Chapter Text
Clubs were in her top five least favorite places to kill someone, Widowmaker decided. Not as bad as boats, but close to offices and Costco.
It was too loud, too crowded, too many people packed into one suffocating area. Kills here were more about espionage than sniping, and Widowmaker had to admit that it wasn’t her forte. You simply couldn’t get a clean shot with so many people moving at once.
And she felt naked without her rifle. Only a knife slipped into the dark blue pocket of her dress, and a small pistol strapped just about where the blue fabric slit away from her thigh. Exposed, honestly, but this mission called for it.
She had spotted her target a few minutes ago: Nathaniel Hosterly, a 43-year-old businessman who lived in the heart of Los Angeles. When Reyes had dropped his file on Widowmaker’s desk three days, she hadn’t bothered to ask additional questions: Reyes suspected that Hosterly had been passing Talon intel to Overwatch agents, Sombra had confirmed those suspicions for fact during a stealth mission, and now Widowmaker was here, watching him drape a hand across a woman’s thigh, as she planned out the best way to get him alone. The only difficult part would be deciding whether to use the gun or the knife (a matter of messiness weighed against loudness).
She glided across the thrumming dance floor, careful not to bump into anyone and draw attention to herself. She plucked a flute of blue liquid from a silver tray (only for appearances; she didn’t drink anything she didn’t mix herself, on principle.). Hosterly’s hand had slid up the other’s woman thigh, circling around her hips now. The woman didn’t look particularly interested, but then again, expressions weren’t Widowmaker’s forte either.
Regardless, he stopped when Widowmaker reached his couch. “Can I help you?” He asked. In his mind, Widowmaker guessed she was already sprawled on his bed, but that was fine.
“Excusez-moi, a young mademoiselle sent this for you,” she said. Pushing the French accent always seemed to work, even though Widowmaker hated having to butcher her own language.
His eyes flitted across the room. “Which one?”
“This one,” she purred, taking the seat immediately next to him.
He took the drink from her. “Tell her I send my regards.”
“I’ll be sure to let her know,” she replied, slipping a smile across her face. It had taken a lot of practice to be able to react so automatically. The problem was that people were always doing something, so it started to look out of place when Widowmaker forgot to act.
“Nathaniel Hosterly,” he said, extending one hand.
“Angelica.” It was the first thing that came to mind.
“Do you have a last name?” He asked.
“Spend time with me and maybe you’ll find out,” she murmured, rolling her shoulders back and leaning closer meaningfully. Dieu, this was embarrassing.
“I can’t say I’ve seen you here before,” the same blonde woman interrupted. She waved a hand across the crowd. “Most people are regulars.”
“I am in town, visiting my sister,” Widowmaker said evenly. Best to give a vague response that they would probably forget later.
“Is she here too?” Hosterly asked.
“Non, she was not feeling well and had to leave.”
“That’s a real shame.”
“I am just relieved that I could stay.”
“Strangely, I feel the same way.”
Throughout this conversation, she had scooted closer and stretched her legs across the ottoman. The blonde girl had drifted away once she had realized that Widowmaker had taken her place. The plan was going well, even better than expected, Widowmaker decided. She hadn’t anticipated getting his attention this quickly.
Then Widowmaker blinked, and there was another girl in front of them. Suddenly there, even though she definitely hadn’t been before.
She looked odd too. It wasn’t as though her spiked hair and loud neon tights were out of place for the club, but her oversized jacket zipped over an equally loud neon dress certainly stuck out as unusual. Nathaniel Hosterly seemed to think so too, and his eyes widened even more when she addressed him directly.
“Is this seat taken?” She piped, an obnoxiously strong English accent coloring her words. She talked loud enough that Widowmaker didn’t have to lean closer to hear, even amongst the blaring dance music.
“I suppose not,” Hosterly replied drily. He seemed to have recovered from her abrupt appearance; now it looked like he wanted nothing more than for her to leave. Widowmaker couldn’t help agreeing. It would be impossible to murder him with this girl in the way. But it didn’t look like she was intent on letting them alone now.
“Whattaya think of this music, loves?” She directed the question to the both of them, but now Widowmaker didn’t feel so charming anymore.
“I’m going to see if the bar has anything interesting,” she announced, already standing up to leave.
“Let me know if they do!” The neon girl replied, delivering a salute. Widowmaker grimaced. Hosterly looked thoroughly disappointed.
She took a seat at the bar, but ignored any expectant looks from the bartender. Here, she had a good vantage point of where her target sat stiffly on the couch. British Girl was still there, yapping incessantly. It was a setback, but one that Widowmaker could manage. The mission had been going well so far; it only made sense that something would hitch eventually. Especially at a club, Widowmaker noted.
She would continue to keep tabs on him as the night progressed; maybe Tights Girl would prove to be an asset and convince him to leave early. It’d be easier to get to him outside, anyway, where there were less people, and a few significant glances to his car would do all the talking necessary in order to convince him that they should leave alone together.
Now Hosterly was alone again, she observed with satisfaction. Yapping Girl was nowhere to be seen. She melted back into the crowd, stepping easily to the beat of the music, blending in seamlessly-
“Wooooooo!” A small spot had opened up in the dancers, but only briefly before it was fully occupied by the same girl from earlier. Even though they were only separated by a few feet, she pointed to Widowmaker like they were friends spotting each other from across the room.
They were not friends spotting each other from across the room.
“Wooooooo! I love this song!” She yelled, and a few cheers sparked around them in response.
Widowmaker felt the corners of her mouth twist into a scowl, the first unintentional expression of the night. It deepened when the girl grabbed her arm with a surprisingly strong grip and tugged her forward. “Dance with me!”
“Pardon,” Widowmaker hissed, wrenching her arm away. “I have to use the restroom.”
She stalked her way towards the back of the club and slipped behind the women’s door. Widowmaker checked her makeup, gun, knife in the mirror and sighed through gritted teeth. The girl was annoying. Surely she didn’t expect to spend time with Widowmaker all night? She didn’t assume they were friends or anything, right? Widowmaker suspected that would be unusual behavior even for regular humans.
“One shot, one kill,” she muttered under her breath. It was a comforting mantra that she liked to revert to whenever she encountered a difficult job: a reminder that a headshot would always finish the task if necessary. Her watch read 1:23 in the morning. There was still time, but less room for error now. Less room for annoyances.
The dance floor was less crowded now, though the DJ was still taking requests. Hosterly had his back to her; she watched him raise the blue drink to his lips slowly.
“It’s starting to get hot in here,” Widowmaker would say. “I think it is time I go home.” At this moment she would meet his gaze, challenging him.
“Why would I want to know?” He would ask playfully.
“In case you wanted to join,” she would whisper. Then she would lead him to her car, at the back of the parking lot, and kiss him, and hold his head to her chest with one hand while she pulled the trigger with the other.
“Wooooooo!” Incroyable. She popped into view again, this time directly at Widowmaker’s side. “You still owe me a dance, love!” She giggled.
“I owe you nothing,” Widowmaker spat, swerving around the dance floor in an effort to lose the girl. This was starting to pose a problem. Time was sliding away, and focusing on weaving between sweaty bodies meant that it was more difficult to keep an eye on Hosterly. The girl was too conspicuous too; every time she yelled to Widowmaker, the assassin felt a few more faces turn in her direction, which meant that a few more people would be able to attest to the fact that they saw a tall, beautiful woman taking long strides across the dance floor on the night of Nathaniel Hosterly’s death. “I am trying to talk to my friend on the couch.”
“Why’d you come to a club if you don’t want to dance?” Coat Girl asked, a strident whining tone now injected into her voice. Widowmaker caught her gaze accidentally, and something sparked there, and held.
She was suddenly very, very sure that this girl knew why she was here.
Widowmaker had learned to trust her instincts over her years with Talon. She trusted herself before she trusted anyone else, even when it came to those she had betrayed Overwatch with. At the moment, her instincts were whispering across her spine, plucking goosebumps onto skin that no longer understood the changes in temperature.
But it wasn’t as though she could kill this girl now. The club was too busy, and she didn’t have a high enough view to ensure that another person wouldn’t interfere.
Her priority was Hosterly. Reyes had handed Widowmaker the envelope, and she would follow through. She could kill the girl later.
She neared Hosterly’s table, and snatched his eye from where it had wandered onto a dancer. He grinned, she waved, and then there was The Girl.
Though this time, Widowmaker didn’t have enough time to react before the girl reached up and used the front of her dress to pull her into a kiss.
A rough, mashed kiss that paralyzed Widowmaker, stunned her into where she stood. Something both hot and cold erupted in the pit of chest, unfamiliar and distasteful, but also intoxicating and heavy. Something she feared because she didn’t understand.
This kiss was over before Widowmaker could think to pull away. The girl stumbled from standing on her toes, and Widowmaker, knocked off balance, had to take a step back in order to regain it.
“Are you drunk?” She snapped, throwing a quick glance to Hosterly. Shock scribbled across his face.
But then the girl only grinned and leaned closer again. “Trying to crash another party, love?” She whispered, and recognition slammed into Widowmaker like another poisonous kiss.
Tracer whistled, saluted, and blinked out of sight.
Widowmaker wiped her mouth, lips still numb with shock. She turned to Hosterly.
“Do you-do I-should I?” He stammered and patted his wallet, checked his pockets, looked to the door. Widowmaker’s window was nearing closure.
“I do not know her,” Widowmaker growled. Restlessness and panic, real panic, stirred in her limbs. Someone had known she would be here. She was being watched. There was another sniper training their sights on her temple right now. Theories and ideas fluttered across her mind, so many that Widowmaker couldn’t latch onto a single one to prepare for.
“Oh, well, in that case…I’m sorry, that must have been some kind of surprise.” He said, and his hands relaxed at his sides.
“Oui, it was,” she replied. She sat next to him again, but this time without leaning back. She would not allow herself to rest while she was being watched. Not that she could, if she tried. There was a flash of blue light near the speakers, but it was only the reflection from a strobe light. Widowmaker forced herself to exhale. She needed to think clearly.
She never forgot a missed target. The fact that Tracer had escaped the first time was unacceptable. At the time, Widowmaker hadn’t known the girl, but she had certainly done her research when she returned to Talon. Tracer worked with Overwatch, and she was exceptionally hard to kill. Her blinking made her difficult to hit, and her rewind ability forced even mortal wounds to vanish from her skin. And now she was here, hunting Widowmaker, which indicated that Overwatch itself was hunting her.
“-return to Spain. Ah-Angelica, are you listening?” Hosterly’s voice broke through her thoughts. He was staring at her.
“I’m sorry, I was still distracted,” she replied stiffly. “I need fresh air. Would you like to come?” She tossed a smile towards him.
“The club doesn’t let you take drinks outside,” Hosterly replied, “But I’ll be there in a minute.” He returned the smile, though on his face it edged towards a smirk.
Widowmaker stepped outside of the club, a cool breeze immediately picking up the end of her ponytail. Tracer may decide that the danger had passed when she no longer saw Widowmaker and Hosterly together. She could believe that, through her appearance, she had threatened the Talon agent into leaving. She could be aiming her pistols right now. Widowmaker stepped behind a decorative pillar that stood by the entrance, just in case. From here, she still had a clear enough view of Hosterly.
Her fingers brushed against the holster on her thigh, where the cool metal of the gun scraped her nails. A deft turn of her wrist, and the pistol slipped from its latch into her hand. She had disabled the cameras before entering the club early in the evening, and the hollow where she stood now was cloaked in enough darkness to prevent bystanders from describing her.
A soft calm settled in her mind as she lifted the gun. Overwatch may be watching her, but they couldn’t stop a bullet in midair. She could take care of Tracer later.
One shot, one kill. I have never felt more alive. It was always true.
She sensed the girl more than she saw her. In a single, fluid movement, Tracer had wrapped one arm across Widowmaker’s throat, and another tangled around her shooting arm. Widowmaker couldn’t aim, couldn’t pull the trigger, couldn’t step forward or back as Tracer’s grip tightened. She tasted fear: hot, rolling, coppery. The chronal accelerator dug painfully into her back. Air struggled to reach her lungs.
“Now what did you think you were going to get away with there?” Tracer’s accent was breezily optimistic even while Widowmaker clawed at Tracer’s forearm. She couldn’t reach the knife hidden in her dress.
But then she noticed Tracer’s feet, and her stupid, stupid Crocs. With one foot, Widowmaker smashed her heel through the Croc’s holes, and Tracer’s hold loosened as she yelped in surprise. With her free arm, Widowmaker jabbed Tracer’s stomach with her elbow, and straightened her arm.
She fired two shots down the middle, saw Hosterly’s body jerk and slump to the couch.
She emptied the rest of her barrel into the crowd. Best to make it look like a random act of violence, a mass shooting, instead of an intentional assassination. Screaming erupted from within in the club; people began to stream towards the front door.
“You’re a monster.” Hate tore through Tracer’s voice, coming out ragged and raspy. Tears tracked down her face, staining it shiny and red. “I hate you. I hate you.”
“Yes,” Widowmaker said.
Faster than she could process, Tracer’s arm shot out, and she punched Widowmaker across the face. Pain exploded on the bridge of her nose, and dark blood gushed over her chin. It was probably broken. She staggered backwards, but her eyes were clear. She caught Tracer’s next blow, crumpled her hand around the girl’s fist until she shrieked and yanked it back. Tracer should have aimed higher: a broken nose was annoying, but it didn’t keep her from fighting. Her heartbeat pulsed in her ears, pumping dizzying waves of oxygen towards her brain. This needed to end; the second trickle of fear that day burst in her throat.
With her other hand, she wiped under her nose, felt the warm liquid slide down her palm. Disgusting, but she would take a long bath later. She sidestepped Tracer’s swing, smashing her hand across her eyes, smearing the blood there, blinding her. Disgusting. She almost felt bad for the girl.
Though not bad enough to slow down. She sprinted to her car, fighting the wave of people still trying to leave the parking lot. Most of the spots were empty now, except for a few girls huddling inside their cars, phones pressed to their ears. The police would be here soon.
Widowmaker knew Tracer had probably just recalled as soon as she regained her senses. That was what the oversized coat was for: to hide her chronal accelerator. She could have picked one that better matched her outfit.
Nevertheless, Widowmaker wasted no time by looking behind her; she dove in and out of alleyways, backtracking, swerving, even once switching to a car she’d parked a few blocks away the week before, just in case (Though the idea had been Sombra’s).
An hour later, and she radioed into Talon headquarters, requesting the helicopter to pick her up.
Gradually, her heartbeat slowed and the adrenaline dripped from her system. Widowmaker took a deep breath, held it, exhaled, repeated. If her pulse jumped above a certain interval, it caused all sorts of problems involving blood pressure and organ function. It was the only real disadvantage to an artificially lowered heart rate. It normally wasn’t a problem. It was never a problem.
Widowmaker felt her lips, brushed her still-bleeding nose. Never a problem until Tracer. Fights with her – there were two, now, two failures she could not explain – left her like this. Stunned in a way she felt like she remembered.