→ Ｎ Ｙ Ｏ Ｏ Ｍ

There is no objective. There is no necessary need to be up here beyond wanting to know the lay of the land better than prior intel given. They know these lanes as much as a native. They know far more than they’ll ever let on and, yet, they know very little all at once. The lack of apprehension at her arrival does Tracer little good. She does not flinch. She does nothing more than instigate conversation. Such a fly to dart so quickly into a web she hardly sees.

Has she little idea of the den she sits in without hesitation? They have fought before; many times, in fact. Widowmaker would have thought the woman would know when to leave them be to find a better perch. Then again, la femme hasn’t turned to look beyond her short sight. If she had the capability for it, they might have felt pity at the perceived naivety. 

“Bonjor, l'ennui.” 

The words seep through glossed lips without further thought. As members of the same team they must work together, for now. There would be ample opportunity to learn her patterns for them to use against her later on. Bitterness is not a feeling they have but something rankles in distaste at the knowledge the gauntlet had been so easily snatched from their grasp.

“London is a bore.” 

     “Right, of course you would be able to find weekly brawls boring.” She scoffs, almost offended. Off in the distance, the great clock tower rings. A musical, computerized sound has long since replaced the old bell, and she closes her eyes and counts the chimes all the way from one to nine before going on. 

     ( time. if there’s anything she’s learned, it’s to stop and appreciate it while you have it. )

     “And you still haven’t come up with a more creative nickname yet, have you, Amélie? You should know that I can understand what you call me.” She still hasn’t moved, instead sitting back with her arms behind her head and her heels kicked up as if on an invisible footrest. She understands enough french, even if she doesn’t speak it. “You had some creativity once, didn’t’cha? But I suppose that was back when you had a sense of humor too. 'S too bad.”

     Her tone is somewhat light, but not close enough to her usual upbeat demeanor to hide her discomfort. Too dry, too discontent, and even her jokes come off more upset than happy.  

     The lights of this section of King’s Row have, for a long while, been both comforting and disquieting. She’s waiting on a job. She isn’t apprehensive about the work. That’s easy. A bit of shooting, a bit of dashing, hanging out with some old friends, but in the end it’s nothing difficult. It’s something else.

     Her feet hang off the edge of the building. The roof behind her is quiet, but she doesn’t need fancy tech or special training to know that quiet doesn’t always mean empty. Her battle companions know where she is, and when she hears footsteps on the rooftop, she doesn’t bother turning around to see who it is.