The time will come one day where the Widowmaker has a dossier dropped on her lap of her next two targets: Karine and Émile Leroux. 

Her parents are elderly now. Likely retired in the lap of luxury, still mourning the loss of their only child, and beloved son-in-law. The assassin has never bothered to discover their whereabouts or doings since she left her former life. 

Thriving parents who were once loved dearly are the best pawn Talon has after Gérard. The perfect test of loyalty well into her tenure with the terrorist organisation. 

A decision would have to be made. When she’s given these names, does she finally turn her back on Talon and risk the consequences worse than death? Or does  she do as she’s told? As she always has? 

A mid-point would to be to kill another older couple. Feign innocence when it’s discovered they were the wrong targets. 

There’s so little of her former life left, that she’s growing sentimental. These trinkets ought to be preserved. There are other ways to test her loyalty. Something in her will stir. Anger. Hatred. Fatigue. How much longer can she respond to whims outside of her interest? Leave the old fools be, she doesn’t care about them. 

No position for her to be asking questions, but there she is, at the wrong end of the assassin’s rifle. This tactic has never been used on her before, she suspects the aim is to distract, so she remains vigilant. 

“You want to know what we’re going to do with you? Do you like horror stories, chérie? Your life will become one as your exposed to your deepest fears again and again until you cannot feel anything anymore.” Her hand slides to the pouch strapped to her leg, and she removes a mine, throwing it in the air, and shoots it, dispersing a purple plume around them. She moves to grab the woman who should no doubt be unconscious soon, so she has no qualms saying the next part: 

i saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked // tyger tyger, burning bright // i have done it again. // do not go gentle into that good night. // the sea is calm to-night. // let us go then, you and i, //april is the cruelest month, //pretty women wonder where my secret lies. // there is a place where the sidewalk ends // i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart) // two roads diverged in a yellow wood,// whose woods these are i think i know // let us twain walk aside from the rest; //once upon a midnight dreary, while i pondered, weak and weary, // i taught myself to live simply and wisely //

it so happens i am sick of being a man // i wandered lonely as a cloud // does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? // o my love is like a red, red rose // o captain! my captain! our fearful trip is done; // out of the night that covers me, // it was many and many a year ago, // you may write me down in history // do not stand at my grave and weep // some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. // hope is the thing with feathers // the wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, // no man is an island, // remember me when i am gone away, //

i met a traveler from an antique land // ‘twas brillig, and the slithy toves // this is thy hour o soul, // when we wear the mask that grins and lies, // death be not proud, // and death shall have no dominion. // laugh, and the world laughs with you; // the art of losing isn’t hard to master; // to see a world in a grain of sand // is there anybody there? said the traveler //nobody heard him, the dead man, // that crazed girl improving her music. // come to me in the silence of the night; // where the mind is without fear and the head is held high //when you are old and grey and full of sleep, //

in flanders’ fields the poppies blow // i thought of you and how you love this beauty // life, believe, is not a dream // it may be misery not to sing at all, // if starry space no limit knows// come live with me and be my love, // had we but world enough and time, // my heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense // bright star, would i were steadfast as thou art– // thou still unravish’d bride of quietness // how do i love thee? let me count the ways. // heaven is what i cannot reach! //

my dear, my dear, i know // in visions of the dark night // shall i compare thee to a summers day? // break, break, break // she walks in beauty, // i had a dream, which was not all a dream. // he clasps the crag with crooked hands

tagged by; @amesyeuxrien

Aliases 

Widowmaker’s various names she goes by is dependent on her nebulous sense of identity. Amélie isn’t a forgotten part of her, but she feel too distant to feel okay reclaiming the name. Typically, she doesn’t care if someone calls her by that name, but it’s not her. She’s used the delusion of someone thinking she’s Amélie for advantage and manipulation, but that’s really all the name is good for. 

Danielle is her given middle name, and it feels more apt for the simulacrum of a civilian life, as it were. As mentioned above, she’s manipulative and cunning. Despite her human desires, she’s exiled herself from human life. Her actions are reckless yet calculated. She’s just close enough to self-destruction before actually meeting total annihilation of herself. It eases the boredom. It makes her feel something. 

Hand-in-hand with Danielle is Widowmaker, the professional. Widowmaker does what she’s told, and does so perfectly. Any error is at the fault of someone else. In many ways, Widowmaker is more like Amélie than Danielle is. Both are focused and driven, and eager to move up in rank. Both are blank easels ready to be whatever they need to be. The main difference is deep, deep empathy versus apathy. 

Amélie likes warmth and sunlight and life. She was born in late spring, just before summer, and there’s a part of her that will never shake how good the sun feels warming up the waters of a sandy beach, or shining through the leaves of a forest trail’s canopy. 

She recognizes warmth is essential to life. From the spider she keeps needing heat to warm her muscles, to the energy that so often comes with it. Her cold body is much like a reptile’s, but the chill is not an asset to her. She will say it doesn’t bother her, but the truth is it does very much. They took that very warmth from her body and soul to make her stable. Dormant. She’s carefuller and more calculated but at the cost of failing health, and a part of herself she can never get back. 

Repost and bold all of the themes that apply to your muse’s aesthetic or mood as a character.

Bloodied knuckles | Tear stained cheeks | Rust | A busted lip | Claws | Fangs | A bloody nose | Chattering teeth | A dark space underneath the bed | Scratching noises on a wall | Creaking metal | Fog | Dancing under moonlight | Blood dripping lips | Heavy breathing in the dark | A feeling of unexplained dread | A figure in a dark corner |  Dirty peeling wallpaper | A bloody handprint on the wall | Sobbing in the dark | Bite marks on the skin | Eerie whispers | A hood covering a stranger’s eyes | The growl of a hidden animal| The sound of a blade being sharpened | A deep, dark forest | Walking on the streets alone at night | A cobweb-filled, abandoned building  | A heavy beating pulse | The feeling of being trapped | Struggling to get out a scream | Boards covering broken windows | A quiet graveyard | A gas station in the middle of nowhere | A road that never ends |Heavy fog rolling in | The scent of blood in the air | Eerie old photographs | Walking along traintracks at night | A chill going up the spine | Gathering crows | A dusty, dimly lit study | Mist over a deserted cobblestone street | Ghost towns | Shadows around a campfire | The sound of chanting | Church bells tolling | An orange harvest moon | A broken down carnival | A dirty stuffed animal abandoned | Wiping bloody hands on fabric | Nightmares | Waking up in a panic | A power outage | Heavy lightning storms | A secret trap door | The feeling of being watched | Fear from trauma | A Ouija board set out on a table | An eerie doll | A scream of anguish and pain | Withered plants | A room that’s been forgotten and gathered dust | Owl eyes in the dark | Curled, dead tree branches | A ritual altar | Flickering candles | A lantern held up in the dark | Fear of being followed | Creaking floorboards | Repressed, horrible memories | Clenched teeth | Soft, echoing piano keys | An old book covered in dust | Many pairs of glaring eyes | Stumbling in pitch black darkness | Being stranded in the middle of nowhere | Tarot cards on a table | A trail of blood

tagged by: @frxgmcntcd