#ginger spider

A scene that I could not draw... Amélie mermaid wearing a diving mask. hahaha This scene is from a Under the glowing light - chapter 3

The Armourer and the Living Weapon, Chapter 5: "'Hello, cherie,' said the Widowmaker, quietly, in her ear"

[AO3 link]

Definitely not here, thought Oilliphéist, scanning the apartment through her infravision sights. But not so long gone, either.

She'd had no trouble identifying Lena Oxton's King's Row apartment. Tracer's recurring presence had never been a secret to anyone, and Widowmaker already had a pretty decent estimate of the location, before. Emily keened a little, inside, thinking of her, and her absence, and shook it off, floating back up above it, happily. Soon, she thought, smiling again.

She ghosted over to the most likely balcony, and looked in. Definitely the Oxton apartment - who else would have a charging station appropriate for a chronal accelerator? Alarmed, almost certainly, thought the assassin. Police won't be an issue, but other Overwatch agents might be. We should move quickly, when we do.

Her comm vibrated, silently, the haptics tapping against her skin, and she enabled her earpiece. "Oilliphéist here," she subvocalised.

"Hello, cherie," said Widowmaker, quietly, in her ear. "I have missed you so very, very much."

Emily gasped, entire body tingling, spinning around from the glass door, no longer subvocalising. "Oh, oh, oh, beloved, where are you? Are you nearby?" She reactivated her infravision, scanning quickly around her, near and far, without finding her lover. "I don't see you..."

"I am not where I think you are. You are in London, I suspect?"

"Of course, Moira sent..." said the newer assassin, without thinking, then, upon thinking, not caring she said it. "You are not?"

"No. Not at the moment. But I am desperate to see you."

"I am coming, I promise, I will rescue you, I will bring you home, I swear," the armourer said. "Did you get my message, the one I left via the camera?"

"Yes, I did - you were right, that one was mine."

"Can you speak freely? Are you being monitored? Tell me how to retrieve you."

"Yes, but yes - Tracer is here - and I do not need rescue. My plan has been to rescue you, once you received my gift."

"Once I re..." She blinked, and thought, and thought again, and fire, lovely fire, raged through her mind. "You... you arranged all this?"

"I was certain they would accept your petition, if I disappeared. I'm sorry you got hurt on the way out, but - it did, at least, appear to provide cover."

Emily sank to her knees, shaken, more than she imagined she could be. "You... you did all that, all on your own, just for me?"

"Yes. I was so afraid it did not work, and then, I finally saw you..."

"Oh, beloved, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you, I am so happy, all the time, everything is..." she stretched, feeling her body, feeling every cell and sinew and rod, "...wonderful."

"They... did not disable your emotions, as they did with me? You do not need that kind of rescue?"

"No. Aunt Moira had a free hand, she left me happiness - and she wanted to give that to you, too. But I told her, there was no need, we'd already done that ourselves, oh, love, you're so brilliant..."

It worked, thought the Widowmaker, back in Gibraltar, gasping softly, quietly, sinking back into the console's chair. It worked. She smiled, as broadly as she had at Lena when she realised they'd both played each other into actual love, and Lena nodded, and squeezed the senior assassin's hand.

"Tracer," Emily said, a hard edge to her voice, "Since you are listening: you will release Widowmaker, at once. Let her come to me, freely, and I will allow you to live."

Lena shrugged, hands in the air, uncertainty on her face, and mouthed, "You gonna tell her? 'Cause she needs to know." Widowmaker nodded her agreement.

"Emily - I am not a prisoner. Lena has been aiding me in this. At first... we were using each other, but..." she swallowed, "...it became more than that, much like it did with you. I still love you, more than anything else, even the kill, but... I also love her. We want you to come be with us, and away from Talon. Talon would never permit what I have become, and I will not go back to what I was."

Oilliphéist frowned, and tilted her head, and thought, What matters most?, and thought some more. "Everything else aside... you still love me."

"More than anything I have ever known in my world."

Bliss washed over the newer assassin like luminescent ocean waves, and she closed her eyes and rocked herself, diving through the joy. "And her?"

"You'll notice... she is still alive."

Oilliphéist breathed out long and slow, accepting the statement on an almost primal level, knowing exactly what the Widowmaker meant - yes, she thought, she does, more than she is even willing to admit. She nodded, and smiled, again, though no one could see. Ah, my spider, she thought, always weaving such beautiful webs. "Then... then I don't care. If you want her, too, I don't mind. But we have to meet, in person, to work this out. Just us. I have to know you aren't being... coerced."

"Where?"

"Hoof & Haunch, King's Row, seven o'clock tomorrow night? They're already used to your new girlfriend, surely they can handle two women showing up in blue..."

My home turf, Lena thought, and smirked. And it'll be two on one, if things go south. Easy peasy. But let's not count chickens. She looked at Jesse, Jesse who'd done this kind of thing before, Jesse who had experience in King's Row, Jesse, who could shoot flies off horses at range, and mouthed, "Backup?" And he nodded, and Lena smiled. Three on one. She turned to Winston and mouthed, "Pilot and backup?" And he nodded as well. Four on one. She tries anything, she'll never know what hit her. We've got this.

"I'm willing if you are," said the Overwatch agent.

Over comms, Oilliphéist's voice, or no, Emily's, specifically, again, so familiar. "How 'bout it, Blue? Is it a date?"

Widowmaker narrowed her eyes, weighing possibilities. Emily couldn't call on Talon for support - the video showed that clearly. It would be her, possibly a few of Moira's personal agents... and not much else. All she'd need to do would be to convince Emily there wasn't any going back, and her original plan would come together, exactly as she'd planned.

I overreacted to the video, she decided. We can fix this. Most of it has already fixed itself. They could repair the rest of it, she felt sure.

Widowmaker smiled. "It sounds wonderful. We'll see you tomorrow."

"I can't wait."

-----

Lena wandered the halls of Watchpoint Gibraltar, late at night, alone, carrying Widowmaker's Kiss on her back, the assassin asleep on the double bed in in Lena's new quarters. Even with much of the new Overwatch together in one place, and generally one building, the facility felt cavernous.

She walked up to the old control centre, lately Winston's office, and looked out the bevelled window. Her flyer sat quietly, below. Tomorrow, they'd take a heavier craft, one with more gear, enough for Winston to scan for incoming hostiles from Talon, or Vishkar, or whoever else might be oh so very interested in the two products of Moira's Widowmaker process.

A door opened, and closed, behind her, and she looked back, over her left shoulder. "Hello," said Winston, loping down the hall. "I thought I heard somebody out here."

"Y'have good ears, y'know that?"

"I do."

Tracer grinned. "Ready for tomorrow, big guy?"

"Are you?"

"I think so."

"I'm surprised you're out here alone, given that you're carrying her rifle. She didn't seem to want it out of her sight, before."

"I asked her, before she went to bed. She... stocks up on sleep before missions? Does that make sense? Says it builds up cellular energy storehouses, so she doesn't have to eat or sleep in the field." Lena shifted the Kiss on her back, just to feel it move. She liked the reminder of her presence - she felt nice, an odd thing to feel about a firearm, but true nonetheless.

"How'd you get here, Lena?" asked her oldest friend.

"Flyer's right there, luv, don't you remember?" she joked.

"Lena..."

The teleporting pilot bit her lower lip, and thought. "You know the story. Thought I was playin' her. Turned out, I wasn't, I was playin' myself. Same for her."

"You raged for a month after she killed Mondatta."

"I know." She shifted the Kiss again, subconsciously.

"You're carrying the weapon that killed him."

"I know."

"And you're... fine with that?"

"It's... complicated." She pulled Widowmaker's rifle off her back, holding it gently, not putting it down. "It's... you weren't there, luv. You can't know. I screamed when I saw what she'd done. I howled. I could've just killed her, if I'd been able, and at the same time, I couldn't." She ran her hands along the firearm's bluish-grey casing. "It... it wasn't just me bein' angry, and it wasn't just me grieving... it was... I felt so... betrayed."

"Betrayed, that she did... exactly what we'd expect? Exactly what she came to do?"

"Yeh," she nodded, still looking at the rifle.

"That doesn't make any sense. Anger makes sense. Grief makes sense. How could you feel betrayed, unless..." and his eyes widened.

Lena took a big, deep breath. "Y'got there. Can't feel betrayed by somebody if y'don't care for 'em, and y'can't feel betrayed like that unless it's strong."

"Already? Then?"

Tracer just nodded.

"I... I had no idea. You barely even knew Amélie."

"Didn't know her at all, luv! Not even sure we ever met. I don't have that excuse."

"Then... how? Why? "

"Dunno. It was always just her, just Widowmaker, since the first time we ever met, but some part of me knew. Just took the rest of me a while to figure it out, that's all."

"She still killed Mondatta."

"Yeh, she did. And she didn't feel a thing, yet - least, not much of anything, other than the kill. But while all that's true... she didn't kill me, when she could've. My accelerator was barely holding me in time, I couldn't've fought her - I was done. She could've finished me, or, worse, taken me back with her, to be... transformed, like she was."

"And she didn't," he said, understanding, at last.

"And she didn't. Even hid me from her extraction team. Took me a while to figure that out, but I got there eventually." Lena pulled the Kiss close to herself, held it tightly for just a moment, and slipped it carefully back over her shoulder. "And if we can reach each other... maybe she can reach Em." She shook her head. "Emily."

"You just don't give up on people, do you?"

Tracer grinned her famous half-grin, and fuzzled her best friend's hair. "Nope! Leastways, not if I can help it."

"Never change, Lena." He patted his best friend's back. "Never change."

This chapter is worksafe. But I will repeat the CW: this story, as a whole, is going to be be pretty fucked up. Yes, more so than the chapter that needed a cut for violence. You have been reminded.

[AO3 link]

"That's her, then?"

"Her, now, yes," Widowmaker replied to Tracer, as the video from her security cameras rolled. "She ... looks much the same, really, other than her colouring." She tilted her head, and smiled. "So beautiful," she whispered, hands raised in front of her mouth. And beautifully done, love. Oh, you must be so happy.

"She gonna get anything from that laptop?"

The assassin snorted. "No. I bricked it before 'defecting' - the login screen appears to work, and network probes will show an apparently functional system, but in reality there's nothing there to be found."

"Nice. Useless and delaying," said the Overwatch agent.

"Thank you."

"You really should come in," said Winston, over comms. He'd also been watching the video, a mix of worried and impressed. "We can provide a lot more protection here, at Gibraltar."

"She's fast," said Tracer. "But not as fast as me. I can take 'er."

"Do not underestimate her," said the assassin. "She is still feeling her way into herself. I am... concerned, given what I see here."

Lena turned to her lover. "Should we go in, then? It'd be safer, that's for sure."

"If it is an option, I... I think so. I want to contact her - I think I can still reach her - but I want to do it on my terms, not hers." She reached towards the display, unconsciously, touching it. I miss you so much, but I am afraid...

Winston blanched. "The offer wasn't for..." He frowned. "No. I won't do that. I'll talk the others into accepting it, one way or another. The offer is to you both. Lena, should I send an Orca?"

"Nah, I've got my flyer. I can get us there on my own." She leaned over towards the padd's camera. "I know it's gonna be a fight, so - thanks, luv. You're the best."

Widowmaker kept watching the footage as the two Overwatch agents talked, wishing she had audio, as Emily looked up, out of the corner of her eye, noticing, at last, the camera that had witnessed her exhibition. She gave it a discerning look, smiled, chained up to it, and blew a kiss, mouthing, "I love you. See you soon."

-----

"No, she wasn't there," Oilliphéist said, sadness in her voice. "Not in weeks, I don't think."

Moira nodded across visual comms. "I am entirely unsurprised, but we had to check."

"I ran into Sven, though! It was so nice to see him again. But he was leading a strike team, and they attacked me so I killed them all. He apologised, before he died, and it was so sweet. I told him not to worry - we'd bring Widowmaker home."

The doctor nodded, looking a little concerned. "Did you dispose of the bodies?"

"Oh, absolutely. I swept the entire building clean. I even dusted!" It wouldn't do to leave a mess in Widow's house, after all.

"Did he say anything more?"

"Just that they were hoping to beat anyone else to her."

Moira nodded. "Yes - Akande changed his mind about that once a particular someone found out about you. You're certain you got them all?"

"Oh, yes - it was great fun, you'd have loved to see it. And once I catch up to Widowmaker, maybe you might - I found a couple of active cameras, and I'm pretty sure they were hers."

"Good. Hopefully, I will - I'd've liked to monitor your first real field performance for analysis purposes." She steepled her hands together. "How do you feel?"

"Wonderful," she said, bliss warming her voice. "Everything is so perfect."

"Thank you. Now, if you'd kindly move on to London - Oxton will appear there sooner or later, and I don't see any reason you can't set up a welcome home party. But lay low until then, do you understand?"

"Awwww," said the killing machine, "do I have to?"

"Yes, but don't worry, if my intelligence teams get a definite location on either of them, you'll be the first to know."

Oilliphéist smiled. "You're so good to me."

"Yes," said the Oasis Minister of Genetics. "I am."

-----

Lena landed her personal flyer outside the Overwatch facility's main entry door, the large one, next to the guidance tower. Over comms, Athena chirped, "Welcome back to Watchpoint Gibraltar, Lena Oxton. Winston is waiting for you inside. Widowmaker, it is required that you leave your rifle in the flyer."

"No," said the Talon assassin, flatly. "Under no circumstances."

"I assure you it will go untouched, and that this facility is quite secure."

Lena broke in. "She can't, Athena, it's part of her. Winston, you there?"

"Hi, Lena. Yes, I am. There has to be a way to do this - her being disarmed on base is the price for sanctuary."

Widowmaker shook her head, and repeated, firmly, "No," while thinking, This may have been a mistake.

"Widow," said Lena, "you've let go of her before, a lot of times. I've seen you. You don't sleep with her. I mean... I know."

"Of course," she smirked. "But she's always in reach."

"Would..." The teleporter's brow furrowed. "...would you trust me to hold her for you?"

"You do not know what you are asking," said the Talon assassin.

"I... I think I might."

The assassin breathed in sharply, surprised, a little shaken despite herself. "And you are asking intentionally?"

"I am," she nodded, looking into the spider's eyes. Not looking away, she continued, "Winston, would that do? Will the team accept it? If not, we... should just leave now."

The blue woman contemplated the offer, hard, diving into racing thoughts, weighing the options, taking a long, deep breath... and found, to her surprise, when she resurfaced, that she was already offering Lena Oxton the Kiss.

Lena nodded solemnly, taking the extension of her lover's self gently into her arms. "Are there... correct ways to handle her?"

"No," whispered the assassin. "Just... just care. And trust."

"May I use her strap, to put her over my shoulder?"

"Of course."

"Thank you," Lena said, gently. She shifted the rifle onto her back with gentleness, letting her lay against the side of her accelerator. She was surprisingly light, and felt unexpectedly comfortable resting there, on her back. "I have the Kiss, Winston." She felt a little like crying, while smiling - a strange feeling, but a good one. "Widowmaker is unarmed. So... how 'bout it?"

Five tense minutes passed before the comms board lit up with Winston's voice. "It was an argument, but... good enough, for now."

Lena let out a long hoooo, and offered Widowmaker her hand. "It'll be all right. Nobody else touches her. Nobody." The assassin took her lover's hand in her own, squeezing it, wordlessly.

Together, Widowmaker and Tracer stepped out of the flyer, Widowmaker sticking close by Lena's side, heading towards the base's massive, reinforced primary doors. Entering, they heard Athena's voice over the soft hissing of the door's quiet glide, saying, "Your sanctuary status is confirmed. Welcome to Watchpoint Gibraltar, Danielle Guillard,” and Widowmaker smirked, just a little. Clever, she thought. But now I know you know.

Lena blinked, eyes adjusting to the lower light. “Winston? You in here?”

“I am,” he said, meeting them as they rounded the corner. “Conference room A, please. Follow me.”

The three agents maintained a tense silence as they made their way up the stairs and down the short hallway and to the door. “After you,” said the scientist, opening the door. Lena smiled, a bit determinedly, and nodded to the assembled Overwatch agents, who smiled at her, and did not smile at her spider.

"Where's Ana?" Lena asked, while sitting down, just to get it out of the way. It was, after all, the largest elephant of several in the room.

"On her way back to Egypt," Angela replied, from her position at the table. "She was vehemently opposed to this, and, well..."

"Fareeha too?" Lena asked, just before the rocketeer burst in, and kissed Angela on the head.

"Sorry for the late," said the flying agent, before she noticed Widowmaker's rifle on Tracer's back, and Widowmaker herself, unarmed, next to her. She shuddered a little. "That is a very strange sight."

Lena snickered, just a little. "Yeh, I bet. She's not heavy, tho'. Hardly know she's there, and me havin' her seems to keep everyone happy enough."

"I cannot tell if you're talking about the rifle or the assassin," Genji added.

"Both?" hoped Lena. Widowmaker glared a little, but also smiled a little, and it was hard to tell which carried more weight.

"Happy enough," interjected Jack Morrison, "for now." He shook his head. "So. This new operative. Do we have a codename for her, or is it just... Emily?"

"Just Emily, so far."

"Knowing O'Deorain," muttered Angela, "it will be something dramatic, and almost cartoonishly Irish."

Widowmaker glanced at the Overwatch doctor and laughed a little, a mix of surprise and actual agreement, covering her mouth with her hands to keep it from becoming a giggle. Lena laughed, too, but everyone else in the room just stared at the legendary assassin in shock.

"You can laugh?" asked Mei-Ling, first to recover.

"She's pretty funny once you get her goin'," chirped Lena. "You'd be surprised!"

"Yes!" said Mei. "I would!"

Widowmaker reverted to her cool, aloof public self before admitting, "The doctor is... entirely correct. It will be both. I suspect it is why she was not permitted to name me. But if she has a free hand, it will be exactly as Dr. Ziegler suggests." She smirked at at the Overwatch medical lead. "Did you work with her in Blackwatch, Angela? Or is this knowledge of her habits more recent?"

"A bit of both," replied the doctor, carefully. "We shared data on a few projects, until I discovered her complete disinterest in ethical standards. And with her position as genetics secretary in Oasis, I cannot completely avoid her even now - not even knowing her Talon connections." She peered at the Talon defector. "But... do you remember me... Danielle?"

The assassin considered the question. "The correct way to put it would be that I have access to memories of you, even if they are not mine, and I do not process them as such."

"Compartmentalisation or complete dissociation?"

"I am not a psychologist. But... I believe the latter would be the more correct... term? Phrase?" She tilted her head, a small frown on her face. "I am surprised you accept this so readily. You haven't even hinted about trying to undo me, to put Amélie back together."

"I knew Amélie well," the medical doctor said, old ache surfacing just a bit into her voice. "And... I have some idea of what they did, physically. She is gone, and, facial features aside, you are nothing like her."

"Thank you," said the sniper, dismissing the smallest of doubts and the tiniest of disappointments from her mind, for now.

"You're welcome," said the doctor. "Let's move on from this painful topic, shall we?."

"Yes," agreed Winston. "We have given you sanctuary. Are you willing to give us intelligence on Talon?"

"If you..." she scowled, and started over. "If we can deal in a satisfactory way with our situation with Emily - meaning that the three of us are safe and alive - and if Overwatch is part of that... I will be willing to provide as much information as I have about Talon to you."

The scientist gorilla nodded, as Morrison jumped in. "A little sweetener wouldn't hurt. How can we know what they bothered telling you? How much of that is even real?"

"A fair critique, that this will answer." She picked up a notepad from the table, and a pen, and wrote down four names, four intelligence groups, and a series of numbers. "These are the top Talon moles in MI5, MI6, Interpol, and the DGSE. I have worked directly with each of them in the past; they report to Akande's personal intelligence director. The numbers are the routing codes through which they receive their payoffs." She slid the notepad across the table. "You're welcome."

Hana Song leaned in, and looked at the names. "Woah, that's - you came prepared!"

"I did."

"How'd they piss you off?" asked Morrison. "What'd they do?"

Widowmaker raised a single eyebrow. "I did not realise you were so insightful."

"Well?"

The assassin smirked. "One was sloppy on an assignment and will probably be discovered soon on her own. One has held a grudge against me since I broke his hand for putting it on my body without my permission; he is not smart enough to realise he was very lucky I did not kill him at the time. The third booked me in the worst hotel in Amsterdam for an assignment and I had to burn my luggage. The fourth..." she shook her head. "Who carries around tubs of butter and salt in their pockets to eat as a snack? It is grotesque, and he needs to die."

"Really?! " said Lucio, over comms, from Brazil. "Just... straight butter?"

"With added salt. From his pocket."

"That's just weird."

"Be happy you have not even been burdened with the smell. Death is the only correct response."

Morrison flinched visibly, and, after a moment, said, "...I can't argue with that as much as I should." He blew out a breath, cheeks puffed, putting the imagined odour out of his mind. "If these check out..."

"They will."

"...then this will already have been worth it, as far as I'm concerned."

"Try not to implicate me in their extraction," said the assassin. "They are by no means the only Talon agents in European intelligence." The 'and I have the names of more' was left implied.

Yes, it's Wednesday, not Thursday, but Thursday this week is Second Thanksgiving, so I'm posting this a day early. ^_^

[AO3 link]

This chapter is pretty violent, so I'm putting it under a cut.

Oilliphéist wandered through the upper halls of the empty Château Guillard. So this is where the other half has been living, she thought, dreamily. It's nice. She danced through the halls, with their old, grey walls, and their old... no... it's not all grey, is it?

Hello, she thought, turning the corner. New paint! Not fresh, not wet - dry, with sealed canisters full of more, put away, for the moment, obviously to be used later, blue, blue like her blue, blue not entirely unlike her own blue, and she put her hand up on it, comparing the colours, smiling - not the same, but well paired.

I wonder if Talon would let us live together, now, she thought, smiling, still so light, so calm. Ah, it doesn't matter, does it? Moira will make sure they will.

Oh, this room's red! A library? An office? A bit of both, maybe? Most importantly, an actual laptop, obviously the spider's home system, and she rushed over towards it, feeling as though she was gliding, so smooth, so light.

Logged out, of course, and in standby, and she had no idea what the password might've been, though the login - Danielle Guillard - made her smile, again. I'll take this with me, she decided.

Turning, she looking around the room, catching the scent of her other half, and keened a little, missing her so much more now, so much more, and that's when she saw her face - an old picture, not blue, but pale pink, and not truly her spider, her weapon, but Amélie, Amélie with him, Gérard, and she snarled from memory, and ran over to the frame, grabbing it, You fool, you wretched idiot, she is mine now, and...

...she realised she didn't care. At least, not presently - only in memory. She'd been so... jealous? Was that the word? No. But something, and now nothing. That was new. She'd hated Gérard - not that she'd ever met him - for every reason and for none, and had cheered when Widowmaker had killed him, her first kill outside training, so beautiful... but now, he was nothing, and the memories faded to grey.

She looked at the frame again. A photograph of a dead man and a lost woman, that's all. Irrelevant to her, to her spider, to her mission, and she wondered why she still held the frame, and she put it back down, back where it had sat before she picked it up, only disturbed dust revealing it had been touched.

Footsteps. Boots. Heavy, coming from the wine cellar. Two groups, she could hear them, the sound bouncing off the walls differently, six in each. The sound of ammunition and belts and guns. A silent alarm, triggered by the picture? Or just by her presence in the room. It doesn't matter. But then, she thought, neither do they. Target practice!

She smiled, broadly, readied her rifle, and relocated herself to a better position, just to see what they'd do - and what they did was demand surrender and open fire, with very little time between, but she was no longer there, and she returned fire, anticipating their dodges, watching them run side to side in such obvious, predictable patterns, and she made a game of it - this one, shot through the left eye, this one, shot through the right, this one, the centre of the forehead, this one from above, the final two in group one, up close, a domino shot, temple to temple to temple to temple, and she laughed, joyously and freely, bathed in blood and wonder.

She didn't even notice the Talon insignia until she was halfway through the second six, and it cost her a moment, a moment of grace, and for that, she grew angry, and so, she left the last one alive, constraining, for the moment, her delight in deaths, as she stood over him, his spine broken, his legs useless, her fangs, her two sharp blades, at his neck, not even blessing him with gunfire.

"Why?" she asked, "were you such fools?" as she doodled with one blade's tip along his carotid artery, imagining the blood it would draw with just the slightest bit more pressure. "Were you looking for her? You would've fared no better."

"...Em?" said the Talon soldier, through a cough. "...Emily?"

Oilliphéist tilted her head just a little to the side. Emily? Oh, of course, Emily. Who she once was, who she still was, though she hadn't even thought the name since reawakening. "Ooooooh, I remember you! Sven, isn't it?" Her smile shifted, just a little. "How's the new ammo working out?" She looked around. "Oh. Not well, I suppose. But I guess that's mostly my fault."

"Emily, why, why do you look like Widowmaker, have you been..."

"Ah, ah, ah, that's not an answer." She poked him, just a bit, with the tip of the fang. "I liked you, Sven. You always took such care of your rifles and pistols, they'd come back so clean, so nicely kept. I'd hardly have to work on them at all. So... why all this?"

"We thought... we thought you were her. Orders are to secure and kill or capture."

"Oooh, an upgrade for you, too? Orders-wise, at least? Last I heard, it wasn't a search, it was just... on opportunity."

"We're, we were supposed to beat anyone else to her."

Oooooh, very interesting, she thought. "So you don't know where she is either, then?"

"No, we don't. Em, please... Let me patch myself up, I'll say we attacked you first, that I'm sorry, it was our fault..."

"Oh, no, it's fine, Sven, I don't mind at all - it was an honest mistake," she reassured him, just before she sliced through his neck, and cleaned her blade, watching the blood pool so elegantly along the grout of the stonework, spreading everywhere as his eyes stilled and lost their sight. "Don't worry. Rest, now." She patted his head, and closed his eyes. "I'll find her. And I'll bring her home."

-----

"Wait, love - you're telling me... she's... your template? What's that mean?"

"It means," said the Widowmaker, "that they did not create me out of whole cloth. They... borrowed. They found what they wanted elsewhere, and copied it. From her, came my love of the kill. Amongst other things."

"So you're ... her, but turned up?"

"Oh, no. That part of me is her... but turned down. I cannot even imagine what she would be like, with that turned up."

Tracer shook her head, trying to imagine that, but not quite getting there. "And yet, somehow, she was," she gestured with her hands in no particular direction, "functional? And your lover."

"I was designed not to feel anything, except joy at kills. But... it was not always entirely so, and I realised, that was towards other people. In part - in this - she is not another person, she is me. Or, I suppose... I am her. And I could feel for her, because she was myself, and so I did."

Tracer thought it out. Wow, she thought. No wonder they didn't think of it. Who would? "So that's what..." She looked at the empty wine bottle next to the bed, leftover from last night. "That's what broke the seal, then. Freed the cork."

Widowmaker nodded, amused by the reference. "And it grew more difficult over time to pretend it had not happened. With her, I did not need to contain myself - not in my love of the kill, not in anything. With her, I could be free. And once I knew what she wanted, I arranged my best plan to make it happen, as a gift. Once she came for me, I'd planned to..." she struggled for words," ...return the favour, and help her herself the same way I freed myself. But if they have changed their methods..."

"Then it won't work. And you're just a defector, and she's coming after you, and that's all it's gonna be."

"Do not misunderstand, Lena Oxton. I love her. Differently - and more - than I love you. And she loves me still, I'm sure."

"Someone like that can love? Really love?"

"Yes. I am someone like that, and you already know I have found myself... burdened with love for you."

"Blimey, you're a romantic. Swept me off my feet with that. But..." She looked intently at her bedmate. "F'real? It's not just an act, anymore? I couldn't tell for sure if you'd actually started feelin' something or if it was just a whole lot better acting, but it felt like y'did."

Widowmaker blinked, stunned. "You... knew?"

Tracer shrugged. "It's not like we both don't like t'take a bit of pressure off, and hate sex is great sex." She smirked, and didn't bother to bring up Prague; she didn't need to. Neither of them would be forgetting. "And hey, the chance to pull a top agent out of Talon? I'll take that."

Damn you, thought the assassin, a little spike of anger flashing across her face. "And you have been making a fool of me. For... what? Information? Infiltration?"

"Somethin' like that. At least," she stressed, and paused, "...until everything shifted about six weeks ago and suddenly I didn't have t'fake it anymore." She wore a soft half-smile while looking into her lover's eyes, "That's about when it changed for you, too, innit?"

Yes, the Widowmaker thought, in shock, as her mind reeled. Damn you, yes. She shook her head. "I... I'd had no idea... I feel so..."

"Betrayed? Angry? Used? Funny comin' from you, love, you were doin' the same th..."

"Relieved!" the assassin cried. She leaned forward, and grabbed Lena Oxton around the shoulders, pulling the two of them together. "I am so... relieved." She started to shake a little, shaking that slowly turned into laughter. "We have both been horrible and terrible and manipulative of each other, and doing it so badly that we have both been caught in our own idiotic webs..." And she couldn't say any more through the giggles, because what fools, what fools they both are, and Lena found herself laughing with her, and they leaned on each other, laughing until tears fell.

"Oh, we're a bloody train wreck, you and me, aren't we?" said Lena, once she had her voice again.

"Yes," said the Widowmaker, wiping the last tear from her left eye, and she leaned forward, and kissed Tracer, gently. "We are a large jumble of wreckage strewn across the tracks, and Talon, I'm afraid, is sending another train."

"You really do love her?"

"I do. She has everything she's ever wanted, now, but it will not be enough - she'll want me, too. And I still want her, just as much."

"Well," sighed Lena. "She saw you first. You're both just lucky I've never been the jealous type."

"Perhaps, if we're very lucky - that might even help us both survive."

"But if she's a killing machine..."

"I am a killing machine."

"If she's a killing machine who can't put a bleedin' lid on it..."

Widowmaker chortled. "Yes."

"Then how's this gonna work?"

[AO3 link]

D.va > LENA WHAT THE HELL?! Σ(ﾟДﾟ；≡；ﾟдﾟ) D.va > LENA D.va > LENA WHAT IS GOING ON TALKT O ME щ（ﾟДﾟщ） D.va > LENA D.va > LENA D.va > LENA DO NOT MAKE ME (ง'̀-‘́)ง YOU D.va > LENA D.va > LENA D.va > LENA D.va > LENA TALK TO MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE D.va > LENA D.va > LENA LENA D.va > LENA LENA LENA LENAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Tracer looked at the chat log - hundreds of lines of it, all more or less the same - from their Yukon safehouse, a room behind a little supplies store on the side of the Dempster Highway in the Yukon tundra, halfway between Dawson and nowhere. 23 hours a day of sunlight would make her even more hyperactive than usual, but it still paled before the unlimited energy force which was Hana Song.

She checked the time. Well, it'll depend on where she is right now, I suppose... And then the text scrolled again, on its own.

D.VA > LENAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA TALK TO MEEEEEEEE Tracer > Hey, Deeves. D.va > LENA LENA LENA LE D.va > LENA!!!1 Tracer > Hiya D.va > ARE YOU OK? DOES /╲/\╭ºoꍘoº╮/\╱\ HAVE YOU?! ARE! U! OK! Tracer> I'm fine. Kestrel's fine. Widowmaker is... as fine as she ever is. D.va > WHAT THE HELL?! DID U RLY RIP THE WALLS OFF OF MEDBAY?

Lena laughed, quietly. "Hey, Em, you impressed Hana!"

Emily leaned over and looked at Lena's screen. "...you're on chat? They didn't block your account?"

"This is Hana's personal server. She gave me a login there for when she's in Korea. Thought I'd check it, since Winston hasn't answered any of my messages." She'd hoped he would. He might've voted for deprogramming, but - like Tracer and Kestrel - he'd also argued that Widowmaker should at least have a voice in it.

"They've closed ranks, at least 'till they see what happens. I was afraid of that." Emily put her hand on Lena's shoulder, gently. "I'm sorry. But I still think he'll come 'round eventually."

"I gotta hope so."

Tracer > Nah D.va > ???! Tracer > That was Kestrel. D.va > (╬ಠ益ಠ) WHY?! Tracer > Because we made a promise and we meant it. For better or for worse. D.va > A promise? To whom? Tracer > Widowmaker. Don't you know about this? D.va > /╲/\╭ºoꍘoº╮/\╱\ KIDNAPPED YOU?!

Widowmaker saw Lena's sudden smile, and looked over onto her screen. "How does she type those character graphics so quickly? I... like that one."

"She doesn't," replied the teleporter. "At least, I don't think she does. She keeps 'em all in big text files, hundreds of 'em."

Tracer > No. We... you don't know about this at all, do you. D.va > NO I DON'T BUT YOU BETTER TELL ME RIGHT NOW Tracer > Kestrel and I ... we promised Widowmaker, a couple of months ago, in London, if she wanted to get away from Talon, we'd help her. D.va > ...OKAY Tracer > Part of that was, nobody's changing her again, not against her will. That includes Overwatch. We swore that wouldn't happen. Capturing her, that's one thing, doing to her what Talon did to Amélie, that's another. 'Cause she's a person, too, even if the doc don't think so. D.va > Okay... Tracer > D'ya see what I'm saying? We swore we wouldn't do to her what Talon did to Amélie... or let anybody else do it either. D.va > ...okay... Tracer > And Angie... didn't agree. D.va > ...oh Tracer > She said Widowmaker wasn't really a person, couldn't really consent or not consent, that the only way t'fix that was "reversing her conditioning," and so it wasn't the same thing. D.va > ... Tracer > Like she was on some kind of hallucinogen or drunk or something like that D.va > ᕙ(⇀‸↼#)ᕗ Tracer > but I'll be snookered if I can see a difference D.va > ... Tracer > since either way the person we made a promise wouldn't exist anymore once she was done. D.va > （・Ａ・） Tracer > so we stopped it. We kept our promise. Tracer > sorry about the mess. D.va > ... Tracer > It was kinda spur-of-the-moment. D.va > ... Tracer > We kinda figured, we talk Widowmaker out of Talon, we might have to quit Overwatch Tracer > We didn't really think we'd have to break her out. Not really. Tracer > But ... we did what we had to. I don't regret it. D.va > ... D.va > So... you're saying Angela was going to ... undo spiderfication ... and turn her back into Amélie? Tracer > Try to, anywya. Tracer > anyway D.va > But Widowmaker didn't agree to it. Tracer > If you were her... would you? D.va > ... D.va > ... D.va > ...no Tracer > So there y'are. Tracer > That's why. D.va > ... D.va > (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻ D.va > WIDOWMAKER IS A MONSTER BUT tHAT's STILL NOT OKAY Tracer > Not even sure she's a monster Tracer > A killer, sure, that's all she's ever known Tracer > But you and me, we're both military, we both have death counts D.va > ... D.va > it's different Tracer > it is Tracer > but i can fight in a war and still oppose the death penalty Tracer > cause that's different too D.va > ... D.va > ...but you're okay. Tracer > Yeh. D.va > Kestrel's okay. Tracer > Yeh. D.va > Talon doesn't have you. Tracer > Heh - no. Talon's after us too. Tracer > but they don't know where we are Tracer > and they're mostly after Widowmaker anyway, they've always been after us Tracer > what's one more kill-on-sight order between friends? D.va > ...they want to kill the spider now? Tracer > Yep. Tracer > Don't trust her anymore. Tracer > If our intel's good, it came down from the top. D.va > ... D.va > Where are you?

The three of them had left the Oregon desert safehouse after a round of showers, the chance to enjoy some food outside of a moving vehicle, and a day of proper sleep. Widowmaker had even complimented their choice of mattresses, proving again that the spider had some interest in creature comforts.

There'd been no Interpol notice - or anything similar - about any of them yet, the key word being "yet." Nothing on Lena "Tracer" Oxton, or Emily "Kestrel" Oxton, or even anything new about Amélie "Widowmaker" Lacroix, or any combination thereof. Emily's current consulting contract with BAE hadn't even been voided; she still had access to their network. But the plan was to keep moving anyway, until they felt a little more comfortable about what Lena hoped, desperately, was an olive branch from their old team.

Tracer > Sorry, luv. D.va > ... D.va > ...I gotta think. D.va > You're not in ROK. You close? Tracer > Sorry, again, luv. D.va > meet me in Incheon? Tracer > ... Tracer > ...maybe. In a week. If things stay settled down. Tracer > Talking of, we gotta go. D.va > okay D.va > stay in tuch D.va > touch D.va > I wanna see you in person. I need to know you're you. I need to be sure. Incheon. Next week. You and Kestrel. Alone. Noooooooooooo spiders. Tracer > If we can. I'll check in... when I check in. D.va > k. let me know. Tracer > Bye

Lena dropped her way back through several anonymous VPNs and re-routers, and shut down the encrypted chat client. Incheon, she thought. Port city, easy to get to... it could work.

"Hey, Kes, Wids - y'want t'go out for Korean next week?"

Widowmaker looked across the table where she had just been shutting down her own communications array, reaching out to various specialised, no-questions-asked chemical synthesis specialists. "...you like Korean food?"

"I can take it or leave it, luv. But Hana Song sure does."

Kestrel looked over at her wife with a curious look. "...oh, really?"

Tracer shrugged at her wife. "Maybe."

"Brilliant. We could use some allies. And while you've been doing that - I've got your old contacts alerted that we're back in business, as freelancers. We'll need the money."

Widowmaker threw Kestrel a look of caution. "You aren't telling them about my particular skillset, I presume."

"Course not," she said, taking the blue woman's hand and squeezing it. "Not 'till you want in. Until then - well. I think of you as our ace in the hole."

The blue assassin wasn't entirely sure what to think of that, but she did think she found it satisfactory, and, possibly, just the tiniest bit pleasing.

"That," she said, with the hint of a spidery smile...

"...will do, for now."

-----

"Winston," said Athena, a chime ringing behind the word. "Relevant activity detected."

Winston looked up from his console, where he had been re-reading Lena's messages, wanting so much to reply, but holding off until they knew where Tracer and Kestrel might be headed. The locations of several Talon weapons caches had been welcome, and gave some hints, but could just as easily be bait, and they couldn't take the wrong kinds of chances.

"Thank you, Athena. Throw it down here?"

It wasn't much, and it wasn't personal - but it was familiar. Lena Oxton had listed herself as available again for private security contracting work, under her old company name. Same terms as before he'd initiated the Overwatch recall, but higher rates, and the added services of an experienced flying operative - battlesuit included.

He carefully checked over each version of the notice Athena had found. None mentioned sniper capabilities, and all carried the same sets of legality and indemnification conditions as before. She'd always played the game well above-board - and, at least in these listings, that had not changed.

I ... I pray this is real, he thought, allowing himself a hint of relief. If it is, they won't be in Talon uniforms the next time we see them. An image, a vision, flashed into his mind, of Lena Oxton, golden-eyed, blue-skinned, half-grin a sneer, leaning against her wife, Emily, silver-eyed, pale violet skin and purple and violet hair, tall, cold, and cruel.

[AO3 link]

"Well," said Emily, "Here we are. Our North American home from home."

She unlocked a grey metal box and threw a large physical switch found inside. Hallway lights lit, and the sound of a motor emanated from behind the walls. Tracer jinked up to the elevator at the end of the hall as its doors opened, and she checked the interior. "All clear!"

Widowmaker could feel the positive air pressure from the elevator shaft as she stepped over the threshold into the oversized car. "This is your safehouse?"

"One of 'em," Tracer replied. "It's ancient! Built during the Cold War, last century. Things go well, we'll end up back here on the regular."

Widowmaker frowned, sniffing at the air - it, at least, did not smell so antique. "It has been updated, I presume."

Kestrel laughed - "too right" - and Lena grinned. "We kept the architecture vintage, though. It's... somethin' to see."

"Does Overwatch know of this facility?" asked the assassin.

Lena tilted her head back and forth. "I might've mentioned it to Winston, but I didn't give directions. He's never been here. Officially, it's an investment."

The control panel's round hard plastic buttons shone black, with white letters reading M, G, OPEN, and CLOSE. Tracer stepped over in front, and pointed. "Right! Overloaded panel controls. M is this floor - mezzanine, right? G is the underground garage and storage for the aboveground house. The cover story is, it's supposed t'be a cargo elevator. And it is! It all works. OPEN and CLOSE are for the doors, like it says on the tin. But to get to the safehouse..." She punched a sequence of buttons - G and OPEN at the same time, M and OPEN at the same time, G, OPEN, CLOSE, OPEN and CLOSE, CLOSE.

On the final close, the doors shut in front of them, and the elevator started down.

"How far are we going?" asked the spider, looking about at the brushed metal walls as they slowly descended.

"Not too far - only about ten metres," said Kestrel. "As far as we can tell, the builders wanted a bomb shelter that'd do double duty as a guest house."

"Which is it more like ..." Widowmaker went silent as the doors opened upon a lawn. She stepped forward, onto the ground, looking up at the very low sky, or very high ceiling - depending, she supposed, upon one's point of view. To the left, a two-storey mid-century modern home, brown-tiled "roof" jutting into the "sky," the sky a ceiling from which artificial daylight shone evenly across the underground chamber. Around the outside of the "house" and "yard" stood concrete walls, covered in a mix of sculpted trees, murals of mountains, and artificial sky.

"Yeh - that was my reaction too," chirped Lena, with a grin.

"The friezes are... hideous. But the light, it is not terrible." She looked towards the building within the building. "It is a... they called it a split-level? They built a..." She shook her head. "C'est bizarre."

"The lighting's this good 'cause we replaced that bit," nodded Emily. "C'mon, it gets better." She stepped out of the elevator, onto the crazy-paving path. "And the house is nice."

-----

Kestrel picked up a pleasantly modern control padd as soon as they stepped inside the front door. Holograms applied themselves over the mural and sculptures outside, rendering a far more naturalistic appearance. "Much better. We kept them, but... that doesn't mean we want to look at them," she said, wryly.

Tracer jinked over and grabbed another padd. "Security system's up - no intruders, no alerts, water supply's good, HVAC normal, and best of all..." She pulled off her accelerator, popped it on a stand, and plugged it in for charge - turned off. "Ahhhhhhh. That's better."

"You do not have to wear it?" asked the Widowmaker, surprised.

"Whole house is an accelerator chamber, luv. 'Yard,' too. I'm free as a bird down here. Ironic, innit?" She shook her shoulders and stretched. "Hoo. So nice. I'm gonna bring up the network, see if Winston's answering yet," said continued, "an' check on home accounts. See if Overwatch's said anything to Interpol or th' like."

Emily nodded - "good idea" - as she opened first curtains, then a couple of windows - why? thought Widowmaker - and she received her answer as a light breeze wafted through the living room.

"The illusion wasn't bad, even with the vintage kit." The ginger shook her head and smiled. "We improved it, though. We don't get to show it off, much - what do you think?"

Widowmaker slowly looked around. Century-old couches, chairs, table lamps, a sunken living room, a... dining room, a kitchen, a washroom visible down the hall, stairs leading to... bedrooms? Workrooms? She did not know. Outside the large windows, a... lawn. Artificial, but not terribly unconvincing. Trees, beyond, and low mountains in the distance that looked... almost... like...

She looked at Kestrel, confusion clear across her face, and tried to speak, but stumbled over words, and then stumbled over herself, and almost fell, before being caught by Emily, and then a moment later, Lena, who was a little less sure about how safe she was to touch. "Woah, woah, Widowmaker, woah, it's, um... what's wrong?"

The blue woman looked around, disoriented, dissociated, and the two Oxtons helped her to a couch. "Are you... my..." she said, to Emily, in a bit of a daze, "no, that can't be... could you... how much... is real? Are those curtains? Are they real? Please, close them?"

Lena dashed over to the curtains and triggered them to close. Why are there curtains? thought the assassin. This is... She blinked, slowly. Ah. A little better. She stood, suddenly, and walked up to feel them - real? Real.

She began walking around the living room, touching objects, rifle forgotten on the couch. Everything she saw that she could reach, she touched, and having touched it, moved on.

"All of this is real, luv," said Tracer.

"Most of it's vintage," added Kestrel. "The upholstery is new, and some pieces are re-creations. We had the money, so we wanted to preserve the..."

"...why would ... someone ... make this? Was... is this a conditioning facility?" She looked at the ginger, head tilted. "Are you my... handler? Are you?"

"Oh my god," said Emily, horror in her voice. "Is something about this part of how they work on you?" Lena looked at Emily, similarly shocked. "No! No, I swear!" the teleporter stressed. "It wasn't anything like that! It was just a bomb shelter built by some boffin with too much dosh. If bombs fell, they wanted t' ride it out in style."

"Widowmaker," interjected Emily, not yet moving, but tensed. "I think this is important. I am not your handler. You are your own handler. You have no handler other than yourself. Do you understand?" The sniper stopped briefly, and nodded, eyes just a little bit more focused.

Emily walked up to the blue woman, carefully, who walked slowly around the main rooms, touching objects, making sure they felt the same as they looked. "Did that help? Do we need to leave? Do you need to be somewhere else? I swear to you, we did not know you'd have this reaction. This is just a ... strange old house. That's all it is. This is not a reconditioning environment of any kind," she repeated. "It's just a very well hidden safehouse." She looked over to Lena. "Love, turn off all the holograms, she was fine 'till then."

The upper windows, which had still shown the holographic sky, now showed mural instead, smooth light sheets with occasional chiaroscuro clouds. Widowmaker shook her head, and held her hands up to her eyes for a moment, covering them - then, she looked back to the room, and to Emily, beside her. "Thank you."

"Right then," said Emily, taking a deep breath and turning towards Lena. "We're relocating! Yukon? It's small, but it'll do for a day. Or, we'll need to refuel, but New Zealand should be..."

"No," said Widowmaker, grabbing Emily's hands. "No. Thank you. This will do nicely." She looked around the rooms, focus completely returned. "I... like this space. The upper level, there are sleeping facilities?"

"Yeh - and baths. Workroom, armoury, weights room below. But - you sure?" asked the teleporter. "You... kind of lost the plot there for a bit..."

"I'm still worried about this," interjected Emily, still feeling the other woman's cool blue hands in her own. "Do you want to talk about what you said? Are you... you?"

"No. Yes. Yes." Widowmaker looked back and forth between the two women. "You did not attempt to create any directives, when I entered maintenance mode - except to hand me to myself." She looked at Kestrel, before her. "I am... I am..." she blinked, trying to parse the feeling. "I am... grateful."

"We didn't know that was possible."

"That I could be grateful?"

Tracer snickered, and Emily said, "No, that you could be ... put in that state."

"It should not have been possible. There is... something, I think, in my system, still. Presumably from your doctor. But you did not try to take advantage of it. Thank you."

"She just told us about sedatives, that's all," insisted Emily. "We asked."

Widowmaker smirked. "It is possible she did not lie. Some sedatives have... relevant secondary properties."

Lena frowned. "Y'think she left somthin' out? Some details? Intentionally?"

The blue woman nodded, considering. "Possibly. I have felt..." She looked to Emily again. "...easily trusting - of you both, but you in particular."

Emily's face twisted into a snarl. "Dammit, Angela... you did lie to me." She felt like hitting something, but... those hands. She looked back to Lena again. "We really should move on. Or - at very least, let's disable the hologram projectors. We can do that."

"No," said the assassin. "Turn them back on."

"What?" chorused the two Overwatch exiles, looking back towards the assassin.

"Turn them back on. If you can do this accidentally, Talon could do it on purpose. Open the curtains and reactivate the holograms."

Lena and Emily looked at each other, nervously. Well, Emily thought, the whole idea was she's a person, and people can make their own decisions... She shrugged an I-guess-so at Lena, who nodded, and the curtains opened and the holograms phased back to life, taking the artificial landscape from laughable to convincing.

Widowmaker's gaze remained focused this time, as she took in the projected vista. "It is... almost like the view from the Chateau's upper levels. No lake, more evergreens, taller mountains in the distance. But, in the foreground, not unlike... that."

"The chateau?"

"A family property of Amélie's, in France. Also, my home."

"You have a house?"

"A chateau," she stressed. "It's where I live. Talon knows of it, or I would've taken us there." The blue assassin smirked. "Did you think I lived in a barracks? Or that they... put me away, somewhere? Boxed me up, between missions?"

"Well," Lena coughed, a little embarrassed, "...kinda, yeh..." and the assassin... chuckled.

"That similarity good or bad, luv?" asked the teleporter. "Did they use that against... her?"

"I do not know," she said, and shook her head again. "This is foolish... no, it is not foolish. It is important." She turned to Emily, again. "For whatever reason, my conditioning has responded to you as my handler. I am trusting of you, but it has been years since any handler could truly control me. I demonstrated that by killing my first - but I have no urge to kill you. Do you understand?"

"No," said Emily. "I do not. I - I don't want this. Can you ... undo it? Somehow?"

The blue assassin shook her head. "No. Not immediately. But that you do not want it makes me feel... secure." She thought about diving over to the couch, grabbing her rifle, and aiming it at Kestrel's forehead, just as a demonstration. She also flashed on embracing the woman, picking her up, running her fingers through her hair... and had no idea why. I... could I do... that? she asked herself, not knowing which she meant, before deciding, yes, she could - and that therefore, there was no need, quite yet, to do either. Instead, she turned her golden-eyed gaze to Kestrel, eyes to eyes, and smiled, and for once, there was a breath - no more, but a breath - of truth in it.

"I will do everything in my power not to use this," Kestrel said, returning the blue woman's smile with solemnity. "If I do, on accident - tell me. Teach me how not to use this."

(Note: This is a DARK fic, and you should not expect a happy ending. Happy Halloween.)

“Lena?”

There was no response to her call, and Amélie felt a chill that had nothing to do with her sluggish heartbeat as she walked inside, bringing Widow’s Kiss up to her shoulder.

“Lena, I’m home. Where are you?”

The answer she received wasn’t in words, but the sound of something crashing to the floor in the bedroom.  Her head turned sharply towards the noise as her recon visor’s lenses dropped into place, and what she saw set her running down the hall.

A three round burst from the rifle blew the door handle apart just before she battered her way inside, but her heart leapt into her throat as Amélie took in the room and realized she had already failed.

The end table that held the charging cradle for Lena’s chronal accelerator had been kicked over, and the glowing blue device sat halfway across the bedroom floor, well out of her lover’s reach from where she was pinned to the bed.

She could see cuts up and down Lena’s arms - classic defensive wounds - and a nasty looking slash had torn through the sleep shirt she’d been wearing, leaving a thin red trail on the exposed flesh beneath.

There was another cut on Lena’s face just below one eye, and her nose had been bloodied - possibly broken, but it was hard for her to tell from this angle.

Lena was clearly unconscious, but the figure straddling her atop the mattress still held a knife to her throat, bent possessively over her victim.

“Drop the knife,” Amélie demanded, “and get off of her. Now!”