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Cold, chilly wind bristles through the night, rustling through the leaves of the nearby trees. Well, what little leaves still struggle to cling to the trees even in winter, their little bodies grasping desperately for their place on the branches, but the fall is inevitable. The same could be said for the single occupant of the graveyard, who stands in a coat far too big for her, but one that hides her figure well from the public eye. In fact, most of her outfit does well to cover the sickly purple of her skin, a dead giveaway to who exactly was here.
Yet, despite the risks of her public reputation as one of the world's biggest terrorists, like clockwork every year, she returns to this same graveyard, on the same day, with the same bouquet of flowers. The first few times, she'd certainly gotten in trouble with the doctor and with Akande, sneaking off without word for a week, before always returning. Almost amusing, if she could even feel that anymore.
She supposed, to an extent, she could feel, although extremely muted. Some emotions, like sadness, and happiness, were all but extinguished altogether, while the worst emotions like anger and envy remained. A perfect killing machine, built off rage. Well, not that she alone was enough for the doctor. Instead, a second had to bear the curse, though he seemed to take it a lot harder than she did.
What did it matter? They were both stranded here now, and there was no escaping. Whatever lives they had outside of Talon were long since ripped away from them, by their own hands. Perhaps if he had killed his wife and son, it would be easier on him. Perhaps if she had not killed her husband, it would be easier on her.
A heavy sigh slipped between Widowmaker's lips as she turned her attention from her thoughts to the grave in front of herself. Gérard LaCroix stared back at her in carved stone lettering. Every year, the lettering grew fainter and the tombstone grew dirty, and every year, she would painstakingly wash the mess away to return it to somewhat decent condition. Why? There was no legal obligation, there was no one ordering her, she had been the one to kill him with her own two hands, and yet... Yet she still found herself coming back every year to fix it.
"You really should stop haunting me, all these years later. I did what I had to. It was your fault in the first place."
Her voice sounded before she'd even registered she'd spoken. Cold, quiet, void of emotion. Yet, was she really? Here, standing before the grave, was she really as dead inside as he now was? A tug, that she quickly shoved down deep into her chest, upper lip curling in mild irritation.
No, she wouldn't show sadness. It was alien to her now.
It was forbidden.
Yet, there it was again, and she turned her back to the gravestone to compose herself. It's alright. It was going to be alright forever now. No more lies, no more vacations, no more gentle holds and delicate kisses, no more anything. Talon had wanted a weapon, not a human, and it was her job to discard what little humanity she had left.
Wetness touched her cheek
She wiped it away, biting her lip and taking a deep breath. A visit to the doctor would be in order when she returned, to assure there was no further tears to be shed, no further worries of dealing with the emotional downfall she would inevitably have if she allowed feeling back into her life. Perhaps that was the reason she ran back to Talon in the first place, to avoid the guilt and agony her heart was in, instead begging the doctor to take it all away. All that remained was the thrill of the kill and the quiet now.
Well, would be quiet, if not for the sound of loud boots crunching in the snow. She'd recognize those footsteps anywhere, and yellowed eyes narrowed as they turned to the approaching shadow. It was hard to call him a man when he was half enveloped in a black mist, and his face was hidden behind that bone white owl mask. It was almost funny, how similar they were in being so far from human, and she would have forced a laugh if he wasn't approaching her.
"Are you happy with what you've done, Amélie?"
That name sent a pang through Widow's chest, and her hands balled up into fists as Reaper stopped in front of her now, head cocking to the side. His voice carried that usual arrogant and annoyed tone, but there was a hidden venom she knew all too well. Right, of course he was still mad. He had every right to be mad, when she had killed one of his best friends and set this whole trainwreck into motion.
Was it really her fault though?
"Oh, my apologies, did I hear you condemning me for what I've done to my partner? I wasn't aware this was a competition. I'd argue having him die loving me was far better than leaving him behind wondering if I'd ever come home again, if I was dead. But please, do lecture me on how I'm the worst partner."
A sound of rage sounded from behind the mask, and even as he took another step forward, she held a hand up to stop him.
"Do you really want to quarrel here? By all means, I won't stop you, Reyes, I'm not the one who will live with the guilt after desecrating his grave."
And she was right. She wouldn't feel a single thing if he tore this place to shreds. Wouldn't she? She wouldn't have to deal with the repercussions nor the damages. He would. It'd give her every right to never return here again afterwards too. But would that really stop her? Would anything stop her from coming back year after year?
He could see the hesitation in her eyes, and although she couldn't read his expression behind his mask, she knew he'd seen it. Perhaps, to some degree, Amélie was not truly dead like she claimed to be. Perhaps for the first time, she was caught in her own web of lies.
"You're protecting him. You've killed him, and yet you still care about him. Why, I'd hazard a guess as to say you still even lo-"
"That's enough!"
Silence fell over the graveyard. Widowmaker stared into the two empty sockets of the owl mask, which in turn, stared back. So similar, and yet, so different. Perhaps that difference is why they don't get along. Perhaps it's because they both knew Gérard, or even because she was the one to kill him. Perhaps they'd never really had the chance to know each other in the first place even through him. Whatever it was, it didn't matter now.
"You have no room to talk, Reyes. What does it matter what I've done? Your wife, your child, they're about as dead to you as Gérard is to me."
That was all it took before the wraith lunged forward toward the spider, and she welcomed him with open arms. He would not kill her here. The consequences from Moira would be too large. The damage to this sacrilegious place would be too large. But he wouldn't leave her unscathed. Long, metallic talons dig into her shoulders, and she found the mask mere inches away from her own face, heavy breathing sounding as he restrained himself from tearing her in two where she stood. She did not fear him, nor even death itself. Why should she, when fear was but a stranger to her now?
He knew as much too.
"So HELP me. If you ever mention them again, I'm going to tear you to shreds. Consider it a blessing I don't do it now. Sending you to him this early would be a sin."
And with that, the man, if he could even be considered as much anymore, shoved her away and stepped back. Almost before she could even reply, he had vanished in a cloud of mist and rage. Once again, the night was as silent as it had been before the argument, leaving the lone woman standing before the grave.
She'd already left her flowers, and now, the mood had been ruined. Perhaps next year would be better. A final lingering gaze was cast upon the tombstone, before she too, turned and began walking towards the exit. Perhaps next year, she would not even show up. Perhaps next year, she would burn what little of the cemetery she could, and never return.
Perhaps next year, he would finally step out of the shadows and speak to her, instead of lurking and watching, like he had every year since his supposed death. Perhaps next year, he would return the favor with a bullet to the head. Perhaps next year, he would take her back and save her from the clutches of Talon. Who knows what the future would hold for the three of them?