Tracer hated Widowmaker, very much so. The thought of that god-forsaken assassin sent Tracer's emotions through the bloody roof. She could never understand how anyone—if she could even consider Widow a person—could simply kill without purpose. There had to be a reason to all the chaos, she deduced, because there always was. That's what Winston taught her, back during the Overwatch days.
Perhaps that's the reason Tracer spent so many long nights doing her research.
"I don't understand why you're so interested in her, Tracer," Winston said one night, eating his usual dinner of peanut butter-dipped bananas, "there are just some people that...just do things."
"Winston, love," the Englishwoman began, "weren't you the one who told me not to accept the world as it appears to be, but dare to see it for what it could?" Tracer gave her old friend a smirk. She watched him stop mid-chew through her orange-tinted goggles.
"W-well," he swallowed and cleared his throat uncomfortably, "yes, I did say that—"
"So why does it have to be different with people?"
Winston shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He readjusted his glasses. "I mean—"
"Just admit she got you, Winston," the robotic voice of Athena called out.
The ape made a low rumble in his chest. Tracer laughed gaily at him.
"But," Winston started, readjusting his glasses again, "what are you going to do with the information you end up finding?"
Tracer hummed, tilting her head to the side. She could feel her fringe flopping over. "I dunno, love."
Winston frowned, his sharp canines showing. "Then why do you keep going?"
The assassination of Tekharta Mondatta flashed through her mind. The sudden wash of helplessness crashed into Tracer, which transformed into anger and bitterness. A thin line of a frown grew on her face.
Why was she trying to hard?
"Do you...want to save her?" Winston asked carefully.
The question rubbed Tracer the wrong way. "Save her?" She asked, her voice coming out uncharacteristically sharp, "Why would I want to save a...an arse like her?" She crossed her arms and propped her feet onto the table that separated her from Winston.
"I don't know, that's why I'm asking you." He said, shrugging. "You don't stick on a person for so long without intending to help them in some way."
The Englishwoman pursed her lips and leaned back so she was balancing on the back two legs of her chair. She sighed loudly, fringe flopping to the other side.
"I'll take that as a sign you need time alone," Winston said, stuffing his banana peel into the empty peanut butter jar. He tossed the trash over his shoulder, and the sound of glass shattering echoed throughout the lab. Tracer laughed as she saw Winston cringe at the sound.
"And I'll take that as a sign you need to clean up." Tracer suggested coyly, a playful smirk growing on her face.
Winston grumbled and padded off to pick up the shards of the jar.
Once her friend's back was turned, Tracer's expression turned somber. She looked over her shoulder, examining the holographic file floating in the air.
The mugshot of Widowmaker stared at her with a wicked, yet subtle smile.
NAME: Amélie Lacroix
BASE OF OPERATIONS:?
BACKGROUND: Wife of the late Gérard Lacroix, Overwatch agent tasked with fighting against Talon. Went MIA for several weeks before returning home. Killed her husband in his sleep, then vanished. Reason behind allegiance change is unknown.
"What happened to you?" Tracer mumbled, her voice losing all of the vigor it was known for. "What did they do to you?"
She reached out and touched Widowmaker's picture. The hologram flickered under her fingers for a brief moment before steadying.
Despite it being only a picture, the look in Widow's eyes scared Tracer. It wasn't a fear of dying—Tracer was never afraid of that—but it was a fear of losing what was once there. When one saw Widow's yellow eyes, one could see the burning intent to kill; when Tracer saw Widow's yellow eyes, she could see the loss of humanity. There was nothing scarier than losing yourself. Tracer knew that far too well.
Maybe that's why she was frustrated with the assassin. How can someone just embrace the worst happening to them? How can someone not want to fight the worst-case scenario when it's playing right before their eyes?
"God," Tracer shook her head, removing her goggles and setting them down on the table, "do I actually want to save her?"
The answer was, obviously, yes (she could just hear Winston telling her, "I told you so." in her mind).
After all, it was a hero's job to save whomever they can, wherever they can.
Especially if it that someone was Amélie.
Widowmaker (if she could) hated Tracer, very much so. The thought of that god-forsaken naive idiot with her pomp British accent annoyed Widow more than anything. She could never understand how anyone—if she even dare to consider the imbecile a person—could simply meddle into the fray with heroics as their motive. There had to be a reason to the absurd moralistic attitude of hers, she assumed, because there always was. That was something she learned over the course of her years, even in her past life.
Perhaps that was the reason Widow was so fascinated in her.
"Why are you so interested in her?" Reaper rasped one night, looking at Widow behind his mask. Widowmaker, who was busy fixing her sniper, looked up.
"The girl. The one that keeps interfering with our jobs with that monkey friend of hers."
Widowmaker gave him a defiant glare. "Who said I was?"
"Don't play the fool, Widow," Reaper shot back, zooming close to her face. Dark clouds billowed behind him, dancing menacingly. "I know you ordered several of our soldiers to look for her."
"Oh? I do not recall," Widow said, nose scrunching ever so slightly at the rancid breath of her peer.
"Chercher la femme," Reaper said, his French accent good enough to make Widow's eyebrow rise in surprise. "Look for the woman."
"I know French well enough, Monsieur. You don't need to translate it for me," Her lips curled into a coy smile before she dropped her gaze to her sniper again.
"Ever since you killed off Mondatta," Reaper began, completely ignoring Widow's quip, "you have been obsessed with her—"
"I wouldn't exactly say obsessed—"
"What do you see in her?" Reaper shot back. His response was quick and to-the-point, like a bullet. Widow could feel the tension in the air, almost palpable enough to touch it, as she slowly rose her gaze to meet his.
"You see something in her, don't you?" Widow heard the smugness in his voice, "I find it hard to believe that you would want to kill her off without a particular reason."
Widowmaker stared at him blankly for several seconds before chuckling lowly. "Monsieur Reaper," she cooed, "you must know that webs are woven by spiders for a reason. And for that reason to be fulfilled," she gave him a smile, one that mimicked Reaper's smug tone earlier, "a spider must wait. C'est comme ça."
"So why are you waiting?"
"Isn't it obvious, Monsieur?" Widow's smile turned into a smirk. "It's to kill."
There was a brief silence, before Reaper began to laugh derisively. Widow's smile quickly faded and she furrowed her eyebrows, opening her mouth-
The wail of an alarm in the distance cut her off. Reaper looked over his shoulder, then at Widowmaker; Widow gave him a curt nod of farewell. He returned it, and with urgency took his shotguns in each hand and dashed away, black clouds following his wake.
Once her peer's back was turned, Widow gave a sigh. She felt no motivation—assuming she could feel something like motivation in the first place—to continue working on her weapon. With half-hearted diligence, she set her sniper down. Her yellow eyes found interest in a worn hero's file, one that she managed to swipe from a Talon worker.
NAME: Lena Oxton
BASE OF OPERATIONS: Supposedly London, England
AFFILIATION: Formerly Overwatch
BACKGROUND: A former pilot of Overwatch, was trusted with piloting the first fighter programmed with teleportation, Slipstream. Mission went awry and everything vanished, including her with it. Was essentially a ghost before Winston, a genetically-modified gorilla/scientist from Overwatch, created the chronal accelerator. She is now capable of controlling her own time, rewinding and speeding up at will. Was a big asset to Overwatch during its days.
Widowmaker made an unconscious hum, resting her elbows on the desk before placing her chin on the back of her hand. The picture on the file had Tracer smiling cheerily as she did her trademark salute; it drew nothing but a soft scoff from Widow.
"Naive little girl," Widow murmured, tracing the outline of Tracer's face with the tip of her finger. The sensation tickled Widow ever so slightly.
"Why...why would you do this?!" Tracer had cried out after Widowmaker successfully assassinated Tekharta Mondatta. Back then, Widow had replied with a low laugh. Even now, that was all she could do.
Her shoulders shook as she chuckled at the memory.
Despite all the vague answers to Reaper, there was more to Widow's game with Tracer than to simply kill. If Widow wanted to kill her, she would have done it from the beginning. There would be no game, and it would have been an easy job well done.
After all, spiders don't play with their prey.
Reaper seemed to have caught on, which made Widow thankful for the alarm that sounded earlier. A spider's web was only decipherable to the spider itself, and she wanted it to stay that way.
"You see something in her, don't you?" Reaper had rasped.
Truth be told, Widow did. She saw the stupid hope that Overwatch shoved down everyone's throat gleaming in Tracer's eyes. She could feel the determination that radiated from the Englishwoman's tiny body like sunlight. She heard the motivation to succeed in Tracer's voice.
But most of all, Widow could see the image of Gérard Larcoix whenever she saw Tracer's face.
And she absolutely despised it.
In a sudden flash of fury, Widow slammed her hand down on the file then clenched it into a fist, crunching the file under it. Her nostrils flared as her heartbeat pounded slowly in her chest, trying to quicken its pace.
A sharp pain only pierced through her chest.
Letting go of the wad of paper, she placed her hand on the valley of her breasts. She took a deep breath, and her heart returned to its largo tempo. She closed her eyes, taking in another breath for good measure before removing her hand from her chest and resting it on her sniper.
Then she exhaled.
When she opened her eyes, Widow's yellow eyes gleamed with hatred as the contorted face of Lena Oxton looked up at her.
The deafening boom of a shot resonated through the room. Where Tracer's face was, a bullet hole took its place.
Widow blew the smoke rising from her weapon.
She had vowed that any remnants of Overwatch would be crushed when she killed Gérard. She had vowed to destroy any remnants of her past when she abandoned Amélie. She had vowed to anyone and anything that stood in her way of a job well done when she took her first mission.
And as she rose from her seat, Widowmaker vowed that she will annihilate anyone that dare stand up against her.
The clicking of her heels echoed in the room as she walked into the hall. With a little more sway in her hips, Widow could hardly contain the small smile growing on her face.
"Where are you going?" A Talon soldier's voice called out in the distance.
Widow hardly spared him a look.
"I have a personal mission to go on, Monsieur."
Her smile grew larger.
Despite the cloudy night sky and the light sprinkling, Londoners bustled about the streets. The lights of the shops still shined brightly, twinkling like little stars that were glued onto the ground. London's Eye was still very visible, glimmering brilliantly with the intensity of the sun. The view of King's Row was always breathtaking, especially when on a rooftop.
A breeze blew past.
Two heads of hair swayed in the wind: one that was spiky and awry, danced furiously; the other was long and tied-up, flowed elegantly.
The silence between was palpable.
A chipper giggle shattered the tension.
"Never would have thought to run into you here, love!" Tracer exclaimed. She crossed her arms over her chest and shifted her weight to one foot, a playful smile on her face. "Here to crash another party?"
Surprisingly, Widowmaker broke her stoic mask to smile. Tracer's own smile faltered ever so slightly.
"Chérie," Widow drawled, "even if there was a party, you wouldn't be invited."
Tracer's smile completely fled from her face. "Why are you here?" Her voice was quiet enough for the wind to drown her out.
"Oh? Did my joke not amuse you?"
"Why are you here?" Tracer repeated through gritted teeth.
"Does it bother you?" Widow's smile contorted into a smirk as she stuck her sniper onto the ground and leaned her weight on it, using it as a makeshift support.
"What did they do to you?" Tracer mumbled, the tension on her face crumbling like pastries. "You were never this way before…." The familiar feeling of helplessness was seeding itself into her gut.
Widow's smile faded instantly. "Tu es stupide!" She shot vehemently, "The past is nothing but a burden. But you wouldn't know," her eyes trailed down to stare at the chronal accelerator embedded in Tracer's chest, "because you're too busy living in it, non?"
Her laugh was cut short when a blur of blue slammed into her, forcing the air out of her lungs. Together, Tracer and Widow tumbled across the rooftop. The latter quickly shot out her grappling hook, and there was a familiar clink in the distance. The both of them skidded to a stop; Widowmaker could feel her ponytail hanging off the edge.
Déjà vu hung in the air.
"Amélie," Tracer said looking disturbed as she cupped Widowmaker's cheek. The unnatural cold of her skin bit into Tracer's hand more than the pelting of the rain. "What happened to you?"
Widow's yellow eyes flashed anger, and her heart shook in its cage—a sharp jab of pain quickly followed.
If there was anything Widow hated in the world more than annoying British women getting in her way, it was that cursed name—
"Amélie—" Tracer repeated.
"Is dead," Widow hissed, her teeth gnashed together.
Tracer's eyes looked disbelievingly into Widow's; it was the exact same expression she had after Tekharta was killed.
"What is it, cherie? Does it hurt knowing you couldn't save another person?" Despite the pain in her chest, Widow's lips curled into a smirk.
"No, shut up!" Tracer shook her head vigorously, her unruly hair bouncing with her movements. "I know who you are—"
Widow quickly gripped the collar of Tracer's aviator jacket and yanked downwards, slamming their foreheads together. Their noses brushed against one another and their lips barely grazed.
Tracer had to suppress a shiver against the cold contact.
"Non, cherié, you knew who I was," Widow clarified, her other hand groping for her sniper. She cursed in her mind when she couldn't find the handle; it must have skidded some feet away when they collided. "But that woman has been dead for a long, long time. I'm no longer the woman who held feelings for."
Tracer still shook her throbbing head, her stubborn determination still persisting.
Widow scowled. "I tire of this game," she mumbled. With incredible strength, she flipped the both of them over, pinning Tracer in such a way that the Englishwoman's arms were being held down by Widow's knees. Widowmaker glanced over to the side, and smiled with smug satisfaction; her sniper was just within arm's reach.
"Looks like your time is up," Widow said, chuckling ever so slightly as she leaned over to grab her weapon. With her other hand, she released Tracer's collar and tilted the Englishwoman's head up.
Widowmaker pressed the muzzle of her sniper against Tracer's forehead.
"Adieu, chérie," Widow cooed, a long, manicured finger resting on the trigger. "It looks like your morals couldn't save you...nor Amélie."
Tracer's chest heaved as she took a shaky breath. "I—"
A tinny alarm went off, piercing the air.
Widow's expression darkened as she released Tracer's throat to press a hidden button on her helmet. She heard static crackle in her head as a connection was made.
"Where are you?" Reaper's voice growled.
"Can this wait—"
"We have a job," He cut in, his tone flat. "Stop playing your game with your friend and hurry. Meet us at HQ."
The call went flat.
Widowmaker closed her eyes, breathed, applying slight pressure to the trigger, then opened her eyes. "Well, chérie, looks like I have to finish this game—"
The look in Tracer's brown eyes caused her body to go rigid. Widow felt her own gaze falter, and her finger refused to fire.
"…another time." She finished curtly.
With a blank expression, Widowmaker stood up, her grappling hook zooming back to her. She stepped towards the edge of the building, her ponytail flowing in the wind.
"And when that time comes, you'll find out that spider bites hurt more than two piercings on your ear."
Tracer could hear the other woman jump off, the whizzing of her hook taking Widow to places unknown.
Her mind screamed at her to get up, to move, to follow Widowmaker, to do something, but she simply stayed where she was, lying on her back.
You have to save her, she thought to herself.
Another breeze blew past, bringing with it the sharp kiss of raindrops. However, nothing stung more than the chilly ghost of Widow's fingers wrapped around her throat.
What are you doing? Go!
Tracer bit her lip as her vision of the full moon overhead blurred.
"What kind of hero am I if I can't even save her?" She mumbled, a warm tear slipping down her temple.
Shakily, she brought a hand up to grasp at her hair. Her chest ached, and that feeling of helplessness once again bloomed into anger and bitterness. Her teeth gritted against each other.
Tracer hated Widowmaker for being able to challenge everything she stood for.
Tracer hated herself for not being able to save the person she wanted.
Tracer hated Widowmaker, very much so.
But Lena loved Amélie with all of her heart.
Widowmaker was torn. For the first time in her life as an assassin, emotions were beginning to bring her pain, both literally and metaphorically.
She found herself in a dark alley in King's Row, her bare back pressed up against the rough kiss of the brick wall. Her heart was pounding, slowly, painfully. It felt like the continual, slow swing of an axe hacking away at her ribcage. Even deep breathing couldn't help her.
Shakily, she fumbled for a small syringe, one that was tucked away in one of the many compartments where her ammo was. Ripping off the protective seal that covered the tip, Widowmaker extended her arm and injected herself with the sickly purple-blue solution.
She took a deep breath, and her heartbeat slowed even more. Widow could feel herself growing even more numb to emotion.
However, in the back of her mind, she knew she could never get rid of who she once was.
Amélie was persistent, just like her husband; she refused to go away, even after Talon had captured her. Time and time and time again, they injected her multiple times with the same solution Widowmaker used. Amélie became unresponsive, and Widowmaker began to emerge.
Talon thought they had killed Amélie. Everyone did.
Everyone but Widowmaker.
Amélie was still alive, much to Widow's disliking. Like Overwatch, Amélie was still there, waiting, hoping for someone to come around, her indignant sense of justice stubbornly trying to shine through Widow's murky shadow.
It only shined brighter when she saw Tracer.
Widowmaker suddenly slammed her fist against the wall behind her, hard enough to almost dent it. The sting of pain numbed her hand.
Amélie wanted to be saved, but Widowmaker wanted to kill.
"Je te trés hais, Tracer," Widow mumbled under her breath, every word in her voice carrying the potency of venom.
However, in the back of her head, she heard another voice, one that was tiny yet audible. It was Amélie.
Je t'aime, Lena.