#double-edged

@chronal-anomaly :

Lena was unafraid. Unafraid of the ghost that was supposedly hunting down former members of her employer, unafraid of what the past had to offer; after all, even she was living on borrowed time. Any day, that could run out. And strangely, she was okay with that.

Boots crunched against broken glass as she moved silently through the destroyed Overwatch base. This one hadn’t seen the damage that the one in Zurich had, but it certainly faced its share of abuse from renegades and squatters. And now, here she was, searching for answers that were long gone. Something, anything, to tell her what happened to her former family, where they might be, what caused that damn explosion.

Perhaps it was his ghostly nature that she missed, his ability to float silently over broken ground. Perhaps it was her refusal to see the shape lurking in the darkness–if she pretended it wasn’t a threat, then it wasn’t. Right? Right.

Lena didn’t make a noise as her hair was yanked back and a knife–long and serrated–brushed her neck, just below her jaw. Shoulders tense, brown eyes darted up to look at the mask designed to give small children nightmares and manged to harden before he could see her surprise.

“Reaper.”

Talon raided old Overwatch safehouses and bases no longer in use on a daily basis. For their own reasons, of course; finding traces of that fickle vigilante, reconnaissance, a simple need to cause chaos when there was none, sit back and watch it unfold from their metaphorical perch.

Sometimes, Gabriel decided that it was a cause worth supporting. Other times, he went on his own venture; turning over stones and examining rubble and bodies to find some breadcrumb that would further his own path.

Most commonly, whoever he ran into were either ghosts or easily disposable idiotas, with the rare exception of Giza. And now, it seemed, another exception. Maybe he was running out of time.

Hah.

“The infamous Tracer,” he murmured, voice twisted and gnarly like the branches of an old, weathered tree from behind the blank ivory of his mask. Fingers were curled loosely around the handle of a blade; not his usual preference, but more silent than a shotgun blast and threatening enough in its own right. Perhaps even enough to confuse Oxton, perceptible and sharp and annoyingly fast of wit as much as on her feet.

Muffliato, an excellent spell not to be overheard in classes.

Valkyon: Double-edged