Four sets of footfalls, lilting music, gentle whirring of gears. That is how it always starts.
In the five minutes she's been lying awake in the dark, she hasn't heard it. But she will soon. Widowmaker knows this cue too well to think it's a long ways off.
It always tells her the time; the mugs varying in shades of coffee and tea, the small plates of fruit and muffins, and the dark bags beneath most of their eyes mark the early morning in Widowmaker's sunless, makeshift cubicle. And it always tells her what their agenda for the day is. Debussy consistently tugs her through physical examinations; Satie scrutinizes the inside of her body, and Fauré drinks her blood.
Dr. Ziegler's daily explanations of the day's schedule have cemented this correlation in her mind in place of her own experience, for the sedation she is subject to soon thereafter rarely allows her to recall any of the procedures. But there are those flickers of clarity amongst voidless nothing after the cue is said and done, she's noticed - Mercy's grim countenance as she assess a chest x-ray, Ana's hand resting softly on her head as blood is drawn from her arm, Lúcio adjusting a dial on one of the black speakers in her cubicle. There are even other faces that appear occasionally. Sometimes it is Genji supervising a physical exam with Hanzo lingering hawkishly over his little brother, eyeing her with distrust. Sometimes it is McCree, bringing plates of food for the three that can eat. And other times it is Jack or Winston, speaking in hushed tones with one or members of the group.
Widowmaker has collected these short flashes of consciousness eagerly over the past couple of days, tucking away each precious bit of information. The more she can compile on her captors, the sooner she can pick the lock on her cage.
She groggily sifts through her observations thus far, recapping both old and new information. She's found that Lúcio is the easiest to make odds and ends of. Helpful, light-hearted, but still focused, and, most importantly - naive. His questions about the simplest Talon technology and about the results of the tests and their implications attest to his ignorance; his amiable attitude with her and around her, as well as his lack of fear, only affirms it further. If she calculates her moves correctly, Widowmaker notes as she shifts on her bed, she may be able to exploit this viable feature.
Dr. Ziegler and Ana are more enigmatic to her. Their gentle touches and reassurances during procedures are contrasted starkly against their steely looks and dark mutterings during her interactions with them. Their drive is to help her - of that she is sure. What remains obscured to her is their view of her. Do they see the wife of Gérard Lacroix, or do they see her? Without that missing piece of information, she cannot predict their actions - and her chances of escape are significantly lower.
And then there is Zenyatta. Her gaze shifts to the empty spot the monk normally occupies at the thought of him, lips pressed together in a hard line of irritation. While he stays by her side through almost all hours of the day and night, he is the most foreign to her. His lack of facial expression and conversation amongst the others makes him unreadable to her - as does his lack of a Talon profile. All that she can glean from studying him is that his entire being emanates calm, both actively and passively. Even if Widowmaker manages to get a better handle on Mercy and Ana's motivations, she cannot risk attempting to escape without figuring him out first. There is too much at stake.
Thuds reach Widowmaker ears, interrupting her thoughts: footfalls. Another day of humiliation approaches.
She takes a deep breath in through her nose and exhales out of her mouth. She must keep her threadbare poise intact; she needs to gain their trust. She needs them to think she's given up. No matter how repulsive their touch is, no matter how much she wants to squirm, she must exercise this self-discipline in order to achieve the long term objective of returning to Talon.
But there's something off about the footsteps, she notices as they draw near. This is not the normal cue. There is no music to accompany them, nothing to dull the edge of her aggression towards them.
The footsteps stop just outside her makeshift cubicle. Murmuring follows - she can discern Ana and Mercy's voices, but not what is said. After a few moments the two step around the corner. Mercy leads with clipboard in hand. Ana follows with crossed arms.
Widowmaker's attempt at composure crumbles without the foundation of the daily routine.
Mercy approaches the bedside and takes a seat in Zenyatta's usual chair, her crystal blue eyes sweeping over her restrained body. Widowmaker tracks her all the way to sitting position with her eyes, suspicious, unfaltering. What does she want from me?
"Amélie," she says quietly. A simple, one word greeting.
Widowmaker's eyes narrow. "That is not my name."
"It was."
"That is irrelevant."
Mercy sighs, readying the pen in her hand. "Do you know why you are here?"
Widowmaker glares at the doctor with new venom and does not deign her with an answer. If Dr. Ziegler thinks she can get anything out of her while treating her like a child in timeout, she is gravely mistaken. As they all were when they thought they could get information out of her, even with Jack's reluctantly rough handling. Oh, how she laughed at their pitiful attempts.
But she's not laughing now. The peculiar wrongness of this conversation has her on edge.
The doctor studies her for a moment, unreadable. Waiting for a reply that does not come.
And then she sets her jaw.
"The group has decided that we will proceed in trying to rehabilitate you. We have retrieved your medical files, and we are now clear to move forward with any surgical procedures we need to perform."
With just a couple of sentences, her worst fears have become her reality. They will tamper with her. They will violate the sanctity of the body her doctors - Talon - worked so hard to perfect. Her purpose and life will be ripped from her. She will lose herself to them. And there is nothing she can do about it.
Widowmaker's gaze is set alight with rage, lips pulling back to bare her teeth furiously at her captor. Why must they insist on keeping her alive? Are they truly compromising their safety for a woman who does not need to be saved? Wasting time and resources to save someone who no longer exists?
It is foolish. It is insanity.
Curses lie ready on her tongue, but Angela begins speaking again before they can spring from it.
"Because you haven't had food or drink since midnight, we will start within the hour. The pacemaker in your chest currently will be removed. We may choose to implant a new one, if your heart is too used to the pace set by the old one. Or we may not put a new one in at all - we will play it by ear," she says cooly. Like she isn't about to cut open someone and dismantle their very being.
"Va au diable!" Widowmaker spits, writhing against the belts strapping her down to the bed. She refuses to listen to this medical rambling any longer. She does not care if her chances of escape are nil now. She won't be put under again. Not without a fight.
Angela is lucky that she is tied down so well, for if she were not, Widowmaker would tear her throat clean out of her pretty neck.
"Ana. Get the anesthesia ready. It would be best to put her to sleep now to avoid any psychosomatic effects on her body from the distress."
For the next two minutes, all Widowmaker does is scream and thrash. Surprisingly, the belts do loosen - but not even remotely close enough to grant her freedom. But it is enough to make Dr. Ziegler check their integrity. Seeing nothing of worry, she turns away. Pain etched further into her smooth countenance.
"Épargne-moi ta pitié," Widowmaker shrieks as Ana wipes her inner elbow with an alcohol wipe. She does not want it, nor is it logical to have - Talon has made her whole. Talon has given her a purpose. Mercy should not be looking at her with such teary eyes as the IV sticks into her blue flesh.
And yet she does. As she always did with patients in critical condition.
"Je suis désolé, Amélie," Angela replies quietly, resting a hand on Widowmaker's icy forehead.
She'd snarl, if it weren't for the familiar fog billowing into her veins.
Voices. Music. They flutter at the edges of her consciousness. Calm, quiet. Conversation that is too muffled to be able to discern.
Raspy alto rises in volume, no longer calm. Urgent. Insistent.
And then there is pain. Pain that she cannot shrink or retract from. It is inside her, eating her away. Tearing through her chest. Breaking and shattering her ribs. It surges, exponentially multiplying. Fear. Agony.
A man's voice so familiar that if she could smile, she would.
Cold. Something cold pulls at her - colder than she ever was.
Rolling wheels. Something being shoved aside. Warmth in her veins. The cold flees, along with the pain.
Blackness reclaims her.