5. Different Harbors

Someone requested a Mr&Mrs SmithAU where Tracer and Widowmaker are rival operatives who unknowingly got married.
The two go head-to-head after they were (unwittingly) sent after the same objective.


She's forgotten the milk again. You've messaged her twice to make sure that doesn't happen, but oh—look, there she is now, ambling up the driveway empty-handed.

It's not like you are entirely surprised.

Lena's an abject failure at listening to basic instructions; it's one of the many things about her that pisses you off. Other things being the way she snores up a hurricane next to you in bed, the way she leaves her laundry lying in a careless pile on the floor (as though they'll magically disappear overnight—no Lena, that doesn't happen) the way she chews her food without her mouth ever closing, the way she laughs out loud at American reality tv shit.

Little things like that. Things that don't get advertised on the tin and you only find out too late once you've already put that ring on your finger and said the two dreaded words: "I do".

Four years now you've been married. How long do they say the honeymoon period lasts? Three years? Two? It feels much shorter. Funny how married life can change a person.

When you first met her, it had been electric. Lena Oxton was a bright spark—wild, passionate, spontaneous, a ball of endless thrills. You've always been a thrill-seeker, it was hard not to get drawn in.

Hard not to be too impressed with her either. Decorated RAF pilot by the age of 20, flew in a grand total of three different wars by the time her 22nd birthday rolled around. Survived the ordeal of being shot down five separate times out in the field, and not to mention, being personally handpicked for the trailblazing space venture into the Slipstream (the initiative eventually got scrapped, but you've read enough in the news to know it was a huge deal).

She'd claimed to be retired from all that now. "Too much excitement to last a lifetime." Was what she'd said to you when you first met her in Dorado. She'd told you she found contentment sitting behind a desk, serving as CEO and co-founder of TraceTech, a successful startup that specializes in sourcing and supplying aviation spare parts to commercial airlines. You'd subsequently done your research on the company's net profit, and found that it ranged somewhere in the seven figures.

Not bad—was what you'd thought at the time—so, Lena Oxton is wealthy too, she's got almost as much as you.

You'd also found her to be attractive, plucky, independent and (at that time you'd thought) somewhat intelligent. It was hard finding a person encompassing all these traits and you, being already in your thirties, had become something of the pragmatic sort.

Thus when Lena Oxton had gotten down on one knee three months later, against the backdrop of a purple Parisian night sky with the Eiffel looming in the distance; when she'd gotten down on one knee wearing a dashing tuxedo with hair slicked back neater than you'd ever seen (will ever come to see) and she'd popped that ring box open in front of you, great brown eyes sparkling prettier than any 18-carat diamond—you'd said yes.

"Oui, ma chérie, oui. I will marry you."

The foolish girl had cried, you'd found it to be sweet.

And the rest, as the saying goes, is history.

Literal history.

The romantic dates fizzled out five months after the honeymoon. The thoughtful gifts and sweet gestures weaned off not too long after, and now four years of marriage later, your sex life rates at a dismal 1.5 (and that's being generous) instead of the previous explosive 9/10.

Married life for you has all but devolved into a dull, tepid routine. The initial spark a distant memory.

Given what you do for a living, you tell yourself that you ought not to expect much. That this is probably about as good as it gets for people like you.

[-]

Dinnertime rolls about every evening in the household at half-past six.

Lena sits on one end of the long, rectangular table carved from an expensive heartwood. You sit right across from her on the other end.

Silence weaves in your midst, stretching longer than the physical distance in between; it echoes as it bounces off the walls and amounts to a pitch that can only be described as deafening. Most days you don't let it bother you, some days you have to convince yourself it doesn't.

"How's the food?" You ask.

Lena doesn't look up.

She chews with her mouth open and eats with her eyes glued to her phone. You fight to suppress the bite of irritation at her display of poor table manners.

"How's the food, chérie?" Louder this time. There's an accompanying sound of metal scraping against white porcelain as you cut your steak down to the bone.

Your wife finally blinks up, probably from reading an article on Aviation Digest about planes and the like. It used to be endearing how she's so much into high-speed crafts and custom jets. Now it's just become an annoyingly expensive hobby that she needs to quit.

Eyeing you for a moment, Lena stops her mouth in mid-chew before reaching her hand out for the salt-shaker on her left. Your eyes narrow significantly when you watch her dump a copious amount of salt on her steak and then on her mash and green peas.

"Food's ok luv," she tells you, flashing a wane smile before looking back down at her phone.

The rest of the dinner passes by in silence.

[-]

"Think I'm gonna be poppin' out for a bit."

Lena announces after dinner as you stand in the middle of your walk-in closet, fingers rifling through your impressive selection of designer clothes.

Passingly, you wonder where Lena goes all the time. What she is really doing outside. You suppose any other wife would be concerned, but this disappearing act of hers works well in your favor and so you make it a habit not to pry. Lena affords you with the same courtesy.

"Just gonna go hang with the boys," she says, humming a casual tune as she pops into the closet, her hands rummaging and making an instant mess of things.

You don't bring up the fact that you've no idea who the boys are. That you've not once, in four years of marriage, ever been introduced to "the boys".

Winston is the only person you know of, out of all of Lena's friends. And that's only because the great lumbering ape attended your wedding as Lena's best man. Aside from that one singular name, there's no one else that calls to mind if asked about Lena's inner circle.

To be fair, it's not like she's met any of your friends either. Not the real ones anyway.

"What time will you be back?" You watch her peel a tattered looking leather jacket from its hanger before scuttering out the closet. "Our neighbors invited us over remember?" You leave out the part where you find it a terrible inconvenience. You leave out the part where it was her idea to accept the invitation in the first place.

Lena's wearing a sheepish smile when she pops her head back in. "Shite! Totally forgot 'bout that luv! Err… I think I'll be back probably 'bout nine-ish? That should still give us some time to head over for a bit…"

Then, her eyes drift down to the two dresses you hold in your hands. "That one," she says, pointing to the dress on the left, one with an off-shoulder-cut and color a midnight blue. "I like that one," and almost as an afterthought, she adds: "The blue brings out the color in your eyes."

[-]

You wait precisely fifteen minutes after the taillights of Lena's R8 disappear around the bend before walking to the garage and starting up the engine of your own car.

You've been wondering what sort of excuses you need to come up with this time, but Lena's timing had been impeccable.

Adjusting the rearview mirror, you are pleased to note that your makeup is flawless. The lipstick you have on is lethal, as is the rest of your outfit.

You do, in fact, end up wearing the blue dress Lena had picked out. Honestly, you would have preferred going with something more risqué, something with a plunging neckline that shows off a bit more skin. But the bodice of the dress accentuates your curves and does the job well enough. Lena had been right too, the blue does flatter the amber in your eyes.

Your mind flickers to thoughts of your wife, if only for a moment, before your fingers move to slide off your wedding band with practiced fluidity, dropping the jewelry into the glove compartment with a muffled clink.

Gunning the accelerator, you pull out of your driveway amidst the sound of screeching tires.


Tonight's assignment: Hector Gallardo.

One of three acting lieutenants of the Wilcox Famiglia—an organized drug cartel with growing influence along the Atlantic side of South America. Hector Gallardo currently wields control over a vital trafficking route that passes between Guyana and Panama, stretching onwards to Belize. Somebody desperately wants to see that control relinquished.

A man of expensive tastes, he is known to frequent the high-end wine bar located at One Utopaea Tower on Friday nights. Has a predilection for pretty brunettes. Likes to chat them up and take them back to his place where he subjects them to more than just a little roughhousing—his idea of a good time. Sometimes, these women disappear. Sometimes they get off with a three days stay at the local hospital.

You think: here is someone you'll enjoy putting down.

You know it would be easy when, within a minute of walking through the door, Hector Gallardo waves off his bodyguards and swaggers over to your table with offers to buy you a drink. You accept, and he spends the next three minutes talking to your breasts with one hand venturing up the side of your thigh, fingers dipping beneath the hem of your dress. You let him touch you. Encourage it even—smiling coyly when he digs his fingers painfully into your hips. The sultry notes from a tenor sax play up in the background and you look up at him with come-hither eyes before leaning in to purr a string of heavy French accented words into his ear. Four minutes later, you almost have to suppress a smirk when he suggests the two of you go back to his place.

[-]

The whole mission takes all but 38 minutes from start to finish (travel time inclusive).

You leave Hector Gallardo a convulsing mess on the floor, his eyes bleeding red from a ruptured nerve and his lips turning purple from the poison coursing through his veins. The lipstick you wore had been laced with a particularly virulent strain of venom, oops.

Really. You could have just as easily killed him with a simple snap of the neck, or a swift calculated swipe to the carotid, but there's something almost poetic about assassination by a kiss, especially when it comes to people as debauched as Hector Gallardo.

His bodyguards outside hear the heavy thud of his body falling to the ground. They call out, and when Hector doesn't answer, try to kick the bedroom door open.

You had counted six of them when you entered.

It wouldn't be difficult to take them out, and you might have even had fun doing it too, but one glance at your watch—8.25pm, ugh—Lena would be home soon, not to mention you have that infernal gathering at the Amaris'.

No time to play, even if you wanted to.

Stepping delicately over Hector Gallardo's body, you walk out to his French-styled balcony (good taste) overlooking the cityscape and promptly deploys a grappling hook that latches to a distant rooftop.

There's a keen metallic whir when the contraption activates, and you are drawn swiftly away just as Hector Gallardo's bodyguards pile through the door.

[-]

8.56pm. You've driven back at such speed, you are pretty sure you've left drift marks on the road as well as the smell of burnt tires lingering in the garage. You arrive home barely six minutes before Lena's R8 pulls up the street.

She parks her car near the curb, right beside the trash cans, and blocking right in front of the driveway. You let it slide, because you worry about the smell of burnt tires in the garage.

She looks distinctly worse for wear when she drags herself through the door (well, worse than usual anyway). Her tattered leather jacket somehow manages to come off more ratty than before, and her hair looks about two degrees more windswept like that's even possible.

"Hey," she calls out tiredly from the doorway.

You currently sit with your legs crossed primly on the leather couch, one hand massaging your neck and one thumb leafing through the latest copy of Businessweek. The image is of a bored wife who's been sitting there the past half hour waiting for her spouse to return.

"Are we all set to go?" Lena asks as she turns to you. Her gaze lands on your midnight blue dress, hitched at the knees. You notice her lips part slightly and her eyes glaze over, and it takes you a second to realize she's checking you out.

Or maybe that's too hyperbolic. It's really only a quick up-down flicker—a far cry from the hungry, roaming stares she used to give back when you first started dating. You feel a small wrench in your heart nonetheless. A twinge of pride and something bittersweet to know she is still capable of looking at you that way, even if it's to a small extent.

Inwardly, you chastise yourself at allowing this pointless stab of weakness, but as you rise up languidly from the couch, you make it a point to stretch your legs out in a way that you hope would draw out her attention a little longer.

It works, and her gaze lingers.

You think to yourself that she must really like the dress.

Walking over, you surprise her when you take a small step forward and press a long, protracted kiss to her cheek (all traces of venom now wiped away). Lena softens into the kiss, and you are about to say something more, but you inhale, and you catch the faint whiff of alcohol, smoke and perfume clinging to her skin. The fragrance isn't one of yours, it's not hers either. Your eyes harden in that instance, and you end up taking three steps back.

"Shall we go, love?" There's a rare smile on Lena's face as she holds out an arm for you to take.

You brush past her and out the door.

"You are going to go dressed like that?" Your tone comes out dripping with bite and contempt.

Lena looks at you with something like heartbreak in her eyes before quickly averting her gaze. She looks down at her tattered jacket drawn over a smokey grey tank and a dusty pair of light blue jeans ripped at the knees.

"Why?" She asks. "What's wrong with the way I am?"

"Nothing," you say. "I was only wondering."

[-]

You've said it before and you're thinking it now: the Amaris are a terrible inconvenience.

Yes, they are very nice, and yes they are very friendly. But their friendliness comes off awkward at best and a downright nuisance at worst.

You wonder why it's so difficult to have a neighborhood where people can mind their own business without having to go through the communal junk.

"If we don't start blending in, Amélie, people will start thinking we are weird!" Lena had complained to you when you first moved in.

"And if they start thinking we are weird, they start getting gossipy, and that's when they start digging around—you know how bored rich people can get. I mean, we could be looking at binoculars, telescopes, trash analysts, P.I.s following us around all the time. Do you really want that Amélie, do you?"

Though wildly exaggerated, you concede there might be some small merit to her words. That's why you'd said nothing when Lena ended up dragging you into befriending the Amaris. You'd done some research and the Amaris seemed to be the least of all nine evils living on your street. You think of your relationship with them as symbiotic. You make them feel good about their hospitality; they in turn make you look like any other normal couple on the block. Symbiotic. Doesn't mean they're not still a nuisance.

You and your wife are currently in the Amaris' lounge. The space tastefully designed with heavy red oak tones and bathed in orange lighting that gives off a warm, intimate feel.

Lena has her body parked on one end of the Amaris' white wool couch, and you have your body parked on the other. Angela and Fareeha Amari sit on an identical piece perpendicular to yours, Fareeha with one arm draped easily around her wife.

They look like they actually love each other. You wonder how that is possible.

The two have been married for 7 years now, been dating even longer when Fareeha was only 18. You know this because you've read their files. It's something you like to do to the people you end up playing charades with in their lounge and who live right across from you.

Angela Ziegler—now Angela Ziegler Amari—age 37, renowned cardiac surgeon who graduated top 2% of her class in Harvard Med. Her wife, Fareeha Amari, age 33—descended from a long line of war heroes—is equally distinguished, having risen to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel at just the age of 30.

Busy, demanding careers, these women have. You wonder if they make time. You wonder if they also keep secrets.

Lena is now laughing obnoxiously at something Fareeha is saying, the two of them engaging in an animated conversation about life in service. Angela looks over fondly at her wife, and smiles. You look over at your wife, see her tongue lolling from between her teeth, and you can't help the eye-roll.

Not wanting to disrupt Fareeha's discussion, Angela soon turns her attention to you. It becomes fast apparent that the doctor likes to talk.

She first asks you a series of questions about your work. You respond with the standard lines—how the economy is doing pretty badly and how the stock market has all but gone to merde. Then she asks about your travel plans for the holidays. You tell her there are none at the moment. She next asks when you plan on getting a dog. You tell her you are never getting one. She laughs this silly little laughter before mentioning something about Lena wanting a corgi. Then, she asks about you and Lena, if the two of you plan on having kids in the future.

She must have realized she's overstepped when she sees the look on your face, because she quickly apologizes before deftly changing the subject.

The conversation smooths over and draws on.

You make a mental note to yourself that Angela Amari talks too much.

[-]

"Do you ever want children?" Lena asks when the two of you lie in bed that night. She must have overheard your conversation with the doctor because she's never brought this up before. Between the two of you, it's just never seemed important.

"No." And you wait a beat before asking. "Do you?"

Lena waits a beat before she answers. "I suppose not, no."

The two of you lie there staring up at the ceiling before Lena rolls over to her side, and you roll over to yours. The two of you fall asleep, spaced apart.


On the outside, people know you as Amélie Lacroix, CFO of Reyes & Morrison, a securities firm specializing in corporate finance and trading. Beneath that façade, you are actually Amélie Lacroix, codenamed Widowmaker, and key operative of Talon Cell.

You are one of the best operatives they have, your kill count and success rate racking higher than any other field agents in history. Your skills make you an indispensable asset. Talon knows this, as do you, and you wear this knowledge with a certain pride.

Given your talents, only the most important missions get passed through your desk.

"Encrypted call incoming."

Ares, your advanced computerized AI informs you when your heels click through the glass doors of your sprawling office suite on Monday morning.

"Patch it in."

There's a series of dial tones before the raspy voice of your handler comes through the comm. Not one for small talk, he delves right into things.

"Urgent mission. Kill order in Morocco, Class C. Will you accept?"

"Yes," you say.

"Details will be sent to you via secure packet. You leave tomorrow morning."

"Understood."

[-]

You come home that evening to find Lena packing.

"Bit of a short notice, luv," her eyes do not meet yours when she speaks. "There's this deal the firm's been pushing for and I guess they want me down personally to finalize negotiations."

"I see."

"You going somewhere too?" She asks when she notices the overnighter bag you've dragged out earlier from the cupboard.

"Yes," your voice comes out stiff. "Urgent business trip."

Lena only nods.

She doesn't ask where you are going, she doesn't ask for how long.

Likewise, you don't ask where she's headed and you don't ask when she's coming back.

Lena retires to bed that night at half-past ten.

You stay downstairs in the living room, your eyes mindlessly fixated on some humorless sitcom on the flat screen TV.

Ninety minutes later, you slip quietly into the bedroom when you are certain your wife is already sound asleep.


From what you glean off the mission briefs, the assignment is clear cut enough.

Intercept the convoy en route from the mountain ranges of Jbel Sarhro and eliminate the quarry before they get picked up at the terminus in Marrakech.

You've carried out such missions countless times before, and apart from the sweltering heat enveloping the sand seas of the Erg Chigaga, this mission will be no different from the others. You go through the preparatory steps with ease.

Having analyzed the intel and determined the convoy's trajectory, you've decided on a point of interception 35 clicks Southwest from the town of M'Hamid, situated right in the middle of a ravine.

The location makes the most strategic sense, with the landscape consisting of open unobstructed flatlands that provide respite from the towering red dunes surrounding the area. Positions atop the rocky cliffs of the gorge would also present adequate vantage and serve as excellent placements for a sniper's nest.

Having set the location, you next get to work on establishing hot zone perimeters, arming c-12 charges amidst boulders and rock fragments, and erecting infra-red triggers in the sand. Detonation would activate when the convoy passes through and jolts the triggers.

It's all standard procedure. Easy in, easy out; you'll soon be on a commercial flight home in less than 24 hours.

Satisfied with your preparations, you retreat back up the cliffs overlooking the gorge, counting down the minutes till the convoy enters your line of sight.

[-]

"Vrrrrrrr"

You are in the middle of relaxing with a cold bottle of soda, when you hear the sound of a low hum thrumming the air.

"Vrrrrrrrrrrr"

Confused, you pick up your binoculars and make a quick scan of the grounds. The convoy is not in sight, and is not due for another 45 minutes.

"Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr"

The sound is much louder now.

What's that infernal—?

"Vrrrrrrrrrrvrroooom"

No sooner the thought crosses your mind when a small, sleek jet shrieks through the air directly above your location. The craft is flying so low, the tailwind from its engines buffets your body and unceremoniously whips up the foliage surrounding your cover.

What the hell?

Cursing colorfully under your breath, you immediately reach for your sniper rifle, fingers scrolling at a hasty pace as you dial up the magnification on the scope.

The craft's a Tiltjet. One of those small, advanced models known for their high speed and in-air maneuverability. Upon further scrutiny, you recognize the make as a CV45 Osprey Tilt; the knowledge gleaned from one of many aviation magazines Lena leaves lying around.

The pilot is obviously crazy, because they've got the Tiltjet dipping dangerously into the ravine now; its metallic underbelly dragging so near the ground, the substantial turbulence it generates inadvertently setting off one of your erected triggers in the perimeter.

"Countdown sequence initiated." Ares' flat mechanical tone sounds out from your laptop. "Countdown sequence initiated. Warning. Convoy is still at an estimated 25 miles outside of hot zone. Warning."

"Fils de pute." You snarl into your scope. "Fucking idiot of a pilot."

What kind of an idiot flies this low surrounded by rock cliffs and sand dunes?

"Countdown sequence: 15 seconds before detonation—14. 13. 12…"

"Ares, remote disarm the charges."

"Countdown sequence terminated."

White-hot irritation rises up your chest as you watch the jet climbs up the air to make a crisp Cuban-eight in the sky before dipping down in a fancy torque row.

Air aerobics? Really? In the middle of the fucking desert?

"Fucking show off." You grit your teeth.

A few more stunts later, the plane cruises northeast out of the ravine, dropping altitude and landing amidst a cover of sloping crescent dunes just barely within your scope's magnification range. The craft is obstructed from view from the direction of the hot zone, but you can't risk the chance of an exogenous factor messing up the equation. Protocol would demand for immediate termination.

"Come out. Come out, you little bug." You mutter under your breath as your fingers tap impatiently against the side of your trigger.

The pilot disembarks, hopping out of the cockpit and landing on the sand with their back towards you. It's a hell of a long shot, but you are capable of making it. Your scope scrolls up to claim the head, putting them directly in the centre of your crosshairs, but right at the moment your finger squeezes the trigger, your brain registers the mope of messy windswept hair a color of brown sable.

What

It's an impossibility, but the implied familiarity of the sight jars you, and in that instance, it costs you the shot.

Your gun discharges, the elevated tension in your shoulders causing the bullet to deviate to the left, narrowly missing the pilot's head by about half an inch. The bullet ends up drilling the door of their Tiltjet, the ricochet instantly alerting them to your presence.

There's a part of you that is thoroughly shaken.

One. You never miss a shot. Two. The sight of that windswept hair—how

You tell yourself it's not Lena. It's not Lena because it cannot be.

Steadying your hands, you breathe in deeply, leveling the riflescope back to your eye.

At this point, the pilot is nowhere to be seen, having ducked behind the other side of the plane for cover.

You tell yourself if they are smart enough, they'll get themselves right back into that cockpit and fly their plane out of here.

You tell yourself if they do that, you'll let them go—if only by the merit of them having that sable, windswept hair that looks so much like—

"Weapon signature detected." Ares' voice, having picked up the wavelength from your scope feed.

What the—?

The pilot has emerged back in your line of sight. This time touting a pulse rocket on their shoulders, one with a barrel so big, it obstructs the entirety of their head from view. The mouth of that barrel is currently staring you down from your scope.

You've still got the shot, still got your sights trained on your target. But something tells you you won't make it in time, that the rocket would be faster and the blast would vaporize you even if you do manage to pull the trigger.

Merde.

You throw down your gun just six milliseconds before a brilliant flare of blue burst through the barrel of the pilot's pulse rocket. You can almost feel the scorching heat nipping at your heels as you scramble to your feet, hoping against all hope you'll make it out in time before the whole place explodes around you in a blinding flash of white.