It was always tea. No sugar, no cream. And when it wasn't tea, it was coffee, in the same fashion as the former. She'd bark at you otherwise, in that voice like wood fire smoke, and then crack that sly, maternal smile of hers. Live and learn.
Ana has jumped from her perch to engage Reaper in the time it took to Widowmaker to blink. Automatically, she lifts her gun - no, she was not supposed to shoot unless she was told otherwise. The dark beige of her trench coat is fanned out on the hot sand of as the older sniper subdues him quickly - she rips something from Reaper's face… his mask. Amidst the chaos ensuing below, a passing flash of curiosity: what does the man formerly known as Gabriel Reyes look like under there? (She has never seen for herself, nor has she been bothered to care with that information, until now.) Then, the man now known as Reaper dissolves before her very eyes, as he as done many times before, leaving Ana and Soldier unscathed.
He has not completed the mission. The autopilot that's hardwired into her brain concerning objectives switches on, shutting down that aberrant instance of human emotion and ignoring Reaper's wishes. With the butt of her rifle rammed against her shoulder, her visor snaps over her hazel eyes as she quickly jerks her gun back up to point at her target.
Tea leaves, never tea bags…
She pulls the trigger, and the bullet buries itself into the sandstone wall a foot away from Ana's head.
Immediately alerted to Widowmaker's presence, the rival snipe whips up her own rifle and aims down her sights in the direction the shot came from.
"Is that my dear Amélie? I think you might need some pointers. You missed again."
A snarl creeps onto Widowmaker's face at the mention of her failure. She is trapped, and insult to injury, she didn't even hit her body, which was all the distraction she needed for a getaway. Being pigeon-holed here will only ensure her death in a sniper's tango with Ana if she tries to fight… Damn you, Reaper. All she can do is run and hope for the best.
She leaps to her feet and sprints towards the courtyard without a second thought, shooting her grappling hook out to meet the outer gate; a shot grazes her leg as she is forcefully pulled forward. Jack Morrison parrots her former name in both confusion and disbelief as she arcs through the hot, dry air - the sound of his voice is for some reason ingrained in her brain, even if it's more tired and raspy than she remembers - but she cannot pay him any mind. He will have to be dealt with later.
Mid-swing, she turns her torso towards the older woman, Widow's Kiss firm in her free hand as she attempts to line up another shot. A loud crack echoes in the courtyard; she hit. A hole appears in Ana's shoulder, but it is not the killing blow Widowmaker was hoping for. The older woman loads another dart into her rifle, ignoring the blood pouring from the open wound as if it wasn't there at all.
Just a little more… All she needs to do is grab the ledge, fling herself over, and she'll be out of Ana's line of fire. An easy getaway.
Just as she begins to vault over the wall, the dart Ana had loaded only seconds before hits her calf. White hot pain sears the injection site, radiating up her leg. Damn. Out of spite and necessity - mostly spite - she extends her left arm towards the weathered soldiers, shooting one of her venom mines at the ground by their feet. As her sights on becomes blocked by the limestone wall surrounding Hakim's compound, the sound of coughing hits her ears almost immediately. At least this will slow them down, if they give chase.
Widowmaker lets out a hiss of pain as she lands and yanks the dart out of her lower leg, barely keeping her balance. She grits her teeth in a surge of frustration. There is no time to assess her injury or what fluid that dart injected into her; she has to find Reaper and retreat, before the targets can take them down. With a low growl, she breaks into another sprint, pumping her arms and legs to the best of her ability with her now injured leg across the desert sands. Dust flies up behind her as she goes, a deliberate attempt at hindering a potential attack from behind as she makes for the tree line.
In a fluid, precise movement, her free hand snaps up to her visor to punch the button she's hotkeyed to be a distress signal. The message back is instantaneous: request accepted. A transparent timer appears on her screen, notifying her that the transport will arrive at her detected location in approximately 5 minutes.
She only slows once she is completely concealed by the towering palms around her. A sudden wave of exhaustion hits her as she comes to a stop in the shade; her vision swims at the edges ever so slightly as her visor retracts, the world no longer in shades of red. She drags ragged breaths of air through clenched teeth as she leans over to assess her leg, gloved fingers tearing at the suit near the injury to get a better look. A small bit of plum colored ichor oozes from a tiny hole in her mid calf. Whatever it may be, some of it has been forced out from fleeing… But not enough to make a difference, if whatever it is is toxic, or otherwise harmful. She gives a quick lick of her dry, sun-cracked lips and lifts her hand from her leg to press the talk button on her com.
"Reaper, what is your status?"
No answer.
"Reaper, do you-" She is cut off by a whoosh of air coming up to flank her on the left, and she immediately takes a step back, reflexively whipping her gun up to shoot. Pitch black vapor condenses and solidifies into the form of Reaper, arms folded.
"Someone's on edge." He gives her an appraising looks from behind his mask, gaze stopping on her wounded calf as she lowers her rifle. He lets out a low, breathy hiss. "You're really not on your game today, are you? No back-up, getting hit while performing a sloppy escape..."
"You told me to wait for the command to shoot," she deadpans, "and I never got one. The objective is now compromised because of your lack of communication."
"The objective, Widow, has changed. Bringing those two targets together could lead us to others; if they group up, we can take them out all at one. Many birds, one stone," he says flatly. "Don't worry your pretty blue head over it. I'd be more worried about whatever our dear friend Ana put in you."
"I emphasize again: lack of communication. And my leg will be just fine." Immunity and resistance to certain compounds and toxins was one of the many enhancements Talon deemed necessary as an assassin, and this was one of many instances where it proved to be just that.
Reaper glances downward and sighs a bit, muttering something under his breath in Spanish before addressing her again. "Is the transport en route?"
A sharp nod. "Oui." Her sights glide back over her eyes and stay this time. The countdown has dropped significantly. "Deux minutes."
The rest of the time is spent in silence. Widow is never one to start conversation; she only participates if prompted. And Reaper does not so much converse as he does rant, which requires little to no talking on her part unless he cues her to. After brushes with potential targets or elimination of them is usually when he starts raving, going on for however long Talon has her assigned to work with him. The only breaks she gets are intermittent strings of swears and rapid flares of Spanish.
And yet, this time… He doesn't say a word. She does not know if this is just the quiet before the storm, or if the ride back to Annecy, France will be as silent as the grave Reaper was supposed to have been buried in.
Perhaps his mind running wild instead of his mouth.
The transport lands at the exact time the countdown hits zero. A side panel opens outward to form a ramp, and Reaper strides ahead impatiently. Widowmaker limps behind him, and he as he takes a seat, he watches her walk the rest of the way to her own without offering to help. (Perhaps this is his way of lashing out right now: actions, instead of words.) She takes the seat directly across from him, unfazed.
She's never taken anything he's thrown at her too personally, if at all, and this time is no different. He can do or say whatever he wants to her; she doesn't give a damn. All she cares about is her missions, her glorious opportunities to create masterpieces of death in her wake.
Her seat begins to shake as the transport rises off the ground, climbing in altitude before leveling out high above Cairo. Four hours: that's approximately how long they have until the get to Annecy. And it is four hours too long for her tastes. She is impatient for her next mission, for that next flare of life to spark inside her again. With her visor still on, she puts a pair of earbuds in and pulls up her files for the Nepal mission.
And then all there is is the information, the images of Nepal and Hanzo Shimada, and the tinkling of soprano keys of Debussy's Clair de Lune in her mind.
Clarity, and silence.
Jack Morrison can gripe all he wants. Ana's will will not shake. She glares him down with her remaining eye, intense as the glare of the hot sun behind her.
"Fifteen of us are dead, Jack. And you know more will come. None of us are safe," she barks. "Running and hiding won't work, not with two former Overwatch agents hunting us down. They know how we work."
"If we respond to the recall, we will all go to jail, Ana," he snaps. "And then what? We can't do shit behind bars."
"I'd rather be in jail than be dead. Besides, you're already wanted for robbing that bank in Dorado."
"Says the one who's face was plastered all over the walls of Cairo!" The grizzled man runs a hand through his stark white hair, turning away from her. She doesn't need to see the face under that visor to know he is exasperated.
She lets out a heavy sigh, slipping on her own mask. "Well, if you aren't going, I will. I refuse to lose what we have left of our family. And I'm going to get some of it back, if I can help it."
"And how do you know that Amélie didn't choose to join Talon like Gabe did, huh?"
"How do you know they didn't do something to her when they kidnapped her that first time?" she shoots back. "And even if she did choose to join them willingly, we can get information out of her, unlike Gabe. She's wanted for countless murders. I'm sure she can be persuaded."
A tense silence hangs between them for a long time, and they simply stare at one another, neither willing to back down. Then, Jack lets out a begrudging, long exhalation of air; Ana has won this time.
"Fine. Both of us will go back." He lets his pulse rifle hang at his side, defeated. "... Fifteen people. God damn…"
She walks past him, headed for the gates of the compound.
"You're lucky Fareeha wasn't one of those fifteen, Jack." She pauses, looking back over her shoulder at him. The eerie blankness of her mask clashes with her cold, threat-laden voice.
"Because if she was, I'd be leaving here alone."