E X I L E.

     Ever since her reconditioning, Widowmaker was never able to experience a dream or a nightmare when she slept. Her sleep was usually short-lived, and generally only a chance for her body to recover from the day before, but never for the fondness of being in a dream. All she knew is that she woke up in a cold sweat as a result of a series of blurred images.

    In moments, Widowmaker forced herself out of bed and showered, preparing herself for the missions that were scheduled today. Or were they? She could vaguely recall Reaper mentioning something about needing her today, but she couldn’t remember what they were about for the life of her.

    She walked blindly through the base until she came across Moira’s office, and without even realizing it she wandered inside and caught the red-haired woman at her desk. Maybe she would have an idea as to what Reaper was talking about the day before.

    “Moira– do you know anything about the missions today?” The sniper questions, but even her body language is indicative that something is off with her. Normally standing upright, her posture is more relaxed, and her usually stoic expression appears twisted as if she were frustrated. Sitting herself into the chair closest to her desk, she practically slouches into it and turns her gaze onto the other.

    “Reaper mentioned something about them to me and I can’t find him.” She doesn’t even realize the beads of sweat that were sliding down her cheeks or even the strange amount of warmth emanating from her face. “Would you have any idea?”

                                                    Closed starter for @deoradh

The click of heels resonating through the lab’s walls gave indication that someone had stepped in--warranting a sigh as the Scientist was forced to set down her pen and divert her attention away from her work.

With a sweep of the foot, she turns herself in her chair, arms crossed and ready to face the inquiry with a quip of snark--but she pauses.

The assassin before her is ... sweating.  Not to mention the heated tints of her features.

In the lab, almost all who entered complained of the harsh degree she kept the thermostat. It was cold--and given the Widow’s condition--she should be even colder. 

“You look ill.”

She stated bluntly, ignoring the inquiries of the other for the moment as she stood, grabbing hold of her biometric scanner.

Soft bubbling of Bunsen burners and the mixed scratch of a pen hard at work against the rough grain of paper. Along was the harsh scent of chemicals--enough to make anyone dizzy were they not used to it, while steam wafted in swirls from those bursting, bubbling flasks above bright blue flames.

The Geneticist herself, while appearing hard at work, finds her mind adrift. Forcibly refocusing, usually by grounding techniques like pressing her hand harder into the desk, widening her eyes, tapping her foot, does nothing to quell this.

She would have a visitor today that she had not seen in quite some time, and it was making her ...

... Anxious?

For reasons she cannot fathom.

Then there’s phantom pains in her hand and she can no longer sit still, so she stands, hands on hips, glaring at her paper as though it had done her wrong.

Perhaps she needed a breath of fresh air. Pulling a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, heels clicking against tile floor, she took one step outside. Placing a cigarette between her lips, she covered the warmth of the flame with her hand as she lit the end, sealing smoke into her lungs before releasing into the open air.

injury starters . accepting

@khoihuwi

For once, there is nothing stoic about her expression.

The woman appears pale, more pallid than usual--giving her eyes a hallow and sunken look.

Her expression reads pain, though not the worst she’d ever been in. Not by far.

Safely in their ship on the way back to base from the mission, she’d taken to the floor, leaning against the wall and shouldered off her coat to examine the limp arm herself, wincing at nearly every small shift--and yet, she still managed a curl at the lip as she was approached.

She hated--no, despised, being injured in front of another. 

After a moment of silence, suddenly Chronos spoke, earning a furrowed brow and nearly a scoff at the audacity of such a suggestion. Apparently Chronos hadn’t learned her lesson of the last time she’d tried to lay a hand on the Geneticist.

However, as she thought about it ... How would she do this herself? She didn’t trust anyone to pop a bone back into the socket, much less Chronos, but she couldn’t do it herself. It would never heal properly unless moved back into place.

Her expression of disbelief shifted to one of complete seriousness as she looked to Chronos, and nodded--sitting forward slightly.

She was right, it was fast.

Done improperly with a swift, jerking motion, but it worked.

Agony wrenched the limb like it was being squeezed to the bone and pulled--and suddenly with a ‘clunk’ that made her feel faint, it popped back into place spearing sparks throughout her arm and shoulder like a firecracker. She slammed her good hand into the metal tread beneath her, her eyes squeezed shut and teeth grit.

She couldn’t help but feel Chronos was relishing in this.

The Geneticist pulled in a deep breath through her nose, clearing her throat as she carefully pulled her coat back over the throbbing pain, though it was beginning to subside.

“... Thank you.”