize, my love, but I fear my performance might be…er…lacking."
He was devastated. Rings glimmered on both their fingers, and Amelie was still partially in her wedding gown, although much of it had been dishevelled or nearly torn off altogether. She lay in shock, her body aching and blood staining the sheets between her legs. He was cleaning himself off. He didn't bother using protection. He pulled out, his face in terrible agony as he did so.
"Never before have I been so starved for another's affection. I've waited so long, and yet, it barely lasted any time at all. Pathetic. I'm usually much more considerate…"
She asked him if there had been many others. He brought over a damp cloth as he settled next to her and answered, dabbing at her swollen, blushing form.
"Enough to know you were worth the wait."
She never told him that his answer bothered her. It was foolish, she knew, but somehow she expected more of the man. Amelie had saved herself for the one she would vow her life to. Why couldn't he? If only he wasn't so kind, supportive, and charming. Perhaps then she could've saved herself the pain.
She tore a nail with her teeth, the piece ripping at her skin and trailing up her finger to the first joint. Widow whimpered. Pain. She could feel it. This heartache. She could feel it. Isolation. Lunacy. It was all-encompassing. She stood up, her finger stinging, and balanced high on her toes, reaching up and almost touching the ceiling. It was easier than before. Her body was much stronger.
"You watch such things? The acting is terrible!"
He was just out of the shower, his black locks wet, and body bare save for a towel around his waist. Gerard was muscular but toned. He had a masculine build, with masculine hair all over his body. She didn't mind the scruffiness of it all save for when he was pushing into her, as deep as he could until Amelie gasped in a mixture of arousal and discomfort. That irritation made her lose patience, but the release of his warmth at the end of their constant lovemaking struck a small balance. She liked feeling him within. She revelled in his vulnerable moans and unrestrained facial features when he finished.
"Did you cum?" He asked once.
Amelie expressed confusion, recalling she had claimed not to be a man, thinking her husband made a joke.
"No, my love. A woman is capable of an orgasm as well. Surely you know this."
He had laughed. Was this such common knowledge? How could she have possibly missed such a thing? Minor research after the embarrassing inquiry solidified Gerard's suggestion. Being raised perfectly proper. Private tutoring. Exclusive ballet lessons. Monitored books. Amelie had somehow been missed in a piece of life. It made her chuckle to herself.
Sex was a means of procreation first and foremost, was it not? What purpose did a woman's "climax", as her research had called it, serve? The fact having intercourse with Gerard felt relatively nice was well and good, but Amelie drew the most fulfillment from simply being so close to him. Skin on skin. Utterly exposed and hopelessly vulnerable.
Shortly thereafter, Gerard focused heavily on Amelie during the next session of intimacy. She didn't mind, really, but the moment his fingers began stroking her womanhood, she tensed up, holding her breath and squinting her eyes shut. It was horrendously familiar; even after all the years that had passed.
"What was his name?" Gerard had asked after Amelie felt she owed him an explanation for cutting them short. "I'll kill him."
Widow's eyes snapped open. How much time had passed? Was she sleeping long? The flickering light was making her nauseas. She bit down on her lip, the dreams becoming more vivid. The memories hurting further. Where was Lena?
Finally, the door's main locks buzzed open, and Lena stepped through them. She looked exhausted, and was in her complete uniform, the yellow spandex and pilot jacket surprisingly distracting. Widow blinked rapidly, standing up proper, thankful she wasn't trapped with her past by herself any longer.
'So, so sorry, Luv. Really. It's been a bloody zoo up there.' She shook her head, plopping onto the bed and looking at Widow, her clear, dark eyes purer than ever somehow. The pain in Widow's chest amplified, and she swallowed sharply.
'Another black omnic?' She asked, her own voice sounding strange.
'I wish. That'd be a little simpler to deal with, wouldn't it? No. Just a suicide mission I wasn't told about. Can't blame 'em, really. I'd never agree to it. Never. God…'
'Oh…'
Lena slapped her knees, turning her focus to Widow and grinning.
'Here's the short version, kay? I gotta go. All hands on deck for a major hit on Talon. They need some of the best. I'm one of 'em, you know? I don't got a choice. They captured Ange. Well, "captured". Jesus…'
Widow squinted.
'She…allowed herself to be abducted by Talon?'
'Right!? Right!? Bloody hell! So, yeah. I'm outta here. If anything happens to her…'
Widow froze, images of horror flickering through her mind. Her body shaking. Her blood frozen. Her mouth dry.
'There. Want to name it? Not sure if it was a boy or girl. You can see a little hand forming there. I know. I know. It's hard to tell. Mostly muck. Ah, well. Much easier to operate on you. A pregnant woman would only cause the workers grief. Clean yourself up. I've done enough for the day. My lord. You're beautiful…even when you have that vacant look on your face.'
' – lie? Amelia? You hear me?' Tracer waved in front of Widow's face, and she slapped the hand away.
'Not Amelie. Widowmaker. I'm coming with you.'
'Oi…' Tracer slumped, her shoulders dropping. 'Don't think I don't wanna, but even I might not get away with breaking you outta here. It was an executive decision to lock you up, and – '
Widow grabbed Tracer by the collar of her jacket and pinned her down on to the bed, the mattress creaking and the frame groaning. She sat atop the other girl's waist and lifted her shirt over her head, the cool, ever present draft coasting across her bare breasts and stiffening the dark tips of her chest.
'O-oh, my God…!' Tracer gasped, rightly shell-shocked.
Widow reached behind her body and placed her hand between Tracer's legs, the spandex a little awkward to the touch, but the smoothness of the other girl's body not altogether unappealing.
'A-ah…A-Amelie…! Wait…!'
Widow released her touch, and leaned in so that her face was mere inches from Tracer's, her full lips grazing the other girl's as she talked.
'I will make love to you right this instant if you allow me to join this fight, Tracer.' Her voice got caught, and a wave of hysteria threatened to consume her mind whole. 'It's what you want, isn't it?'
A pause, with evident internal turmoil tormenting the Overwatch agent. Tracer growled angrily, waving her hands in front of her face and grabbing hold of Widow's shoulders. She took two full breaths in and out before speaking again, her tone quiet and laced with regret.
'Put on your shirt, Beautiful. I ain't gonna do it like this. No way.'
Widow felt the wave of contrasting emotions at the denial. Had she ever been rejected before? Had she ever been so forward before? Amelie would never. Widowmaker, on the other hand, was quite capable. So, which persona was her true self now? Which emotion was her honest response to not being allowed to use her body for her own gain?
'No?' Widow found her top and stretched the material back over her head, her hair picking up static and becoming unrulier. Tracer reached up, combing her fingers through the mess and smiling sadly.
'Trust me; hardest decision I had to make lately, but it wouldn't mean anything if your heart wasn't in it, right?'
Only Gerard had ever spoken to her like this. Only Gerard had ever cared so deeply for her. Only Gerard had shown unparalleled patience with her; faults and all. Only Gerard had made her reconsider the concept of "love". Amelie did not love Lena. But in this moment, she would admit silently to herself that she didn't hate her either.
'I see.' Widow said softly.
Lena breathed out slowly one more time, and then shook her head, slapping her cheeks and standing up suddenly, extending her hand out to Amelie.
'If I get fired I might hafta take you up on that offer as a sort of compensation thing. Deal?'
'Oh?' Widowmaker cooed. 'But what if my heart isn't in it?'
Lena giggled, lifting Widow from the bed and releasing her hand.
'I don't wanna brag, Luv, but when I get serious with the lovemaking, I'm not even sure you could resist me once we get going.'
'Hmph.' Widow cocked her head slyly. 'An intriguing proposition. I will not confirm or deny the deal. Will you still allow me to join this fight?'
'Rubbish…' Lena muttered cutely to the side. 'Fine! Fine! Let's get movin', Luv! Ain't no more time to waste! You know that more than anyone, right?'
'Precisely…'
Widowmaker's eyes narrowed as she followed Lena, her heart aflame and her ambitions clear. Her eyes burned, recalling her late husband's visage of raw shock and disbelief just before his life ended. Recalling the pile of blood and decrepit matter hacked out of her into a crude, rusting bucket. Never again. She would kill them all if she had to. From her brief interaction with Dr. Ziegler, she wanted nothing like she experienced to happen to the woman willing to operate on Widowmaker, a murderer and enemy to Overwatch.
The shift in her glacier of a heart had finally begun. Her finger twitched with anticipation. Talon had created the ultimate assassin, and that same assassin was prepared to finally fight back in earnest.