Thank you guys for the follows, favs, and reviews. This introduction was only supposed to be 2,000 words, but as you see it's already over 7,000. There's only one more introduction chapter after here, then we can start meeting the other Overwatch members. Hope you dig it.
A spider web hung in the corner off her apartment and every day she imagined killing it. Flushing it down the toilet, washing it down the sink drain, smushing it between two fingers, smacking it against the wall, pulling its legs off one by one, dropping it out the window, eating it. Excitement. A jolt of hair-standing lighting up the back of her neck every time. But she never killed it. She wasn't Widowmaker, not at that moment.
She'd made it to the city early in the week, scoping it out, walking the streets in civilian clothes. Being normal. Not even pretending. Just waiting. She got an apartment, found a boyfriend, got a part time job at the diner waiting tables, experienced the simple things. A beer after a hard day, sitting in the park in silence. Things that other people enjoyed. But it wasn't in her to enjoy. Not normalcy. Her boyfriend didn't excite her. She didn't feel safe with him. The job didn't reward her; she didn't feel accomplished by it. The beer wrapped her head but it didn't do anything to stop the dullness in her mind. And the park was just empty. It was the only thing that she could relate to. Sitting on a bench for an hour, birds avoiding her, she was connected to that park. But only because it too did not feel pleasure from her company. The only thing that gave her pleasure was imagining that spider in her palm as she jabbed a fork down onto it.
Her rifle came in the mail. It had a letter and she knew that when she opened the letter she would kill. She would not open the letter though. Not until it was time. She slid her finger under the crease of the letter and imagined opening it, feeling the sensation in her gut, the nervousness, like she was about to meet a lover for a date. It was a feeling that feeling that she rode thought eh sleepless nights, after pleasing her boyfriend and leaving him in the bed alone. In the morning he'd ask, "sleep well?" and she'd say "of course, dear," and then give him a kiss before going off too work. Then she'd finger the letter and wondered if he'd be around when she opened it.
For seven long days she held that letter and walked the streets and learned about the diner. Plain, flat, open to the city. Tables were mostly sturdy, even if they creaked. No more than four people on a shift at one time, most of the time only two. Not enough money to constitute a federal crime, but enough to be robbed by someone desperate enough. She wondered who would be on duty when she opened the letter. Hopefully Shirley would be there. Hopefully she'd beg for her life.
When the day came to open it, she sat in her apartment, on the bed next to her naked boyfriend. Her clothes were folded neatly on the floor. Her uniform pressed firm in front of her. She was sweating because they didn't have air conditioning. With deliberation she slid her finger into the envelope one last time, and drug her finger through the paper. The sound made her shiver. Inside was a card, a simple card picked up at any Wal-Mart. On the front was the picture of a cartoon family. "Heard you were expecting." On the inside it read "Welcome home."
Eyes closed she climbed on top of the man next to her. He awoke and tried to move but she held him down with her hips. He stopped struggling, even smiled. Widowmaker could hear his heart. Her hands slid up his chest to his throat where she squeezed tight enough to touch fingertips. He tried to struggle, this time with a violence of a caught animal. But he was just a man. Widowmaker let the rush open her eyes and as she moaned, he died.
Suit up, rifle on, she left. But not before going to the spider in the corner, leaning in close as it sat frozen in fear. With her thumb she pushed it into the wall, feeling it crush. A groan escaped her as she felt her heart kick with a solid thud against her chest. For just a moment her cheeks flushed before draining to their cold, blue hue.
The bus came around to pick her up. It was a normal bus, with normal people, going to normal places. But in the back, four talon operative in normal dress, sat with Uzis tucked into suitcases. Widowmaker sat with them, hood up on her coat, rifle broken apart in her pack. The bus rolled around town, dropping a few people off, picking others up. After thirty minutes or so it stopped outside the diner.
As people got off, the Talon operatives followed. Widowmaker stayed in the back and opened her pack. In six seconds she had her rifle put together ad a magazine locked and loaded. An older woman next to her noticed and tried to call out. In that moment, the driver was up, turning to look at her, and several other people, probably going on to the next stop or the one after that, were all turning. There were seven of them altogether, including the driver.
She let go of the gun and shoved her fist into the face of the old woman. She toppled back into her seat, teeth broken, eyes closed. Spinning, Widowmaker brought her foot up and her heel dug into the side of a young man's face. He spun with blood spurting and fell to the ground. Grabbed an arm, twisted until it snapped, and shoved into another. Knife from her boot, thrown into the driver as he took the first step, collapsing into the street. Gun up, barrel to the back of the two on the ground, as they struggled. One bullet, quiet as could be. They stopped moving. The last two ran for the door but the bus isle was cramped. Widowmaker leapt forward and grabbed the girl's hair. She screamed as Widowmaker slammed her face down against the back of the bus seat then turned to her friend, lover, whoever, and grabbed his shirt, pulling him into a kiss. He fought it at first, but the poison lipstick on her lips slipped through him so quick he died before she pulled her tongue from his mouth.
Thirty seconds. Enough time for the Talon agents to get into the diner and begin. Widowmaker looked out of the bus into the diner as they raised their Uzis and spit bullets into the patrons. Every body that got hit, every splash of blood, or kick from a corpse, sent shivers down her spin. Her eyes were alive with lust. She smiled with a thundering of heartbeats as she felt the life come to her skin once again. Not enough of to go pink, she would always be blue, but enough to make a difference. Enough to feel the leather of her sniper grip on her fingers, or to feel the pressure of her rifle as she pushed it into her shoulder.
In the diner she already knew what table she wanted. She motioned to it and the soldiers cleared it for her, dragging the corpses out and laying them on the floor. Her set up was simple: prone, rifle supported by her bag, scope adjusted depending on the distance. The added elevation from the table was added in, including weather, wind, humidity, and with the distance of the shot, the curvature of the Earth. A little over a mile and a half. Through a window. Up on the seventieth floor.
Not a problem.
She lined up the shot as the men spoke amongst themselves, stealing glances at her ass and trying not to comment on her blue skin. Up on the seventieth floor of the tallest building in the city, prominent Omnic leaders were filing into a large room, flanked on the backside by a wall of windows. Tekhartha Zenyatta entered last, dressed in his military blues from the Omnic crisis. Flanked on his right was his old pupil, the half human, half Omnic ninja, Genji. Widowmaker pressed in on the trigger, letting her rifle charge. Without the charge, the bullet wouldn't have enough force.
"Clear the building. Secure the perimeter," she said. The soldiers looked at each other. Then, in their native tongue she added, "now." Two went towards the back, two out the front. Their guns stayed out in front of them as they moved with precision and meaning. Each step was silent on the linoleum floor. The leather of their gloves made no creaks, no glass crunched beneath their feet.
Behind the counter, a younger woman, nametag read "Shirley", lay in a pool of her own blood. Bullet went through her lungs. She was drowning. One of the men placed his boot on her throat and put a little pressure on. When she coughed he pushed down harder and harder, until there was a definite crack. She stopped moving and the two soldiers continued.
The area of the kitchen was slim, stacked with unclean dishes and cramped with dish-sinks, stoves, friers, and a conventional oven. There was no cook on the floor. The two soldiers eyed each other and stopped, listening. There was a faint sound of whimpering, breathing. Two streaks of black grease on the floor where the stove had been pushed out. A soldier approached it while the other continued on. Squeezed behind the stove was a frail man, no older than eighteen. He shivered and sniveled. He hadn't been shot.
At the back door, the other soldier stepped out into the alley. He saw the bullet holes in the brick, the shredded poster from their Uzi fire. He saw the dumpster overflown with big white trash bags, pierced by strays. He saw wet cardboard in the back corner from the rain the previous day. The last thing he saw was the dog, not yet huge and fearsome, but still with sharp teeth and wide bite, wide enough to clasp around the soldier's neck and sharp enough to sink in soft, with no scream.
The other soldier, still inside, looking down at the weak man hiding behind the oven, fired two bursts into him, the sound of the gun covering the sound of his comrade dropping to the pavement just outside. He didn't hear the terrible sound of a vicious animal tearing out a throat. Or the sound of an Uzi being picked from the ground and slung over a shoulder. But he did hear the sound of his comrade's Uzi as it fired a single burst into his head. He died then.
Widowmaker heard the body thump hard on the floor. Heard the shell casings. But she couldn't move. She had the shot. She needed a little bit more power. "Tst, you two." The soldiers outside snapped to her. "Go." She bobbed her head to direct them, which moved her rifle, so she sucked in a big breath and held it while she adjusted, putting the crosshair on Zenyatta's head, then arcing up and to the right several degrees.
The two soldiers came inside and moved to the counter. In the blood on the floor lay one of them, and out the door, in the alley, lay the other. "Miss," said one. "They're dead."
"I don't care."
"We need to change positions."
"Then change positions."
But Widowmaker didn't move. The two soldiers shared a glance and motioned for the other to go. They played rock-paper-scissors to see who had to go first then they leapt the counter and moved into the kitchen. Something small flew out at the one in front, just outside of his vision. It landed square in his chest pocket. When he opened the pocket to look inside, he saw it was a dog-treat.
"Sick em'." A young German Shepard leapt from the alley and pounced on the soldier in front, tearing into his arm. The man screamed. From the corner, ducking behind the dish-sink, a boy, no older than fourteen, stood with an Uzi aimed at the soldier in back. The man didn't have time to react. He just died. Blue let Red tear into the other one for a beat before putting him out of his misery.
In the diner proper, Widowmaker was just seconds away from pulling the trigger. Her power levels were reaching critical. Scope was flashing red with energy warnings. The gun pulsed with its own heartbeat, so much more alive than the woman holding it. She kept her breath held, waiting for the release of the kill.
But out of the doorway came Blue, gun raised, ready to fire. Red leapt up onto the counter, snarling, barking, not afraid of being seen.
"Your friends are dead," Blue said. "Put the gun down."
"You are sadly mistaken, my cute, little friend." Widowmaker glanced at Blue and, smiling, activated her poison spray bomb, tucked under the counter. It blasted out a purple cloud that stung Blue's eyes and made his skin mad with irritation. His lungs constricted and twisted inside his chest. He dropped to a knee, arm going over his eyes.
"Red," he coughed. And since he couldn't speak he simply pointed. That was enough for Red, who leapt from the counter and in two steps was jumping up onto Widowmaker's table, wrapping his jaw around her thigh and yanking her back. She pulled the trigger at the exact moment and she knew she missed. The pain wasn't sharp to her, the blood was slow to flow, but she cursed out at her missed shot. He breath coming out in a defeated rage.
"Stupid fucking dog!" She kicked out at Red, knocking him back as he dragged her from the table. Whipping onto her back she lifted her rifle, which shifted into its assault rifle state, and she fired at the dog. Red leapt behind a booth and then over it behind another. When her gun clicked, Blue stood, eyes still foggy, heart thumping irregular. He didn't care to aim, he just lifted and let loose his bullets.
Widowmaker stood, fired through a window, and leapt out into the street. Red barked and went after her.
"Red!" Blue coughed again. Red stopped in the street, looking back impatient. Blue went over the counter, catching a glimpse of Shirley lying dead on the diner floor, throat crushed by a heavy boot, blood pooled around her, eyes bulging in grotesque nature. He swallowed the image into his brain and crashed through the door. "Come on boy," he said, and the two of them made chase.
