Widowmaker

Widowmaker stares out across the Venetian rooftops, the setting sun casting long shadows that conceal her perch. Amélie's fingers trail along the cool metal barrel of her rifle as she exhales a slow, steady breath. Her visor highlights the heat signatures of civilians ambling through the piazza below, oblivious. Utterly unaware of the eyes fixed upon them.

A cruel smirk curls at the corner of her blue-tinted lips.

So easy. Like plucking petals from a flower. Her finger caresses the trigger, savoring that delicious moment of power before the kill. The ability to extinguish a life with the slightest squeeze. She lives for that split-second of control, of holding someone's existence in her hands—

Her earpiece crackles to life. "Widowmaker." That insufferable voice...

Her grip tightens on the rifle, knuckles paling. Ugh. Sombra. "What is it?" she hisses, the words clipped through gritted teeth.

"Hola, araña," Sombra chimes in a singsong lilt, as irritating as ever. "Just thought you should know, we have a new guest joining our little party tonight. Fresh meat for the grinder."

Widow scowls, leaning back from her scope. "...I'm listening." This had better be good.

"You're being assigned a partner for the op. Extra set of hands to—"

"I work alone," Amélie cuts her off, the words a harsh snarl.

A throaty chuckle filters through the comm-link. "Not this time, chica. Boss's orders. They'll be meeting you at the rendezvous point in..." There is a pause, presumably Sombra checking the time. "Ten minutes. You'd better play nice."

The line goes dead, leaving Widowmaker seething in silence. Her grip is white-knuckled on the rifle, jaw clenched until a muscle ticks in her cheek. Merde...

She despises partners. Distractions that only bog down her efficiency. Make her sloppy. She prides herself on the perfect kill, with no room for unwanted variables.

A soft huff of disdain puffs between those plump lips. Well, whoever her new "guest" is, they had better keep up. She isn't one to babysit dead weight on a mission. If they hinder her in any way... she'll rid herself of them. Simple as that.

With a graceful sweep of her ponytail, she slings Widow's Kiss over her shoulder and leaps from her vantage point. Sailing through the air, silent as a shadow, before grappling onto a nearby roof. She moves with an effortless elegance, the grace of a dancer honed to lethal precision.

In truth, she almost pities this poor fool she's been saddled with. They have no idea what they're in for.

The rendezvous looms ahead, an abandoned church tucked between the winding alleys. As she nears the crumbling edifice, her enhanced vision catches the flicker of motion from a shadowed doorway—ah, there they are. Widow slows to a predatory stalk, boots whispering over the cobblestones as she approaches.

"You're late," she calls out in a flat monotone, not bothering to conceal the disdain dripping from her French accent. And then she turns on her heels, already dismissing them as she prepares for the work ahead.