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La Toile de L'araignée (The Spider's Web)

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Widowmaker owned the rooftops.

Since Amari, no one had ever dared to challenge her in her own domain. Hell, no one could. Amari had been a message well-sent: fight Widowmaker, and end up dead. So she never bothered with someone covering her, only a few scattered venom mines around her, ready to kill whoever might be stupid enough to try and challenge the spider in her own web.

“Widowmaker, are you in position?” Reaper growled through the comm.

She snorted, annoyed, and twirled the end of her ponytail as she answered. “Of course. Western rooftop, as briefed.”

Reaper hummed once, affirmation. “Local law enforcement en route. Should be about ten minutes before they arrive. If this works out, Sombra should have everything. If not, we’ll have to distract them.”

Oui . I was listening in the meeting.”

Her trigger finger itched, but the Widowmaker was still, toying with a small scuff on the body of her rifle. It would need a touch-up soon, she decided as paint flecked off where she touched it. She set down a few spare magazines, and then lowered herself to lay belly-down on the flat roof. Adjustments were made, and she was in position with a few minutes left.

Then, to the east:

The sound of vehicles. Too few for law enforcement, and too soon. Widowmaker strained to listen. “Reaper. There are three unmarked SUVs coming in fast from the east. Too far and too much interference to use my visor.”

“Overwatch,” he growled, shotguns firing in the background. “Hold position, bringing as many men as we can spare to get ready for a fight.”

“Extraction at five percent.” Sombra chimed in. “I need ten or fifteen minutes. Gabe, I need you here.”

“Of course,” Widowmaker mumbled under her breath, staring down her sights. This wasn't going to be easy or fun.


This time, the little English twit wasn’t with Overwatch. The loud orange leggings were hard to miss. It was good, she decided, that there was no one stupid enough to try and shoot her in the face. Widowmaker smiled as she leaned forward, visor clicking down with a hiss. Her finger closed on the trigger, the cowboy’s head dangerously close to a gap, his shadow showing how deliciously close he was to catching a bullet.

“Just a bit more, chéri . Let me see your pretty face.”

And then a fucking arrow buried itself in the rooftop an inch to her right, and Widowmaker was moving. Back pressed to cover, she took a breath, and blindly fired across to the only other vantage point: the rooftop across from hers. Another arrow hit the roof, a different head. The first was rounded, the second was sharp and meant to kill. A fucking arrow. Two arrows. There was an archer trying to shoot her in the head. She almost laughed, and clicked on her infrared vision, spying a crouched figure. Silent like the wind, she propped the barrel of her rifle on the cover, and leaned into the scope. A bow appeared, and she sent three shots ringing through the air, cracking like thunder.

The visor whirred as it snapped out of infrared. Widowmaker cursed. “ Merde! Stupid thing.”

Bloodlust sang in her veins, an overwhelming roar. Snarling, she rolled out of cover and hurled a venom mine. An arrow shattered it and clanged off of the armored shoulder of her suit. Back behind cover she went, finally touching her comm. “I’m pinned down! They have a sniper. An archer, mon dieu .”

Fifty percent, ” Sombra replied. “ Gabe’s a little busy, Amé.

Shotguns sounded from below. Indeed, he was. “I’m going to kill this fool myself, then.”

Amé! Wait, you said an archer?

She was already running, swan-diving from the roof and slinging herself back into the air with her grappling hook. Widowmaker soared for a moment, and let loose a spray of bullets as she arced to the archer’s vantage point. A few arrows flew past her, none hitting. There were shouts from below, all some form of a name.


When she landed, there was no one.


Her surprise grew when someone held something hard against her neck (a bow, she decided) and threw her backwards until she almost fell off the building. With a practiced roll, Widowmaker was immediately back on her feet, rifle held tightly. Her hair had fallen down, midnight blue and limp, and there were small scrapes where the roof had broken through her suit, bright red blood seeping out onto her pale purple skin. Her face broke into a scowl. Oh, she was going to enjoy this kill. She was going to savor it. She wanted blood on her hands, in the air, on the ground. She stood tall and met the archer’s gaze. The man was slightly smaller than her, but the rapidly-developing bruise on her neck spoke of his strength. She opened fire again. “I will remind you why no sniper dares to challenge me, imbécile .”

The man was skilled, she'd give him that. He dodged every shot, every venom mine. When she engaged him physically, the man blocked her blows, knocked away her rifle, fighting like someone with severe training. Widowmaker didn’t give in, striking and parrying just as easily. The man smashed her grapple wrist cuff, leaving her with no escape. She threw a high kick at his side, and he easily knocked it away and responded with his own hard kick, driving the wind out of her with those metal boots. Stars flew before her eyes, and she clumsily scrabbled away, snagging her rifle as she ducked behind cover, only to find herself pinned between a twenty foot drop and an Overwatch agent.

“Sombra,” she hissed into the comm, growing desperate. “Reaper. I need evac. Now!

An arrow hit remarkably close to her leg, and she blindly threw her final mine. This was it. They were going to take her, torture her, do God knows what. She swallowed, icy fear creeping in under the usual numbness. She looked, frantically, for a way out, and closed her eyes when there were none. Sirens picked up in the distance, closing fast.

Then: the reddish light she saw through her eyelids faded, and something settled around her, cold and heavy, but definitely not solid. Widowmaker’s eyes opened, only to see black smoke rushing past her with the scent of death; sweet and sharp, and rotted. “Gabriel.”

He materialized, black cloak and white mask, twin shotguns already in his hands, and Widowmaker let her head thump back against cover. “Gabriel,” she repeated. He had come back for her. Why had he come for her?

Reaper growled, “No one left behind, araña . Evac’s coming. Just gotta last a couple of minutes, and Sombra will be here.”

He was off, shotguns forcing the archer back and away, though from the thudding sounds of arrows, Widowmaker could tell it wasn’t doing as much as Reaper had hoped. She got up, still out of breath, aching, and took aim with her rifle. Then: a shout, and she nearly gagged on the sudden scent of ozone. Reaper turned and ran towards her, grabbing her as he jumped from the roof. Widowmaker shouted in surprise (definitely not a shriek, she decided), and groaned when they hit the ground. Reaper had taken the brunt of the fall. She rolled off him so he could breathe, just in time to see two dragons pass overhead, blue and ethereal against the midnight sky. Just after it was the Scorpion, sleek and black, lighting up the rooftops with cover fire as Sombra, a pink and purple angel from above, dropped the ladder for them.

Reaper and Widowmaker, supporting each other, grabbed onto it and each other, and the thing automatically began pulling them up as the ship moved, too, up and away.

“Mission report, Sombra,” Widowmaker ordered, still panting.

Sombra laughed once, cheery. “Mission successful. Good to hear your voice.”


Then they were at the top, cloaked by the ship, and Sombra brought them safely inside.