Chapter Text
Something is wrong.
This is the first thing Amélie Lacroix thinks, as she’s lying in bed, staring out the window and wishing she had a ground level apartment.
Gérard is out on ‘business ventures’, and she's been left alone for the next week. Of course, he has to leave on the one day she has to rest. After a particularly difficult performance last night, leaving her falling into bed with half a face of make-up still on.
She didn't want him to leave this morning. Something about it was off, a sense of wrongness in her gut that only twisted and tightened like a knife in her chest as she watched him drive off into the dark.
So, instead of facing the world, she went back to sleep. When she woke, a few hours later, sunlight slapping her in the face, she just pulled the blanket over her head and rolled over.
It didn't last. Eventually, she grew bored, wiped her bleary eyes and thought of going for a run. She was always restless, even after a performance. She’d practiced it for what felt like years, but what amounted to barely more than three months. Her first stint as a solo choreographer - which she was immensely proud of - and she’d chosen one of her favorite pieces. La Danse Macabre.
As the days had passed and she was still furiously changing around the movements, the gestures, the steps, her nervousness had grown into an irritable ball of constant stress lodged in her throat, and God, did she feel terrible for how short-tempered she’d been to Gérard recently. She’d been given a great deal of trust, and if the crowd’s applause and standing ovation was anything to go by, it had paid off.
And, as per tradition, every part of her ached terribly.
As Amélie climbed out of bed, she noted sourly that her bundle of anxiety and nerves hadn’t faded. She still felt the stress - that she must be doing something, that her job was not yet done, and she was still on a timetable, but now she was late late late, for a very important date.
She stretched in the shower, regretting that she hadn’t done so the night before to ease the knots in her back. The near scalding hot water eased some of the pain, but did not melt away the anxiety. The restless energy inside her was fighting to break loose.
Amélie paused in her third lap of the apartment - after she had found absolutely nothing on the TV - to fiddle with the radio channels, surfing past the bright candy pop songs and bursting bass to find a classical music station. A smile slid across her face as she heard the last of what sounded like the Swan Lake finale fade, and the opening notes of the Danse Macabre dripped out.
She slid back from the countertop, adjusting her footing, remembering the steps she’d gone over for months. She didn’t have as much room as she liked, but she made the best of it, spinning and whirling across the wooden floor. She’d grown fond of the story she’d thought up in her head; on the night of Halloween, a grieving lover meets their ghostly beloved in a cemetery one last time before they must fade from the world, all the while the forces of life and death are trying to rip them apart. The costumes had been incredible - white tunics that swirled across the stage for the forces of death, flowery skirts for those of life.
She had, maybe just a bit, cried after seeing the finished product. The two lovers, dancing together as best they could as the body of the ballet followed wherever they went, fighting each other and reaching their hands toward their own.
The jerky movements of both the living and the dead, turned graceful by their fight.
Maybe just a little pretentious, but she was just starting out.
The violins crooned sweetly, then rose, higher and higher, the xylophone rattling like bones, the sweet melody of the flute, all brought together as the lovers were torn apart, then reunited, and the violin sang sweetly, the orchestra breaking in as they were interrupted yet again.
She slowed, floating, a slow turn as the music calmed, eyes shut and visualizing the image she’d created, and held her breath and waited, the volume rising once again, as the climax drew nearer, and -
A pounding on the door shocked her from her reverie.
She froze, not quite balanced yet, the sudden heat flushing her all at once, muscles still sore from the night before, as someone pounded against the door again. “A moment, please!” She called over the noise, scrambling to turn the volume low on the radio that was now bursting with the orchestra.
She pulled her still damp hair back behind her ears, grimacing at how she knew she must look before pulling open the door and plastering a forced smile on her face. Three police officers stood at her door. One leaned against the back wall, split off from the other two, all three with faces impassive.
Amélie pursed her lips. “Is something the matter, officer?”
The officer closest to the door bounced his leg just faintly, in an almost anxious way, and answered her with forced friendliness. “Is your husband home, Ms. Lacroix?”
She had to force herself not to sigh at the way he butchered the name - as if it were pronounced “lacrux”. She shook her head at him. “I’m afraid not, sir, is there anything I can do for you?”
At that moment, the officer leaning on the wall lifted his comm unit, speaking into it too faintly for her to hear. She noticed, abruptly, that none of them had any name tags. “I didn’t catch your names, officers..?” That familiar bundle of anxiety had returned, climbing up her throat.
“Howell,” the last spoke for the first time, a look on her face one could mistake for eagerness. “Ms. Lacroix, could we have a look around your apartment?”
She tightened her grip on the door, eyes flicking from one officer to the next. “Do you have a warrant?”
“Ma’am, this is an urgent matter,” the first one said, his friendly smile now more like a grimace.
“Do you have a warrant?” She repeated, her voice and eyes hardening. This was not right. They were not right.
The eager one’s fingers brushed her gun, still holstered. The one behind them finished speaking to whoever was on the other end, pocketing the comm unit once again, and the man closest to her smiled not in the fashion of a predator fixing to catch his prey, but a man simply doing as he was told.
She slammed the door shut.
Against the protestations of the imposters, she locked the door with trembling hands, before making a break for the upstairs bedroom. She stumbled on the steps, nearly sliding down them but she pressed on, shutting the door behind her and placing another barrier between her and them.
Below, she could hear them pounding against the door, no longer knocking, but now - the thought sent a chill through her - trying to break it down. “Open this door now! ”
She swiped her phone from the nightstand, her mind a jumble as she began to call the emergency number, then realized: What if they were real police? What if Talon had police in their pocket? Would they answer her call? The man could have been calling for backup below - She needed Overwatch. There was a slim chance they would get here in time, but she wasn’t sure if she had a choice.
Her first thought was to call Gérard - but there was no way he would answer.
Ana . Surely, she would help. She slapped the button, then stuck the phone between her shoulder and ear as she slid a long case from beneath the bed, the beating of the door downstairs punctuating the ringing cell.
Sent to voicemail. She cursed softly as she called again, flipped up the latches with her shaking fingers, and pleaded with any deity she knew that she would make it out of this.
“Amélie?” Ana’s voice came through the speakers, half muffled, hard to hear over the sound of her front door slamming open.
She launched into an explanation, breathless, her voice filled with the sense of hopeless despair that would give anyone a heartache.
"Hey, hey, slow down. Take a breath.” Ana’s motherly tone clicked into place - the one she’d heard when she spoke about her daughter.
She did as she asked, taking a long, shaky breath. Then, she whispered, “What do I do?” Her voice was so small, feeble. Weak. She hated it.
On the other end, she could hear the faint purr of an engine starting. “You’ll be okay, Amélie. I’m on my way and I’m bringing friends. Remember what I taught you?”
In a fraction of a second, Ana’s voice had switched off concerned mother to commanding officer. It was, just a little, reassuring. “I do.”
“You took martial arts when you were younger, right?”
“I still do. Sometimes.” She kept her voice low, leaning against the bedroom door to try to guess where the agents were. She flinched as a loud crash came from downstairs, abruptly silencing the low music.
“That’s good. You can fire a gun, and you can kick their ass. Can you barricade the door?”
“They’re already inside,” she whispered.
“Then lock yourself in another room and barricade that one. Keep yourself out of the line of fire.”
The voices downstairs calling out to her killed any response she had before it left her tongue. Ms. Lacroix, they called sweetly, it’ll only be worse for you the longer you hide. Come on out, now. Perhaps if they stopped to listen, they might hear her heart beating out of its chest.
She moved from the door, turning the lock as she stood, then began to drag the nightstand from the bedside to the door, achingly slowly and loudly.
“Ms. Lacroix.”
She gasped, the nightstand squeaking to a stop. The voice, just barely muffled, came from what sounded like the other side of the door. The handle jiggled. “Ms. Lacroix,” she coaxed, “we won’t hurt you.”
In response, Amélie crept across the floor to her rifle’s case, and began to load it with ammunition. Never keep a loaded gun around, she thought grimly, unless your husband is a high profile target.
“We just want to ask a few questions, is all.” The woman’s voice sounded as if it were right against the door.
With shaking hands, she aimed the rifle at the door.
“If you let us in, no one has to get hurt.”
She took a long breath, then let it out as she set her finger on the trigger.
“Ms. Lacroix,” the agent began, and never finished.
Amélie squeezed the trigger.
A cry of pain came from the other side of the door, as the wood splintered and a hole appeared, chest high. A sickening thud. Then another, and another, as the woman fell down the stairs, crying out in pain, until one last thud, a crack, and the woman’s abrupt silence. Her gut clenched as the sickening scent of coppery blood seemed to flood the room.
“Oh, God,” she breathed, tears threatening to spill.
Ana’s faint voice came through the phone, more panicked than she’d ever heard her. “Amé? Are you there? Amé?”
She took a moment to collect herself, taking shallow breaths, before picking up the phone from where it lay on the floor.
“I’m.. I just - I just shot someone.” Her voice cracked as she said it, the words making it true. “I - Oh, God..”
“How many are left?” Ana spoke calmly, though with an edge of steel in her voice. The panicked tone may as well have never been there.
“Tw- two, maybe. There might be more.” She pressed her hand to her eyes, forcing herself to breath - she couldn’t breathe. “I can’t do this, Ana, I can’t -”
“I know you can. I’m almost there, okay? Is the door barricaded?”
She let out a laugh. “I shot through it. I shot through the fucking door -”
A loud crash came from the door, as it nearly buckled under the weight of whatever had hit it. Amélie screamed, dropping the phone on the floor. She needed the rifle. Rifle. Rifle.
She scrambled across the floor, managed to snag the barrel, and the door burst open.
The two agents stared her down, eyes cold and guns pointed right at her head. She’d killed their partner, she realized, a wave of dread settling over her. A friend, maybe. She’d murdered one and now they’d get revenge on her for not going quietly. A weak laugh bubbled from her throat. She’d completely destroyed any chance she had.
“Do it,” she snarled, angry tears streaming down her face, her grip tightening on her rifle. “I dare you. Shoot me.”
The two of them exchanged a look, before one shrugged, lifted the butt of his rifle and struck her across the face.
Her head snapped back and she felt herself hit the floor, a crack reverberating through her skull. I’ll kill you too, she tried to yell, but it was trapped in her throat by the sob wracking her body. Or, was that vomit?
The man who’d hit her let out a bark of laughter - soured by the sight of the cracked and splintered door, with a perfectly round hole in it. Her arms were wrenched behind her back and her cheek pressed against the floor, something warm and slick and red running into her eyes. She couldn’t see through the cloud of red. A boot dug into her back.
The other man - the one who’d spoken to her first - said into his wrist, “Primary target’s not here. Secondary target acquired.”
Cool metal wrapped around her wrist, and the muzzle of a gun pressed against her neck.
“Affirmative,” the agent said.
The tense silence was only broken by her panicked breaths, and the creaking door.
“Understood.”
She shut her eyes, forcing herself to breathe more evenly, though the rising silence felt as if it were building, as if any moment she would hear one last bang and it would all go dark, and she’d be found with a bullet in her head, never again to speak or dance or laugh or see Gérard - “Just shoot me already,” she whispered, and for a moment, thought she’d gotten her wish.
The man in front of her knelt down, grabbing a handful of her hair and pulling her head back. “Unfortunately for you, mademoiselle, we have need of your husband.” His eyes flicked up to his partner and nodded faintly.
“No,” she whispered, as a needle pierced her neck. A gloved hand held her steady, despite her struggling against it. “No!”
The agent looked at her with disgust, but maybe, just a little pity.
The world faded around her, and she fell.