“And you call that, art?”
Tracer ground her teeth hard as she finished her tag with a final flourish, careful not to let her frustration ruin what she had worked her ass off for. She kept her cool as she took three steps back from the wall, then whirled on her heel.
Widowmaker, that pretentious fuck, sat on a stacked set of wooden crates. One of her gravity defying murals hung above on the opposite wall–an, admittedly, beautiful depiction of a woman holding a crystal orb against the backdrop of a moonlit lake. The orb held a lonely, dancing figure, and the woman was crying.
The bitch had talent, but her attitude was an absolute piece of garbage.
“Ah, yes, yet another picture of…your name.” Widowmaker pushed herself off of the crates, hips cocked. “How creative. You’ve truly outdone yourself this time, Tracer.”
Tracer bristled as she stomped forward, sneakers scraping against the pavement. “You know I freehanded those bloody triangles?” Did you know how long I practiced to make sure I could?!
Yes, the tag wasn’t as traditionally impressive or highendedly symbolic as Widowmaker’s work; but Tracer liked the creativity she’d had. She’d done up her name in bright neon colors and patterns, drawing on inspiration from old, early ‘90′s logos to hit the nostalgia bones of anyone who saw it. It gave her joy; she figured she’d share that with as many people as she could. There was nothin’ wrong with that!
“Ah, yes. Triangles. How…kindergarten.” Widowmaker laughed at her. Tracer had never seen anything behind that weird-ass visor the artist wore; only her lips, always curled or sneered mockingly at her. “But I suppose it fits; a child’s work for fellow children.”
“Oh, that’s it!” Tracer wasn’t proud of what she did then. She aimed her can of paint at Widowmaker’s chest and pressed down, throwing her arm into it and leaving behind a bright, neon yellow stripe of paint down the woman’s blouse and pants. Then she was bolting down the alley and jumping the fence as she heard a shriek of rage.
At least she had that date with Amélie to look forward to, nevermind that it was in five minutes. It wasn’t enough time to get changed, not really; cursing, Tracer ran into the nearest public restroom and tugged off her mask and gloves. She shoved them all into her backpack with her paints, then washed her hands as thoroughly as she could. A patdown with a damp paper towel washed away the worst of the sweat, but there was nothing she could do about her painflecked hoodie and leggings.
Whistling and fishing out her phone, she called Amélie as she hustled for the cafe they’d agreed to meet for coffee; the woman answered after three or four rings, and sounded right piqued even as she fought to gentle it with a curt, “Yes?”
“You sound steamed, love, what happened? Someone fuck up at the studio?”
“I–in a manner of speaking,” Amélie sighed, tensely. “I will be a little late, that–imbecile got paint all over me.”
“Naw, don’t you worry love; I don’t mind a bit of paint on you!” Lena laughed. “I’ve got some m’self, and you know this hole in the wall don’t care what you wear.”
“Are you sure you do not mind?”
“Then I will be in the cafe in two minutes.”
“Brilliant!” Lena cheered. “I’ll wait outside for you.”
“Alright. I love you.”
Lena flushed with heat and around a shit eating grin and giggle, said, “Love you too, babe.”
They hung up, and Lena browsed through her camera roll as she waited just outside of the cafe. Pictures of her and Amélie, smiling wide and bright; her tags on the various walls of the city, plastered against the sides of derelict buildings; a picture of Widowmaker from behind, with her own middle finger in the foreground.
“I’m sorry I made you…wait…”
Lena looked up from her phone, a little alarmed at the way Amélie‘s voice trailed off. Her blood ran cold as she saw a clear line of yellow paint against her blouse and pants. Lena looked up and their eyes locked, realizing in an instant that Amélie and Widowmaker were one in the same.
“Oh, you’re kidding me,” she muttered as Amélie’s expression morphed to fury.