Chapter Text
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They’re doing recon in Djibouti, where they’re scouting the perimeters of an abandoned Chinese naval base. Most of the portable electronica and wirework in the control center has been swiped clean and cracks in the concrete of the walkways run on for several feet. Two of the mooring docks have collapsed into the sea, but some of the support beams close to the shore are still standing upright, holding up platforms of asphalt, concrete and rusted wiring.
It would be unbearably hot if it weren’t for the sea breeze. Widowmaker’s taken off her gloves while they booted up a decryption program to kick-start the main servers. She’s standing curved over the keyboard, the shadow of her silhouette dragging onwards over the floor. Her throat, collarbones and sternum are gleaming with sweat, but she seems relatively unbothered otherwise.
Reaper’s returned to the main room of the control center after a quick roam through maintenance and the hallways. His footsteps echo softly through the open doorway, the sound then dies away after he comes to a standstill and leans against the doorframe. Leather of his heavy coat’s creaking softly. He crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head to the side. His mask reflects the greenish light of the three 55inch computer screens.
It’s quiet aside from the electrical fans of the main servers, swirling restlessly. Widowmaker straightens her back, but doesn’t cast a glance in his direction, instead she starts to rub her right ring finger. He kicks the heel of his left foot against the doorframe. Small noises like these should draw her attention right away, but she remains focused on her hand for some reason.
“What are you doing?” He asks, with a voice gruff from the heat.
Her profile is cut out across the green binary looping endlessly on the computer screen. Her voice clear and cold as she responds, “Nothing.”
Widowmaker levels him a look, still rubbing the same finger absentmindedly. He cocks his head back and huffs, staring off at the hardware of the main servers or the glow of the screens spread out over the floor. He kicks his heel against the metal doorframe again, hard, and the dull sound seems to rattle throughout the room. There’s no reaction from her and the white noise of the electric fans from the servers soon cushions the silence again. The claws of his gauntlets dig a little bit deeper into the thick material of his coat.
“System unlocked.” She says curtly, as the screen flashes from dark to light and casts a silver sheen over her gloves, folded on the edge of the large desk.
Her statement wasn’t intended to draw any sort of response, but Reaper turns his head to observe the left screen and mutters something under his breath. Icons are neatly organized on the right. They were sent here to retrieve the malware the cyber unit on this navy base was devising. While the Chinese probably planned to use the malware in jamming the electronical navigational and communication systems of hostile ships passing by the Gulf of Aden, Talon was determined to upgrade and use the program to disable the GPS and communication systems aboard any vehicle and mecha-suit completely.
Overwatch used to employ a few former members of China’s offensive cyber unit. They were fast, efficient, effective and generally good at obeying orders. Reaper remembers the ones he’d killed after the Swiss HQ disaster; he tracked them down to a naval control center on Hainan and shot the entire facility there to pieces.
She pushes down on an icon and the map spreads out over all three screens. There are over three hundred files in there, all titled in Chinese. Her finger taps the file in the upper-right corner, but instead of a pop-up demanding a password, there’s an error message. Reaper walks over and comes to stand next to her, notices how she’s started to rub her ring finger again but doesn’t mention it this time. His shoulders are squared, his head tilted to the side, staring down at her.
“What is it now?” He demands, his voice a hiss, the black eyes of his mask pushing the full weight of a menacing glare down upon her.
Widowmaker narrows her eyes and mutters a curse under her breath; she swipes the window away and tries to open other files only to get the exact same result again and again. Next to her, Reaper’s body starts to flicker from solid to plumes of black smoke as he repeats himself. What is it now?—a deep growl, given a hollow quality by his mask.
“The files are damaged.” She answers slowly, seemingly unperturbed by the display. “ICT back at the Asayta base might be able to restore them. I will try and set up a stable connection.” Her accent slants the pronunciation of the last word.
There’s a loud noise coming in from the hallway—one of the venom mines Widowmaker attached to the ceiling of the entrance hall must’ve exploded. Crude yelling resonates afterwards. Reaper grunts and turns back towards to the open doorway, right hand on the stock of his shotgun, coat bellowing from the movement.
“Stragglers?” She suggests, eyebrows arched, glancing at him from her peripheral.
He responds matter-of-factly, “Doesn’t matter. They’re dead anyway.”
With those words, Reaper shadow-steps out of the main room and leaves her to the soft buzzing and the swirling fans of the servers. She busies herself with the task at hand; establishing a secure connection to access Talon’s data cloud, uploading the three hundred something files, and purging the software of the servers. Her gaze falls onto her right ring finger again. She sees what she always sees: blue skin, a slender finger, small scars and a short-clipped nail. There’s something missing, but it’s difficult for her to pinpoint what exactly.
Concessive rounds ring a staccato through the corridor, followed by high-pitched wailing and screaming. Widowmaker puts both hands on the keyboard and begins to type.
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Patterns of waves reflect on the underside of the Brigittenauer Brücke, the streetlights along the highway simultaneously flicker on as the evening falls, and the flow of traffic moves on interrupted. In the front window of the car, the Millennium Tower cuts through the skyscape of the Handelskai, towering above the other buildings with relative ease. The boardwalks are crowded with people, but their rowdiness is canceled out by the classical music on the radio. Widowmaker leans her head against the tinted window and closes her eyes briefly. Her nose wrinkles involuntarily. She recognizes this song from somewhere.
Reaper’s driving shotgun, strapped in next to the getaway driver Talon assigned them for this mission, tapping his claws over the barrel of his SBS aimlessly and staring straight ahead. Strike team Charlie is already on location. They’re assigned to act as a diversion while Reaper and Widowmaker extract classified files from the underground archives, ordered to stage a hostage situation for two hours maximum and take out as much security as possible during. At the end of the two hour timeframe, Reaper has to relocate to the tech center, use the EPFCG to set off the electromagnetic pulse and overload the building’s electrical wiring, and meet up with Widowmaker near the parking lot of the International Atomic Energy Agency. Briefings with the team coordinator will come after, back at the safe house in the Thaliastraße.
The cushioning inside of her helmet feels warm against her cheek and she subconsciously leans into that warmth, only to thump the crown of her head against the window. “Angelique, Louise, Amélie et Thérèse, pas de quatre.” Her ballet instructor demands from her spot next to the stereo installation, pressing the play button. Fluorescent tubes brighten up the room, blank aside from the barre and the wall lined up with mirrors. Four of the seven girls walk over to the center and stand in the fifth position.
Her eyes shoot open; the music the ballet instructor in her memory plays is exactly the same as the one playing in the car. Front foot’s heel at your back foot’s toe, take Louise’ left hand in your left, look in the mirror as you do the demi plié. There’s only the front seat with the back of Reaper’s hood peeking above the head rest. She’s eight year’s old, smaller than Angelique, and a bit skinnier, her mop of brown hair pulled in a tight bun, her legs stuffed into white tights, her cheeks rosy and the button of her nose too.
“I know this song.” Widowmaker murmurs, shifts in her seat, squeezes the armrest subconsciously and straightens her back. Her mind’s fogged up, as if she can’t decide whether she’s still there in the motion of the dance or sitting here on her way to the UN Headquarters.
Reaper snorts and retorts brusquely, “Everyone does. It’s a classic tune.”
She blinks owlishly, regards her rifle pressed into the space between the driver’s seat and the backseat for a brief moment and tries to shake off this sense of dissonance, of disassociation.
Yet she finds herself voicing the question on the tip of her tongue, “What’s the title?”
There’s a tense silence, tempered with only by the driver shifting gear and taking the exit for the bridge, then the song skips to the next one. Reaper eventually mutters, “Fuck if I know what it’s actually called.” After a curt pause, he continues, “It’s part of Swan Lake. Tchaikovsky.”
Her response is a low hum, drawn out like a purr almost. “Maman! Maman!” She storms through the academy’s double doors, down the steps to her mother’s car. Afternoon sunlight reflects on the metallic color, pools a molten white on the asphalt and nearly blinds her, makes her hide her forehead with the back of her hand. Her mother’s laughter resounds as she slows down to a halt next to the open car door. Her face is flushed, but the giddiness she feels translates in her inability to stay still. Her fingers curl around the straps of her sports’ bag. How can she concentrate on those meaningless details, but seem unable to recall what the woman looked like, can’t even recall her face.
“Qu’est-ce tu as appris aujourd’hui, ma bichette?” Her mother questions cheerfully while she takes over the sport’s bag, walks over to the back and pops the hood of the car open —Widowmaker doesn’t know why but she replies without pause, “Pas de quatre avec mes amies et Angelique. Sur la danse des petits cygnes.”
She spots Reaper looking at her through the rearview mirror when he asks with a note of suspicion to his voice, “What was all that about? The title of the song?”
“Je suis pas certaine…I believe so, yes.” Her reply doesn’t follow her usual manner of speech; there’s hesitation, a pause for breath, soft-spoken.
Widowmaker realizes she has to gather her scrambled thoughts and get it together, but these flashes complicate the situation. Her fingers firmly clench around the armrest, when she continues to say, “We should stay focused on the objective.”
“Keep your head in the game then.” Reaper rebukes testily, implicating that he won’t burke any distractions on this mission, claws drumming restlessly over the barrel of the shotgun in his lap and head angled to overlook the river Danube.
The railing of the bridge flashes by in one narrow stripe from up close as the car signals for the highway exit. Two black BMWs hurl past them at high speed, the growl of their engines chasing the tires, before they’re driving off the bridge on the A22. Widowmaker leans her head back against the headrest and takes a deep breath, not daring to close her eyes again.
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Their bedroom is white with floorboards made of oak wood; the bed faces the large double windows leading out to the small balcony that overlooks the city, the dresser against the left wall is white as well, cluttered with scented candles, picture frames and a potted pink geranium, and she’s still in bed, watching Gérard smoke a cigarette outside on the reclining chair in his sleeping robe. His bedhead is even more ruffled by the wind, his profile cut through by the window frame, the trail of smoke from his mouth trails off in a thin wisp above the irony balcony railing. Her feet poke from underneath the sheets, her gaze falls onto the shelves of book hanging on the wall next to the window, her fist comes up to stifle a yawn. Amélie smiles drowsily, sinking into the pillows, waiting for her husband to come back to bed.
She takes a steadying breath, adjusts her position and uncrosses her arms, keeping them listlessly at her sides. Another episode of a life she can’t fully recall popped up in her mind, another sign the neural reconditioning Talon subjected her to is slowly coming undone. It should prompt her to swing by the medic bay for a thorough examination but some small rebellious part of her prevents her from pulling through. Widowmaker likes to think of it as plain curiosity, a chance to understand the person who came before. Her cheeks are moist, warm, such a contrast to the cool fingerpads of her gloves. What’s the harm?—as long as it doesn’t interfere with her performances.
The heavy metal doors slides open with a hiss, exposing the relatively dark room to the glaring lights of the hallway. Reaper steps in and judging by the briskness of his footfalls, he’s irritated. She calmly swipes her fingertips over her cheekbone and remains quiet, regarding him stomp around the room. Tendrils of smoke crowd around his shoulders, the tails of his coat and his hood, blurring the outline of his silhouette. He growls lowly, sweeps his arm over the desk and knocks the tablet, ammo cases and gun cleaning kit onto the floor.
This in turn makes her clack her tongue and prompt, “Mission didn’t go as planned, mon chèr?”
“Give me a break.” Reaper rebuffs, whirling around to face her. “That overgrown ape ruined everything…” There’s a deliberate pause as he takes a few steps closer to her.
Widowmaker tenses when his claws curl under her chin and force her head back, turning her right cheek to the light streaming in from the open doorway. “Laisse-moi.” She hisses, the back of her hand coming up against his forearm.
“What’s the matter with you now? You look like you’ve been crying.” He emphasizes the last word with a hint of irritation and then lets go of her jaw.
“Lacroix?”
She narrows her eyes, unable to determine whether he said the words himself or some figment of a distant past did. Gérard’s holding her hand as they walk through the airport terminal, with the wheels of his baggage trolley dragging on behind them. Sunlight cascades through the glass in the curved ceiling, connected directly to the floor by slanted steel beams. He’s reassuring him about the mission timeframe, that she won’t have to miss him for long, that the risks aren’t that high, but he stops talking the moment he spots a tall guy in black near the check-in desk with a large Adidas bag at his feet.
Reaper still stands dangerously close to her, no doubt assessing her from behind his mask. He has a scowl on his scarred face and addresses her husband directly, but his expression softens when he notices her. Then he extends his hand to greet her properly and introduces himself as Gérard’s commanding officer. His accent is American, she can tell as much, but from where in the States, she can’t guess.
“Gabriel Reyes.” Widowmaker rasps, seeing him how he once was and how he is now at all once, her voice clipped, but confident.
Reaper huffs displeased and slams the palm of his hand flat next to her head. She doesn’t flinch, not even when he drags his claws down the wall like a predator. His other hand comes to cover his mask. His claws curve over the outline of his mask and twist it towards the inside of his hood.
Small scabs and blisters cover the expanse of his face, missing a nose and patches of skin around his lower cheek, brow and chin, exposing bone and gum and teeth. Scars skirt across his right cheekbone, the tissue contrasting a ghastly pale against his darker skin tone. The back of her head bumps into the concrete wall, but her expression is carefully kept neutral. His eyes wrinkle when he sneers at her, showing more teeth than lip or gum. Dark locks of hair poke from underneath the hood, curling flat over his forehead.
“No,” It’s gruff and curt, continued in an almost defeated voice, “Gabriel Reyes died at the Swiss HQ blast. This is all that’s left of his handsome face.” The corners of his lips furl upwards in a grin that resembles an overripe plum, split open.
“I’ve seen worse, mon chèr.” She murmurs with a sly smirk, making a fist with her left hand, keeping her knuckles pressed tight against her upper leg. Her gaze holds his, unobscured for the first time in an undoubtedly long while.
Tacks on the I’ve done worse as an afterthought—thinking about Gérard’s expression a fleeting moment before she pointed the handgun at him; the unsettling change from bedroom eyes to unadulterated shock, the white of his eyes a stark contrast with the dimmed lighting around them, point à blanc. The shot suppressed almost completely by the silencer, aside from a sibilant hiss.
So close she could feel the blood and pieces of skull splatter onto her face as the bullet tore through his cranium and lodged itself stuck in the back of his brain. It’s the only time she felt anything during the entire evening.
He leans back and guffaws depreciatingly, spits out, “You’re thinking of Lacroix, aren’t you? You did yourself and the whole fucking world a favor by taking him out.”
His words resonate within a part of her and she feels like crying out that he’s wrong, but she doesn’t understand the reasoning behind the instinctual reflex. Gérard wasn’t her first hit as Widowmaker, Amélie Lacroix was all technicalities considered, and yet some synchronization between the woman and herself must’ve occurred. Widowmaker doesn’t experience emotions, doesn’t have much to recollect aside from mission objectives, but there’s a whole life inside her mind that she’s now aware of, at least of bits and pieces.
She should report this to the head scientist on base and go through a new procedure of reconditioning.
She should’ve reported this a long time ago already.
Widowmaker holds his gaze and replies in an even voice, “I was ordered to eliminate him and so I did. Nothing more, nothing less.”
There’s a hint of—not wonder, but thinly-veiled surprise on his mutilated features, like he was caught off guard by her stoic response, then it’s gone again and he smirks and shakes his head. Her brows furrow together in suspicion.
Reaper shoves his mask back into place and comments off-handedly, “You haven’t gotten a brain checkup in three weeks.”
“I’m not a liability.” On the surface, she neither sounds or looks agitated, but it’s implied in the choice of words, in the slight shifting of her weight onto her left leg.
He breaks away from the wall—and her, showing her his broad back, making his way over to the desk once more. His hands come down harshly on the tabletop, but he doesn’t look back at her. “To whom could you be one? Talon? Or yourself?”
“I’m not a liability” Widowmaker repeats in a scoff, sliding the side of her left foot up and down her calf, arms crossed in front of her chest once more. “I am in control.”
Footsteps echo throughout the hallway, followed up by chatter. Reaper cranes his neck from left to right to ease the strain and rolls his shoulders back.
“I bet that’s not what Talon had in mind for you.” It’s an insightful but cynical remark, the inflection of his voice muffled by his mask, hiding whether it was actually meant to be insightful or cynical.
She heaves a sigh and watches a couple of technicians walk by the open doorway, not bothering to cast a curious glance inside. One of them is holding a standard-issued toolbox in his right hand, both are wearing helmets. Talon’s insignia’s embroidered on the neckline of their jackets. She tilts her head back to observe Reaper again, but he seems content to remain lost in his own thoughts.
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