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"And how long are you with that repugnant man-worm?"
On the other line, Olivia snorts before she laughs, and Amélie wishes she still had a heart that could flutter around in her chest. "Too damn long. He's looking for somebody, but he won't tell me who."
Amélie settles, cross-legged, on a curtained mattress. "Then what was the point of your going?"
"That's what I said."
Their temporary base—their Talon away from Talon—is nothing like the lux, designer rooms she's used to. Boxes strewn about. Paint scrawled off the walls. Doors that creak until you have to slam to shut. Amélie pretended to care about the drear turns when Doomfist—and more importantly, Olivia—left her. With all the dramatics of a performer and a husband-killer, she bellyached with the rotten room and the rotten situation.
That's what you get when you jump ship.
"Gabriel giving you trouble yet?"
"No." Amélie's accent is thick on the vowel. "He's made his own bed to lie in."
Olivia told her, over and over, that this arrangement was nothing like Talon. I can see that, Amélie had griped, because Olivia loves a challenge. No, Talon the entity. The group, the faction, the collusion… Olivia promised individuality and equality. To an extent, safety. Olivia had looked her dead in the eye and told her, Amélie, nobody will touch you, and Amélie wished she could believe it. The only thing half-promising was Moira's disgusting lack of consideration.
Even still, she wants, needs, more space between her and Rome, before it falls again.
"Would he notice if my web moved corners?" She hums.
"He doesn't notice anything."
"If it skipped town?"
"No." Olivia does not miss a beat, and her voice twists the way a fly buzzes its last breath; that's worlds away from Amélie's question, even if she takes it as an answer.
"I cannot part with my rifle. My visor, now, that is—"
"Nope."
"Olivia," she tuts. "What difference does it make?"
"Every difference!"
"You are not my keeper. You are the fly."
"Oh, here we go."
"Would you miss being caught up?" Her braid spirals out on the layered blankets. "You have escaped. Do you miss it already?"
"I'm doing this for you. And Gabriel, and Viejo."
"For me." Her bottom lip curls into an audible pout. "Whatever would you do, out of my reach."
Amélie has heard the elusive Sombra described in more ways than she can count. She's read it on not-so-confidential files and government-stamped screens. She's heard it whispered, called, shouted, scolded… A rose by any other name would've thorned her side by now.
Out of all the things Sombra is, or Olivia could be, quiet is not one of them.
Yet no words fill the empty space. Amélie's earpiece crackles in-time with unsure breaths, broken only by a miscellaneous rustling. Nothing less, but nothing more.
"Is he tapped in?"
"Akande?" Olivia clears her throat. The back of it, too, where hoarseness folds inward. "I'd never forget something like that."
"Hm… I seem to recall—"
"Never."
"You have forgotten me, Olivia." Nobody can see her, but hopefully it's audible in her voice; she brings the back of her hand to her forehead. "A dubious mistake."
" …So I should come back?"
"Quickly."
"The quicker I am, the less souvenirs you get."
Amélie's scoff breaches the microphone in a crunch. "I do not want cheap trinkets."
"Who said anything about cheap!"
"I want you in my vicinity."
"Should I be recording this?"
"Yes. Recording the bullet I must put between your eyes."
"Aw, we'd match."
Not every show of wit needs a retort, and patience is the prettiest virtue, but Olivia would've hated the old Amélie.
She laughs. Not hard—not enough to want to die a second time—but with enough continuance that she covers her mouth with her palm, ornate nails tickling the button of her nose.
"What do I have to do," Olivia asks, "to record that."
The giggles corrupt her tilted tone, a stain on her perfect, velvet persona. She swallows a few back. A lump passes down her throat.
"Quel est le mot magique?"
"Meaning…"
"What's the magic word."
"Please?"
Slender fingers clasp around each other, around frigid skin, as Amélie brings her knees to her chest. A thing she did as a girl, and as a wife, whenever she felt alone in the world. A thing so weak and pitiful and, above all, unacceptable. No one is ever alone. There are eyes in the darkness, skeletons in the closet villains in the alleyways, and sometimes, an Olivia on the other end of a failing communications line.
She can't stand it. This vacant space in her mouth. The way her canines itch like burnt tastebuds. The curling of her gut must be hunger. Yes, she goes in for the kill, fangs bared and gleaming in dim light.
"Please run away with me." Her head drags down the bedding. "It's your specialty, no?"
The seconds tick on a broken clock two times too slow.
Why is Olivia so taciturn tonight? What stifles her?
Seconds turn to minutes before Amélie, disappointed but not surprised, sighs with the weight of tangled yarn. "Wow."
"Arañ—"
"No. No, you do not get the privilege. I am not your top priority. I see that now."
"You are."
"Then you will call me back," she instructs. "You will call me back before three—my evening, not yours, little fly."
"Akande said we—"
The grip she holds on her knees tightens, precision sharp and perfect enough to dig into her skin, so porcelain and pure. "There should be no difficulty following instructions."
"You like torturing me."
"I am a lady, and I would like to be chased."
"Around the continent? Are you serious?"
"Call. Me. Back."
Before Olivia can do it for her, she silenves the call, tapping once, twice, and then chucking it across the room when technology fails her, too. That is the trend of today. Of the week.
"Is she serious?" What kind of question is that? Amélie La Croix, known for her empty jokes. Not a ballerina, but a jester. Now that, she would waste no time disappearing for. Even her beloved name, she would change. No—she will leave the joking to Olivia. To Olivia's poor judgement and poorer heart, so big and bloody that it's gone blind, that it doesn't know how to beat.
There is no thought in the way her nails rake down her legs and calves, and back up. Down, and up.
Light dissipates behind her eyes as they flutter closed. So much of her life, though stolen from her, has been heightened in consequence. Each eyelash that feathers against her undereye sends a wind, and each passing of air that whirls through the room and is forced down her body is no less than a gust.
For the first time in days, she breathes in. Oxygen whistles through her nose.
Her heart beats, just once, in her ears.
They feel empty without the metal earpiece and Olivia's voice.