She grunted as she spun, the kick landing squarely against his forearm. Gaining momentum, Widowmaker threw a few more jabs towards her sparring partner, who caught each in stride, never losing balance.
“Again!” he growled, the roughness of his voice betraying the monster beneath the man.
Both of their faces were pulled in concentration. Neither had practiced with an equal – or even a challenge – in far too long.
Widowmaker had been hesitant to accept Reaper’s proposal, at first. Once again, she found herself worrying that, should they ever find themselves on opposite sides, he might know all her weaknesses. This was something neither her pride nor her programming could accept.
But, given the circumstances, she needed something to take her mind off the recent recurring visions of her past. And he’d offered her a perfect distraction.
He found an empty warehouse not too far away from the lakeside cottage, with plenty of space and privacy. It was there that they’d been fighting for days– basic workouts at first, working up to one-on-one duels when they felt sure she was ready.
Even still, she’d yet to beat him. Her long legs– perhaps her deadliest asset – would lash out, only to find herself pinned in one position or another under his unrelenting grip. It was certainly frustrating.
Today, they’d been sparring for hours already, taking breaks only so Widowmaker’s heart could return to it’s usual slow pace. He didn’t want her to overdo it, after all, lest the hallucinations return. So far, they hadn’t.
He watched as her usual ponytail followed the shape of her movements, cracking like a whip with every spin.
Widowmaker found herself deftly dodging every heavy punch the Reaper hurled. Finally, sensing an opening, she grabbed his outstretched arm and tried to flip him, but he dissipated in her hand, turning to a mist that swirled around her.
“Mon dieu,” she spat, looking for anything she might recognize… his claws, his mask –
Fiery irises and a wicked grin appeared from the darkness. His arms reappeared suddenly, lashing out at her. She ducked, trying for a sweeping kick along the ground, but his legs had not yet reformed.
Knowing she had just put herself in a vulnerable position, she spun and lifted herself into a back-flip, putting distance between herself and her opponent.
It’s taking a bit for him to re-shape, she noted.
Once he resembled his usual form, she unleashed her grappling hook into the wall behind him and lunged, looking for a choke-hold. Instead, he grabbed the wire with one hand and pulled her into him, and they found themselves face-to-face. He could’ve ended it right there, until he saw her mouth twitch into a little smile.
He caught the slightest twinkle in her eye– she was leaning in, lips parted ever so slightly, and he could’ve sworn she was about to…
…and the next thing he knew, the wind had been knocked out of his barely-living lungs, and the rest of him was on the ground, beneath the sharp heel of her combat boot.
She smirked and offered him a hand.
“Very clever,” he conceded, taking her hand and accepting his defeat.
“I’d feel better if I knew you weren’t going easy on me,” she huffed, winded from the fight.
Reaper considered this, but dismissed it immediately. He wasn’t one to “go easy,” after all.
“We should get back,” he said. “Your vacation ends tomorrow. You’ll need to be well-rested.”
“Very well,” she agreed, satisfied with a single victory after days of aggravating losses.
The Widow and Death gathered their things–his mask, their guns– and headed home.
Inside the cottage, Reaper waited patiently in the parlor while Widowmaker bathed. Since his skin was constantly regenerating, he never seemed to get “dirty,” per se.
He’d grown sort of accustomed to their routine – he’d go about his business until her check-up was done, then they’d train, and in the evening, pass the time talking about anything from missions to music until she was tired enough to rest.
The evening after the nightmare, however, had been a long discussion over whether or not she should take the serum into her body, reinforcing her inability to feel. Reaper, in disdain of the modern technology that resembled the one responsible for what he’d become, suggested good old-fashioned exercise and training instead. And, well, here they were.
He glanced up at the sound of her bare feet against the hardwood floors.
There she stood, in her usual jumpsuit – preparedness a prerequisite, and whatnot. Her wet hair was pulled up in a tight bun, but some shorter strands dusted her face.
“In the hurry to get back,” she said, eyeing him like a cat eyes a bird, “I believe we forgot to stretch, to cool down.”
“You know I don’t have to do that,” he responded immediately.
“Oui, but I do,” she replied, not missing a beat. “Why don’t we dance a bit? I wouldn’t want to wake up sore.”
Reaper quietly pulled his mask off –now, he rarely wore it when it was just the two of them. He was growing fonder every day of having someone see his unearthly countenance without batting an eyelid.
What’s she planning? he wondered.
She waited beside him, one leg in front of the other, arms at her sides. Reaper stood, pushed the coffee table a bit to the side, and extended his right arm.
Widowmaker accepted immediately, and he pulled her into a swift embrace. She spun out from him, extending both their arms, and the dance had begun.
Step after step, they’d meet eyes for just a moment. Then, he would look down, or away, or–in Widowmaker’s case, close her eyes entirely and let him lead for a bit, listening for the swish of his cloak and the clunk of his boots that preceded the next movement.
Reaper occasionally felt a soft chill as the Widow’s breath grazed his neck, his cheek. The hand he rested on her hip rocked back and forth in time with her sensual swaying. She fell in closely, suddenly, her lips just inches from his ear.
“Why did you ‘esitate?” she asked. “Earlier. At the warehouse.”
The Living Death wished, then, that he could retreat into the mist and darkness he knew so well. Why did he hesitate? When she pulled away, the mischief in her eyes suggested she already knew the answer, but wanted to hear him say it.
Volatile from the defeat, his embarrassment quickly turned to something like rage. Passion.
A sturdy arm – one she’d spent much of the day avoiding – wrapped her in a vice, keeping her pressed close to his armored body.
“Blood still runs in these veins, arañita,” he growled, low and dangerous.
She moved a hand that had been bracing herself against him to brush her fingertips along his face, and murmured: “That is all I needed to know.”
With the sum of the strength in her dancer’s feet, she pulled herself through his grip, up into a tip-toe, planting her lips firmly against his.
Like the victim of a fast-acting venom, the Reaper found himself close to paralysis, able only to move in ways that would bring the woman in his arms closer to his poisoned body.
In turn, the Widowmaker wrapped her arms behind his neck, sealing his place in her web.
She knew he’d lifted her off the ground, but hadn’t realized until her back hit the cushions that they were now on the couch. The impact unraveled her hair from the bun, and the locks fell neatly around her face, spilling over the edges of the sofa. A heavy hand slammed down beside her head, and he was on top of her, one arm holding his weight while the other held her delicate chin at just the angle he wanted.
Widowmaker ran a hand over his close-shaved head, finding it surprisingly soft, though some ridges of hidden scars remained. Then, over the broad shoulders and rough leather of his coat, and down to the sleek metal of his chest plate. She felt his presence all around her, and knew he’d used that odd trick of his again to transport them so quickly.
He pulled away abruptly, and she wondered what his next move would be. Examining him through half-lidded eyes, she noticed that, again, it seemed to be taking longer than usual to piece himself back together.
“Mon cher,” she gasped, concern bleeding into her voice, her thoughts.
His head whipped up to the sound of her voice, a part of him longing to hear more. But most of his attention was on keeping it together, even though he was suddenly starved and there she was, looking so tantalizingly unaware of what he was – no, not her, he reminded himself, a blackened, clawed hand reaching up to press against his face, to steady himself in reality.
Widowmaker watched him struggle to reassemble. What she saw was mostly a man, but something had blurred him at the edges. There, she found that black smoky substance that was him, but at the same time, wasn’t.
“What is this? What’s wrong?” she wondered aloud, hoping she hadn’t caused whatever was happening to her companion.
“No, I just… haven’t…” he coughed, then growled at his weakness, the frustration serving only to dishevel him further.
Precisely, he thought, though he couldn’t find his voice at the moment. He’d been so focused on her, and her recovery, he’d started to neglect his own form’s requirements. He had felt the hunger tugging at the seams of his being, but put it off. He’d held out far longer than this before – but never while keeping his old, human body in tact, he now realized.
It had been over a week since his last satiation.
In the blink of an eye, Widowmaker was up, armed, and using her standard-issued holo-screen to search Talon’s hit list. In a motion as simple as brushing her teeth, Widowmaker assigned herself to a basic group-assassination, and the authorization came through promptly.
“Let’s go,” she said, pulling her hair up into her signature ponytail, and throwing a few personal effects into a duffel bag.
“Wheeeere?” The voice that came from Reaper’s form was only half-his.
“To feed,” she replied simply, calling up her personal aircraft. It auto-piloted to their location, from where she’d hidden it in the forest, within minutes. As she opened its door, Reaper ghosted inside.
Widowmaker’s mind raced while she took the piloting seat, setting their coordinates for a small island town in Greece.
I kissed him, she told herself, and the words sounded wrong even in her own mind. I kissed him, and he turned into a monster.
She glanced back at him in the reflective surface of the windshield, and noted he was neither better nor worse than minutes before. At the center of the mess, was still him. But much of his outfit, limbs and hair were constantly swirling in and out of view, wisps of solidified darkness playing at the outline of his form. His eyes were closed tight in concentration, but every now and again Widowmaker felt the burning gaze on the back of her neck, her shoulders, and had the strange sensation of being locked in a cage with a starving beast.
She pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind, refocusing on the task at hand. Child’s play, really, but after their last mission, she was determined to execute this one flawlessly. The recon had already been performed; all that was left was to deal the killing blow.
She clutched at the single syringe of the Widowmaker’s serum she’d swiped on their way out, deliberating whether or not to take it now.
Another episode, especially during a mission, was a serious concern. The other, edging into priority over the first, was the thought that if she ruined this, and the Reaper kept degenerating, it would be her fault.
At that, she set the aircraft to auto-pilot, and plunged the needle into her arm, just like the scientists had taught her. Liquid ice flowed once more, and she gave a little shiver as it settled in.
The time it would take for the serum to circulate, in such a small dose, was less than the flight time by her calculations. She sat back, then, dropping the empty plunger into her bag, and pulling the Widow’s Kiss into her lap. She closed her eyes, and let her slow-beating heart do its job.
In the silent black sky, Death and the Widow flew, readying to descend on their targets like predators in the night.
Thanks to all the awesome folks who continue to read and leave great feedback for me.
The new highlight intro was simply too good not to use in this chapter! My goals for the next few chapters, without giving too much away, are to try and incorporate some in-game places and people into the story more frequently. Here’s to hoping!
titsay
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