#widowtracer fic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

catradora-stan · 6 years

Text

i kinda wrote some widowtracer fanfic for the first time so im gonna post it here. give me some feedback if you want.

She was about two seconds away from murdering her. But then again, she always was. Lena’s incessant bantering had plagued her for far too long. On many occasions it almost drove her to a premature completion her task. The day would come when her orders were given but for now she was required to deal with the annoying, British imbecile.

“Hey now, look. I’m not saying that you can’t do what you love as a profession, but trying to make money from playing video games is pretty dumb.” The girl gave Amelie a cocky look that dared her to challenge.

She glanced over where Lena was sitting, and gave her most evil glare. “I make money by being here. Therefore I am making money playing video games. Now do shut up.” She had to focus on the enemy in front of her. She couldn’t risk losing the match. This was her first tournament where victory meant she could win real compensation. She flicked her arm and clicked on the mouse while mashing buttons on the keyboard. Another clean headshot.

Lena let out a groan and started rapping her fingers against the wall. Over the course of a week Amelie learned how hard it was for her to sit still and be quiet. The annoyance was like a high maintenance puppy; she requires constant attention if you don’t want to deal with her getting into trouble. Amelie had never owned a dog. She wasn’t for the idea of having something that cannot help itself.

Yet here she was, a trained assassin, forced into this highly undesirable mission because she was still a newcomer in her field. One day she would work her way up the ranks until she was the one giving orders. The schmuck that continued to underestimate her and give her these horrid assignments would find himself employed at K-Mart. Or dead. One of the two. Retail jobs and death are about equivalent. The notion made her grin as she picked off another enemy in her game.

For now she had to deal. She had originally been stationed as Lena’s bodyguard while her father was away doing business. He had been in close company with her organization for years doing whatever it was he did. Something with weapons. She didn't know the specifics, and why would they tell a grunt like her? All she knew was that while he was away plans had changed. He apparently failed to deliver what he promised, and if the deadline were to expire then her orders were to take out the girl. He had only a couple of weeks. Good enough incentive to get him going. He seemed like a nice guy who cared about the girl; enough to get in trouble with one of the most dangerous group of criminals.

Of course Lena was unaware of the truth. Incidents like these had been a constant occurrence in her life. Her father had fed her lies about what he did so he would still look noble to his precious daughter. On the day he left he told her: “I have a very important job therefore I make lots of enemies. But don’t worry about me I have good people keeping me safe. The same people who will be keeping you safe while I’m away.” His words were a complete fabrication. And due to the abnormality of her father’s work life the girl never had a typical childhood. She was raised more so by nannies and bodyguards than by her father. He had been absent approximately eighty percent of her life. And her mother had been gone the whole eighteen years. Of course the only reason Amelie knew all of this was because the little parasite could never suppress her constant need to jabber.

So it was no surprise when Lena started singing. It was from some awful, dramatic musical she had been watching the other day.

Mon Dieu. Does she ever shut up?“Silence you leech!” Amelie was trying hard to focus on her game. It was a tie at the moment and she was desperately trying to fix that.

Lena paying no mind started to increase in volume. “DO YOU HEAR THE PEOPLE SING? SINGING THE SONGS OF ANGRY MEN!” She let out a chuckle in the middle of the song, knowing the frustration she was causing, before she started up again. “IT IS THE VOICES OF A PEOPLE WHO WILL NOT BE SLAVES AGAIN.”

Lena observed from her position as Amelie tried her hardest to concentrate. Her callous look intensified as Lena grinned. Then suddenly she saw the character on the screen die, which led Amelie to cry out in fury. She told her teammates through the headset to cover for her but it was too late. Everyone was dead. The enemy quickly captured the objective and in big bright letters the word Defeat spread across the screen.

That was when Amelie snapped. She rotated her chair away from the screen and towards Lena. A malicious grin splayed across her face as her hands hardened into fists. In a calm tone that did not match her demeanor she breathed, “I am going to kill you.”

That was all it took for Lena to sprint out of the office. Amelie pushed herself up out of her chair and quickly followed in pursuit. The girl had almost made it down the hallway when she slipped on the hardwood floor. Fuzzy socks were not good running shoes. The assassin was right there on her. Lena tried to scramble back onto her feet but it was too late. Amelie had pulled her up by the back of her shirt and slammed her against the wall.

The girl yelped in pain and looked up, terrified into Amelie’s murderous gaze. “You can’t kill me cause that’s like the opposite of your job.” She stammered. She tried to move but the assassin tightened her grip.

“Oh really? The opposite of my job? My job does not consist of dealing with your constant BS. I am not required to be your dumb little therapists and listen to your incessant, childish squealing.” She knew that her words were cutting into the girl like knives. With added venom she spat, “I am not your friend. I am only here to make sure that no one kills you.”

“No one is going to kill me! No one is ever gonna kill me!” Lena pushed her tormentor off of her and continued. “My father doesn’t even care about me and all he does is stick me with you people all the time. If he actually knew what I needed he would know that I don’t need to be babysat-”

“What do you not understand when I said that I don't care? Go plague someone else.” She turned and began walking back down the hallway towards her quarters.

“I don’t have anyone else to plague because no one lets me go anywhere or make any friends!”

“I DON’T CARE!” She slammed the door behind her making the valuables on the shelfs tremble. She threw herself onto the bed that did not belong to her. Being an assassin should not involve being a babysitter. The girl was a legal adult anyways. Amelie wanted to break something, someone, shatter a collarbone. The vase on the wall would have to do. She grabbed it from its home on the shelf. It was ornate, covered in the symbols of some ancient civilization and encrusted with gold. But it wasn’t in her hand for very long. She launched it as hard as she could at the adjacent wall, causing it to shatter, bringing great satisfaction to Amelie in her aggravated state. She had doubted that anyone would care about its absence, but sound of hurried footsteps indicated otherwise.

“What the hell was that?” Lena inquired through the door.

Amelie responded, “A metaphor.”

“What?”

“A Metaphor for what I will do to you if you keep messing with me, imbécile.”

“Hmm. I see. Your French voice is pretty.” Lena shuffled outside the door then leaned her back against it.

Are you joking? This job was an actual nightmare. Amelie tried to dwell on the hopes of promotion but that was difficult with Lena making noises outside her door. After about a minute had passed she asked, “Why are you still there?”

“Cause we’re friends.” Lena giggled, “You're just mad cause you’re bad.”

“First of all, no. Second of all, no. I lost because you are the world’s biggest annoyance. I would like nothing more than to end you.”

“It’s just a game bro.”

Amelie groaned into the expensive bed spread. This was going to be a long three weeks. She stealthily stood up and walked towards the door, careful to make sure that Lena wouldn’t notice. Then she reached out towards the handle and yanked the door open as quickly as she could. On queue Lena fell backwards, landing on her butt. She swore loudly then glared up at Amelie.

She looked down at the little disaster. “You’re just mad cause you’re bad.” She mocked.

It seemed as though the bothersome brit didn’t know how to respond to what had just happened. Lena just sat there quietly, with a contemplative look on her face.

Amelie went back to the bed and began looking at her phone, thinking that perhaps the matter had been settled. As long as Lena wasn’t making noise or bothering her she didn’t care what she did.

Eventually the girl on the floor spoke up. “You know, I have never had a bodyguard like you. You pretend to be impassive yet you are so easily moved to emotion. I guess that’s why it’s so fun to piss you off.”

The assassin acknowledged her with a grunt and pretended to be more interested in her phone.She knew that Lena would be the most interesting, yet deserving person she would kill, if it came to that. She might even regret murdering her. Might.

“The best part about it though is that now matter what, you don’t actually get to kill me.” Lena joked as she layed on the floor.

That’s what you think Chérie.

#WidowTracer #overwatch #widowmaker #tracer #amelie lacroix #lena oxton #widowtracer fic

31 notes · View notes

bunnyhanasong · 4 years

Text

Brainwashed

Chapter 3 of Foolish Girl

☆ Chapter 1 ☆ Chapter 2 ☆ AO3

Main ship: widowtracer

Notes: Hello all! I am so sorry I abandoned this book since November. I have been struggling with a lot due to the pandemic and my own life, so I got sidetracked and also had major writers block. I do hope this chapter makes up for it. We get to see a side of our favourite assassin in a new light, which may help explain her actions in previous chapters.

Content Warnings: swearing, mentions of weapons and injuries, canon-typical violence and the works, Reaper (he deserves his own warning 😂)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Widowmaker pushed herself off the lumpy, Talon issued cot. The thing was barely considered a bed, no pillow to aid in comfort or posture, with only a thin blanket that scratched roughly at her skin. Still, Widowmaker couldn’t complain; it’s not like she felt the cold anyway. She also didn’t often rest, it just wasn’t necessary anymore, so the cot was mostly a formality.

She looked around her chamber with distaste, forgetting just how drab the whole place was. Her room in Talon always felt like a prison cell, with cement walls and floor and a broken door leading to a small bathroom. There was no personality to the room, the walls were bare and the only sign of life was her hairbrush discarded on the dresser and her own presence. The dresser contained training uniforms and various recreations of her Talon catsuit, an illogical outfit choice for battle but she could not argue. She was just a machine, an object; her opinion did not matter.

She collected her hairbrush and an elastic off the dresser, crossing the chamber to enter the bathroom. She stood in front of the dusty mirror, observing her own reflection in distaste. Her hair was down, something that occurred only when she slept, tumbling over her shoulders in a blue-black mess. Her skin was more pale than usual, it’s blue hue making her seem sickly. What didn’t help was the considerable bruises blooming on her face, highlighting the permanent dark circles under her eyes from the treatments that turned her into Widowmaker.

The bruises, she noted with an eye roll, were Reaper’s gift to her. “A gift,” he said, since she had been so disobedient. She did not off the Oxton girl when given a chance, she directly disobeyed orders and spoke back to her superior. That was asking for punishment, he explain, before landing a calculated punch to her face. Widowmaker had barely flinched at the contact, though the force of it sent her reeling backwards. With a few more hits Reaper ended up breaking her nose and leaving her with a particularly angry bruise across her cheekbone.

Moira had chastised her as she reset her nose and healed it with her scientific magic that Widowmaker would never understand. The older woman was not unkind to her, not directly, she was just cold. The scientist had no empathy in her body, purely apathetic and focusing only on the medical aspect of everything. She only fixed Widow because she was Moira’s creation, her guinea pig; a broken machine cannot function properly. She told Widowmaker that angering Reaper was a mistake, as if it wasn’t obvious, and the French woman had best smarten up. She could have healed her bruises as she fixed her broken bone in mere minutes, but left it as a reminder of her disobedience. A warning that she may not be so lucky next time.

With a huff at the memory, Widowmaker began to run the brush through her hair. She let her mind wander as she worked the knots from her inky blue locks. She wasn’t allowed to let herself to have idle thought, as she was only supposed to think what was put into her head, but no one was there to stop her this time. As she pulled her hair back into its signature ponytail, she let her thoughts fall on a particularly hyper Brit.

Tracer was someone that annoyed Widowmaker to no end. Her constantly giggling and flashing around like a mosquito she could never kill was irritating beyond belief. The sniper had wanted to kill her on multiple occasions, and had the chance almost every time, but she never pulled the trigger. She wasn’t sure why, since she only ever felt truly alive after a kill. Getting rid of Lena would cross a pest off her list and make her job a hell of a lot easier, yet there was something in her mind screaming to keep the girl alive.

With her hair finished, Widowmaker went back to her room to collect her training uniform. She hated wearing her mission suits and, though her superiors preferred her to be mission ready at all times, she would only don her catsuit when absolutely necessary. She saw the way the other agents sneered at her, no doubt objectifying her body in that skintight menace of a suit. They all got armour and protection in their uniforms, but Widowmaker’s was merely a means of demeaning her. She supposed that was the point, to treat her like the object they saw her as. She couldn’t argue, but she could avoid the outfit for as long as possible.

Her training outfits weren’t much better. Still skintight, a pair of athletic tights and a white tank top with the Talon insignia over her heart. She was able to wear a sports bra with this outfit, which gave some support her catsuits lacked. She had been chastised for it before, her hatred for her uniforms; apparently a machine should not care about being objectified. Widowmaker thought that was absurd, since she did still have some human left in her. Besides, her training outfits were more practical and comfortable, giving her more range of motion in their soft cotton and spandex than her suit ever did.

A knock on her chamber door just as she was drawing her jacket on caught Widowmaker’s attention. She sighed and flicked her ponytail over her should, making her way to the metal door that led out to the hallway.

Out in the hall stood the man himself, the shell of Overwatch agent Gabriel Reyes. She supposed that was secret information, but it wasn’t hard to figure out. Widowmaker still held some of Lacroix’s memories, though they were fuzzy. She remembered Reyes, his mannerisms and attitude, and had seen the files Talon kept on Reaper. Moira was easily prompted to brag about her “best accomplishment” and spoke proudly about how she kept Reyes from death. Really it was too easy and Widowmaker had known for a while just who Reaper used to be, and she supposed Overwatch knew by now too.

“Oui?”

“Widowmaker,” Reaper was slouched against her doorframe, “Functioning status?”

The woman tried to hide her annoyance, “Functional and ready for work, sir.”

He nodded, somehow seeming amused despite the unmoving white mask covering his features, or what was left of them anyway. He looked her up and down for a moment before speaking again.

“You are not in your uniform, Widowmaker.”

“I have not been assigned a mission yet, Sir,” she explained in a monotone voice, “Training clothes allow more range of motion for daily activities.”

“I see,” he did not sound impressed, “Well, Doomfist seems to have a mission for you; he requested your presence in the meeting room.”

“Very well,” Widowmaker agreed as she straightened her posture, “Shall I follow you to the room or am I allowed to go on my own?”

“I will take you. We wouldn’t want such an important machine getting lost on her way, would we?”

Widowmaker gritted her teeth, “Non.”

***

No more than forty minutes later, Widowmaker was back in her chamber and shimmying her way into that suit she despised so much. She hated the way it formed to her borderline emaciated body, all of the muscle and healthy fat that Lacroix had was lost due to Widowmaker’s lack of food intake and constant running across rooftops. Her metabolic processes had been slowed so she need not eat much, but that also meant her body had adapted to the lack of nutrients. Lacroix’s muscular dancer’s body had been altered to better suit combat, but it was also failing as her humanity was slowly sucked away through Widowmaker’s treatments.

“Where’s my favourite spider going?” a smug voice crooned from the corner, making Widowmaker jump. Sat cross-legged on her cot, which was empty a mere moment ago, was a particular pest that she would have no trouble pulling the trigger for.

“Sombra,” she snapped as she glanced over her shoulder at the hacker, “Pour l’amour de Dieu...”

Widowmaker made a mental note to always search her room for glowing purple translocators in the future.

“Always so grumpy,” the purple haired woman giggled annoyingly, “What’s your problem?”

“You’re in my room,” Widowmaker rolled her eyes, “I would prefer if you didn’t translocate into places you are not invited.”

“Well that would be counterproductive.”

“What do you want, Sombra?”

The Mexican woman hopped to her feet, smirk returning, “Where are you going?”

“Mission.”

“Not to see your precious lil girlfriend?”

The teasing tone and implications in her voice made Widowmaker want to hit her, “I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”

“Just thought you’d be worried about your poor foolish Overwatch agent,” Sombra grinned, “Since you couldn’t stop Reaper from trying to do your job.”

“She was not my target,” Widowmaker said firmly, “And that is not your business.”

“Oh, c’mon, Widowmaker. I’m your best friend, why won’t you be honest with me about your little girlfriend?”

“We are not friends,” Widowmaker spat, “And I have a plane to be on.”

With that she walked past Sombra, ponytail swinging, and headed down the hallway. Sombra was the most irritating person she had met in Talon, and that was saying something. Her loyalty had always been skewed and it seemed the hacker would turn on them if the opportunity benefited her, but no one seemed to care. Widowmaker hated how smug and nosy she was, but this was just another thing a machine wasn’t allowed to care about.

She stopped by the armoury to pick up her things, slinging her gun over her shoulder so she could attach her venom mine cuff to her suit. She pocketed a few extra mines, locking them in a specially made compartment so they didn’t accidentally activate. After collecting her grapple and securing her helmet over her head, she made her way to the hangar.

The Paris Talon base was small, since it wasn’t often occupied. This was where Talon took her the first time she had been kidnapped. It was also where Overwatch had taken her from after she had been made a sleeper agent, unbeknownst to them. Since the main base was hidden away somewhere in the United States, this one was merely a place to occupy if a Mission called for it. They had been in Paris for a little over two months though, which meant Widowmaker had to deal with Sombra and Reaper in much closer proximity than she’d prefer.

She reached the hangar and found Maximilian standing outside the door of a small aircraft. The omnic regarded her with the same standoffish attitude as usual, somehow his discontent with her presence was very clear on his unmoving face.

“Widowmaker,” the leader nodded when she dipped her head in polite greeting, “Functioning status?”

“Operating as expected, Maximilian, sir.”

“What happened to your face?” His visual receptors caught sight of the bruises, somehow looking at her in distaste.

“Reaper lost his temper,” she replied lowly, “A mistake on my part, it will not happen again. Moira fixed me and I am functional, the bruising is merely a cosmetic issue.”

“I see,” he nodded and then gestured to the aircraft, “You know your mission?”

“Locate the Overwatch safe house and determine who remains in France, oui.”

“Indeed. You know of their possible whereabouts?”

Widowmaker nodded, “Lacroix’s memories tell me Annecy was an important place. It is where she grew up, where her and the husband lived, and presumably that is where Overwatch is most likely to reside.”

“Annecy... that is far, is it not?”

“Five and a half hours by car, but the aircraft can get me there undetected in under an hour I’m sure.”

“Very well,” Maximilian replied, “Get going then.”

“Yes sir.”

“And, Widowmaker?”

“Yes, Maximilian?” Widowmaker had already climbed the steps to the aircraft so she turned to look at the omnic.

“No shots unless absolutely necessary,” he ordered, “I want all of them alive... for now.”

The assassin stifled a sigh and nodded, getting into the ship. The door shut behind her and she took a seat, being the only person save for the pilot on board.

“Surveillance,” Widowmaker scoffed, “Why would they send a perfectly trained assassin for a surveillance mission? Even Sombra could do this on her own.”

She continued her quiet grumbling for most of the way there, switching to French at some point when she realized the ship was probably bugged. She muttered about everything that was bothering her, simply because she had nothing better to do. It was best to get it all out now before she was on surveillance; as she would have to be silent for hours after she landed.

“Stupid foolish girl,” Widowmaker muttered, “Getting herself shot like a dumbass.”

It’s not that Widowmaker wanted to think about Tracer, but her thoughts kept drifting back there. It was beginning to annoy her, how often the small Brit flashed through her mind. Really it shouldn’t happen at all, not with the way her conditioning left her brain wired. She was supposed to only think to kill, certainly not to get distracted worrying about her enemy’s injury. If Moira knew of this she would have a hay day messing with the conditioning again, and Widowmaker would do anything to avoid more of that. So what if she was more conscious than usual? No one had to know.

“Arriving in Annecy in 15 minutes,” the ship’s AI droned monotonously.

“Mon Dieu,” widowmaker cursed under her breath, “Let this mission go by quickly. Why must I waste my time on surveillance?”

When the ship stopped to hover above a rooftop in a quiet part of the town, Widowmaker stood. She adjusted her rifle sling and popped her comm into her ear, immediately hearing a familiar voice a bit too loudly.

“Lacroix,” Doomfist’s accent made the last name sound foreign to her, though at this point in her brainwashing Widowmaker was unsure if Gérard’s name was ever familiar at all.

“Oui, monsieur Doomfist?” Her brain still half stuck in her native language, knowing he would understand those few regardless.

“Keep an eye out for Overwatch agents but also any suspicious looking omnics; they have been known to canoodle with those useless machines.”

Widowmaker had to stifle an almost monotonous laugh, hearing a dull thump as Maximillian undoubtedly smacked the leader upside the head.

Doomfist huffed, “Don’t let your guard down, Widowmaker. That being said, no shots unless absolutely necessary.”

“Affirmative.”

“Good,” Doomfist hummed, “Don’t step out of line again, we wouldn’t want to have to put down our precious spider for disobedience; now would we?”

“Non, sir,” Widowmaker replied through gritted teeth, letting out a sigh when the comm line went dead. She was left in silence, save for the sound of the hovering plane as she went to open the door.

They would never let Widowmaker live it down, that split second hesitation. The screaming voice in her mind that told her to spare Lena. She shouldn’t have listened, she should have followed her programming. Now she was being punished simply because her enemy was still alive at her fault.

“Foolish girl,” she muttered, “Get out of my head.”

***

Those long hours on rooftops were Widowmaker’s safe space. Despite her being technically out in the open, she never felt safe anywhere else. She had become claustrophobic due to her treatments, the straps that bound her to the tables always too tight. The tiny cement box that she spent every non-working hour in made her feel like a caged animal. Out in the open though, she could lurk in silence and not be seen. She was exposed but also concealed, not backed into a corner with no chance of escaping.

She had found the safe house in a mere half hour. After hopping over rooftops and using her infrared scope to see into buildings, she caught sight of a familiar willowy woman that immediately gave away their location.

It was amusing to Widowmaker, to see Angela Ziegler away from prying eyes. She lost her hardened attitude that came with years of being a trauma medic and became a different person. She looked smaller, almost meek, shuffling around the room she had clearly tried to turn into a makeshift medical area. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, pacing around the area like a trapped, injured lioness.

“Ah, Angela,” Widowmaker hummed softly, watching through the open window, “So troubled.”

She watched a bit longer, noting that the Swiss woman merely paced and seemed to mutter to herself. She did seem worried, but that was to be expected. Angela Ziegler had always been a mother hen, with one of her children injured she was undoubtedly upset and feeling helpless without all her medical supplies.

Widowmaker’s interest piqued when the door opened, revealing a muscled woman who’s image made her scowl. Fareeha Amari, how she had grown. So much like her mother yet so different, a soldier but not as hardened by war as Ana had been. Alive, nonetheless, and fussing over the previous subject of Widowmaker’s observations.

She was speaking to Angela in what looked like a gentle tone, a worried hand grabbing her shoulder. The doctor reacted with an annoyed shrug, though she sighed and begrudgingly apologized to Fareeha. Trouble in paradise? Widowmaker shrugged, not her business and certainly not information Talon would value.

She turned her scope to another open blind, fussing with the zoom before she finally caught sight of someone. A thin girl walking past the window, she barely looked older than a teenager, carrying a pair of crutches. Curious, Widowmaker leaned a bit over the edge of the building and focused her view a bit.

The girl, Hana Song according to her previous research on Overwatch affiliates, had walked over to the only bed in the room. There laid a sickly looking thing, a shell of who Widowmaker knew her as, Lena Oxton.

“Oh,” Widowmaker found herself saying, “Pauvre chiot...”

Tracer was slumped into the mountain of pillows propping her up, looking at Hana with a sour expression. The younger was obviously trying to get her to stand up, but the injured woman shook her head firmly. Widowmaker knew it was way too early for ambulation at that point, not with the extent of Reaper’s damage. Ziegler must know that too, so why was the young agent trying to hard to pry Lena from her blankets.

“Interesting...”

Hana had succeeded in getting Tracer in a sitting position and was trying to get her to swing her legs over the bed. The Brit was clearly protesting, clinging tightly to her friend as pain shot through her tightly bound injury. The agony was apparent on her face and it made the sniper want to yank Hana off her, something in her mind protesting at the sight.

Widowmaker was shocked when she felt a pang of something in her stomach, a wave of worry and guilt washing over her. The intensity of them hit her harsher than Reaper’s fist; she hadn’t felt those emotions in ages, didn’t even think she could anymore. Why did her body have such a response to Tracer’s pain like that? Why wasn’t her programming pleased with the sight?

“Merde,” she spit in annoyance at her own thoughts, unsure of what to do. She should be checking other rooms for more Overwatch agents, clarifying who was in France, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sight before her. Hana had slipped out of the room by that point, probably to get Angela, leaving Tracer alone on the chair beside the widow.

The woman was slouched over herself, hand holding tightly onto the windowsill for a semblance of support. Her teeth were gritted in pain as she tried to distract herself, clearly wanting to go back to bed to avoid this situation longer.

Widowmaker jumped when Tracer made a sudden movement. Noise from out on the street made her turn to the window, glancing out into the twilight. The motion made Widowmaker held her breath, she should be further away, she chose a rooftop too close by for secure surveillance. A rookie mistake for an assassin of her stature, especially when she locked eyes with her subject.

Tracer had clearly spotted her, her brain working overtime in her pained haze. It took a moment before a look of recognition crossed her face, quickly morphing to confusion and pain. Widowmaker cursed under her breath, mind screaming to hide, to duck, to run, but she couldn’t bring herself to move.

The injured woman propped herself up in the windowsill, leaning closer to the pane as she gazed at the assassin across the way. She could see the familiar outline of her enemy on the roof, the telltale glowing red eyes on her helmet and the anxious shifting of having been spotted.

This was wrong, Widowmaker thought, what in the world was she thinking?

Tracer’s mouth moved as she spoke to herself, one word that Widowmaker felt hit her harder than it ever had before. The distance between them didn’t matter, nor did the fact that she couldn’t hear Lena. It rung through the silence surrounding her, blaring in her skull like a knife to the brain.

“Amélie...”

#widowtracer fan fiction #widowtracer #Widowmaker #amélie lacroix #tracer #lena oxton #Overwatch fan fiction #my fics #doomfist #akande ogundimu #reaper #gabriel reyes #maximillian overwatch #angela ziegler #mercy #hana song #dva #pharah #fareeha amari

3 notes · View notes