収束ゾーンでのライフ: Life in the Convergence Zone

So my co-author in Of Gods and Monsters, bzarcher, has a crypid AU which started with the novel Candyfloss and Lace, and it's pretty fun. Recently, I saw an article in Smithsonian about medicinal cannibalism in Europe, and, well... this happened. Don't worry, it's fluff. And all horribly, horribly true, at the same time. You're welcome. ^_^

Overwatch Cryptid AU
Good For What Ails Ya
solarbird and bzarcher

Amélie Lacroix has a lot to learn about being a vampire, but fortunately her girlfriend always has a few ideas about how to help. Maybe a few stories about the good old days is just what she needs...

[AO3 link]

---

"Well," said Emily, "Here we are. Our North American home from home."

She unlocked a grey metal box and threw a large physical switch found inside. Hallway lights lit, and the sound of a motor emanated from behind the walls. Tracer jinked up to the elevator at the end of the hall as its doors opened, and she checked the interior. "All clear!"

Widowmaker could feel the positive air pressure from the elevator shaft as she stepped over the threshold into the oversized car. "This is your safehouse?"

"One of 'em," Tracer replied. "It's ancient! Built during the Cold War, last century. Things go well, we'll end up back here on the regular."

Widowmaker frowned, sniffing at the air - it, at least, did not smell so antique. "It has been updated, I presume."

Kestrel laughed - "too right" - and Lena grinned. "We kept the architecture vintage, though. It's... somethin' to see."

"Does Overwatch know of this facility?" asked the assassin.

Lena tilted her head back and forth. "I might've mentioned it to Winston, but I didn't give directions. He's never been here. Officially, it's an investment."

The control panel's round hard plastic buttons shone black, with white letters reading M, G, OPEN, and CLOSE. Tracer stepped over in front, and pointed. "Right! Overloaded panel controls. M is this floor - mezzanine, right? G is the underground garage and storage for the aboveground house. The cover story is, it's supposed t'be a cargo elevator. And it is! It all works. OPEN and CLOSE are for the doors, like it says on the tin. But to get to the safehouse..." She punched a sequence of buttons - G and OPEN at the same time, M and OPEN at the same time, G, OPEN, CLOSE, OPEN and CLOSE, CLOSE.

On the final close, the doors shut in front of them, and the elevator started down.

"How far are we going?" asked the spider, looking about at the brushed metal walls as they slowly descended.

"Not too far - only about ten metres," said Kestrel. "As far as we can tell, the builders wanted a bomb shelter that'd do double duty as a guest house."

"Which is it more like ..." Widowmaker went silent as the doors opened upon a lawn. She stepped forward, onto the ground, looking up at the very low sky, or very high ceiling - depending, she supposed, upon one's point of view. To the left, a two-storey mid-century modern home, brown-tiled "roof" jutting into the "sky," the sky a ceiling from which artificial daylight shone evenly across the underground chamber. Around the outside of the "house" and "yard" stood concrete walls, covered in a mix of sculpted trees, murals of mountains, and artificial sky.

"Yeh - that was my reaction too," chirped Lena, with a grin.

"The friezes are... hideous. But the light, it is not terrible." She looked towards the building within the building. "It is a... they called it a split-level? They built a..." She shook her head. "C'est bizarre."

"The lighting's this good 'cause we replaced that bit," nodded Emily. "C'mon, it gets better." She stepped out of the elevator, onto the crazy-paving path. "And the house is nice."

-----

Kestrel picked up a pleasantly modern control padd as soon as they stepped inside the front door. Holograms applied themselves over the mural and sculptures outside, rendering a far more naturalistic appearance. "Much better. We kept them, but... that doesn't mean we want to look at them," she said, wryly.

Tracer jinked over and grabbed another padd. "Security system's up - no intruders, no alerts, water supply's good, HVAC normal, and best of all..." She pulled off her accelerator, popped it on a stand, and plugged it in for charge - turned off. "Ahhhhhhh. That's better."

"You do not have to wear it?" asked the Widowmaker, surprised.

"Whole house is an accelerator chamber, luv. 'Yard,' too. I'm free as a bird down here. Ironic, innit?" She shook her shoulders and stretched. "Hoo. So nice. I'm gonna bring up the network, see if Winston's answering yet," said continued, "an' check on home accounts. See if Overwatch's said anything to Interpol or th' like."

Emily nodded - "good idea" - as she opened first curtains, then a couple of windows - why? thought Widowmaker - and she received her answer as a light breeze wafted through the living room.

"The illusion wasn't bad, even with the vintage kit." The ginger shook her head and smiled. "We improved it, though. We don't get to show it off, much - what do you think?"

Widowmaker slowly looked around. Century-old couches, chairs, table lamps, a sunken living room, a... dining room, a kitchen, a washroom visible down the hall, stairs leading to... bedrooms? Workrooms? She did not know. Outside the large windows, a... lawn. Artificial, but not terribly unconvincing. Trees, beyond, and low mountains in the distance that looked... almost... like...

She looked at Kestrel, confusion clear across her face, and tried to speak, but stumbled over words, and then stumbled over herself, and almost fell, before being caught by Emily, and then a moment later, Lena, who was a little less sure about how safe she was to touch. "Woah, woah, Widowmaker, woah, it's, um... what's wrong?"

The blue woman looked around, disoriented, dissociated, and the two Oxtons helped her to a couch. "Are you... my..." she said, to Emily, in a bit of a daze, "no, that can't be... could you... how much... is real? Are those curtains? Are they real? Please, close them?"

Lena dashed over to the curtains and triggered them to close. Why are there curtains? thought the assassin. This is... She blinked, slowly. Ah. A little better. She stood, suddenly, and walked up to feel them - real? Real.

She began walking around the living room, touching objects, rifle forgotten on the couch. Everything she saw that she could reach, she touched, and having touched it, moved on.

"All of this is real, luv," said Tracer.

"Most of it's vintage," added Kestrel. "The upholstery is new, and some pieces are re-creations. We had the money, so we wanted to preserve the..."

"...why would ... someone ... make this? Was... is this a conditioning facility?" She looked at the ginger, head tilted. "Are you my... handler? Are you?"

"Oh my god," said Emily, horror in her voice. "Is something about this part of how they work on you?" Lena looked at Emily, similarly shocked. "No! No, I swear!" the teleporter stressed. "It wasn't anything like that! It was just a bomb shelter built by some boffin with too much dosh. If bombs fell, they wanted t' ride it out in style."

"Widowmaker," interjected Emily, not yet moving, but tensed. "I think this is important. I am not your handler. You are your own handler. You have no handler other than yourself. Do you understand?" The sniper stopped briefly, and nodded, eyes just a little bit more focused.

Emily walked up to the blue woman, carefully, who walked slowly around the main rooms, touching objects, making sure they felt the same as they looked. "Did that help? Do we need to leave? Do you need to be somewhere else? I swear to you, we did not know you'd have this reaction. This is just a ... strange old house. That's all it is. This is not a reconditioning environment of any kind," she repeated. "It's just a very well hidden safehouse." She looked over to Lena. "Love, turn off all the holograms, she was fine 'till then."

The upper windows, which had still shown the holographic sky, now showed mural instead, smooth light sheets with occasional chiaroscuro clouds. Widowmaker shook her head, and held her hands up to her eyes for a moment, covering them - then, she looked back to the room, and to Emily, beside her. "Thank you."

"Right then," said Emily, taking a deep breath and turning towards Lena. "We're relocating! Yukon? It's small, but it'll do for a day. Or, we'll need to refuel, but New Zealand should be..."

"No," said Widowmaker, grabbing Emily's hands. "No. Thank you. This will do nicely." She looked around the rooms, focus completely returned. "I... like this space. The upper level, there are sleeping facilities?"

"Yeh - and baths. Workroom, armoury, weights room below. But - you sure?" asked the teleporter. "You... kind of lost the plot there for a bit..."

"I'm still worried about this," interjected Emily, still feeling the other woman's cool blue hands in her own. "Do you want to talk about what you said? Are you... you?"

"No. Yes. Yes." Widowmaker looked back and forth between the two women. "You did not attempt to create any directives, when I entered maintenance mode - except to hand me to myself." She looked at Kestrel, before her. "I am... I am..." she blinked, trying to parse the feeling. "I am... grateful."

"We didn't know that was possible."

"That I could be grateful?"

Tracer snickered, and Emily said, "No, that you could be ... put in that state."

"It should not have been possible. There is... something, I think, in my system, still. Presumably from your doctor. But you did not try to take advantage of it. Thank you."

"She just told us about sedatives, that's all," insisted Emily. "We asked."

Widowmaker smirked. "It is possible she did not lie. Some sedatives have... relevant secondary properties."

Lena frowned. "Y'think she left somthin' out? Some details? Intentionally?"

The blue woman nodded, considering. "Possibly. I have felt..." She looked to Emily again. "...easily trusting - of you both, but you in particular."

Emily's face twisted into a snarl. "Dammit, Angela... you did lie to me." She felt like hitting something, but... those hands. She looked back to Lena again. "We really should move on. Or - at very least, let's disable the hologram projectors. We can do that."

"No," said the assassin. "Turn them back on."

"What?" chorused the two Overwatch exiles, looking back towards the assassin.

"Turn them back on. If you can do this accidentally, Talon could do it on purpose. Open the curtains and reactivate the holograms."

Lena and Emily looked at each other, nervously. Well, Emily thought, the whole idea was she's a person, and people can make their own decisions... She shrugged an I-guess-so at Lena, who nodded, and the curtains opened and the holograms phased back to life, taking the artificial landscape from laughable to convincing.

Widowmaker's gaze remained focused this time, as she took in the projected vista. "It is... almost like the view from the Chateau's upper levels. No lake, more evergreens, taller mountains in the distance. But, in the foreground, not unlike... that."

"The chateau?"

"A family property of Amélie's, in France. Also, my home."

"You have a house?"

"A chateau," she stressed. "It's where I live. Talon knows of it, or I would've taken us there." The blue assassin smirked. "Did you think I lived in a barracks? Or that they... put me away, somewhere? Boxed me up, between missions?"

"Well," Lena coughed, a little embarrassed, "...kinda, yeh..." and the assassin... chuckled.

"That similarity good or bad, luv?" asked the teleporter. "Did they use that against... her?"

"I do not know," she said, and shook her head again. "This is foolish... no, it is not foolish. It is important." She turned to Emily, again. "For whatever reason, my conditioning has responded to you as my handler. I am trusting of you, but it has been years since any handler could truly control me. I demonstrated that by killing my first - but I have no urge to kill you. Do you understand?"

"No," said Emily. "I do not. I - I don't want this. Can you ... undo it? Somehow?"

The blue assassin shook her head. "No. Not immediately. But that you do not want it makes me feel... secure." She thought about diving over to the couch, grabbing her rifle, and aiming it at Kestrel's forehead, just as a demonstration. She also flashed on embracing the woman, picking her up, running her fingers through her hair... and had no idea why. I... could I do... that? she asked herself, not knowing which she meant, before deciding, yes, she could - and that therefore, there was no need, quite yet, to do either. Instead, she turned her golden-eyed gaze to Kestrel, eyes to eyes, and smiled, and for once, there was a breath - no more, but a breath - of truth in it.

"I will do everything in my power not to use this," Kestrel said, returning the blue woman's smile with solemnity. "If I do, on accident - tell me. Teach me how not to use this."

"I will," whispered the assassin, lifting the hands she still held to her lips, kissing them lightly, sealing a vow. "I promise."

Lena "Tracer" Oxton gave up on Widowmaker, but somewhere underneath it all knew that wasn't the right thing to do - so much so that she and her wife Emily "Kestrel" Oxton (from it is not easy to explain, she said) punched a hole across spacetime to find a universe where things had, in the end, worked out - coming across Lena "Venom" Oxton and Amélie "Widowmaker" Lacrox of Talon, from on overcoming the fear of spiders.

But really, all you need to know is that Lena and Emily are both with Overwatch, and are taking one more shot at pulling Widowmaker out of Talon's clutches. And this is probably the most current-canon Widowmaker I've written.

This is the third time I've visited this Lena and this Emily so apparently it has to be a series now. Thanks, brain. [AO3 link]

---

And just like that, she was down.

Widowmaker fell, panting, crouched, trapped between air conditioners and rooftop access, Kestrel overhead, Tracer in front, rifle damaged but regenerating, chain broken but rebuilding, and entirely out of venom mines.

Nowhere to go. 45 seconds, she thought, glancing up, glancing ahead. 45 seconds to replenished ammo, she thought, watching Tracer, with her gold eyes burning. 45 seconds. They can't take me in, not in 45 seconds.

"Hey, love," said the smaller Overwatch agent in front of her, the annoying one, the one who kept getting under her skin, no matter what she did, no matter how infuriating she became. "Truce?"

...what? thought the spider, and she blinked.

Tracer lowered her pistols, well aware that the Talon assassin could still punch like a prizefighter. "Truce? Three minutes. I know you've got another 40 seconds or so 'till you have rounds again, I'm askin' for three minutes' time. Truce?"

Widow glanced up towards the flying agent, who saw her look, and in response, nodded back down to the assassin. "Truce," Kestrel said. "Three minutes."

I... what? Truce? What? They have me, and... what have I got to lose? the assassin decided quickly, not lowering her weapon. "Why? So you can take me in to be undone, cherie? I think not."

She spoke! thought Tracer, her already-rapid heart jumping just a little bit more. She spoke. "No! Not that, love," she exclaimed. "It's so I can apologise. Apologise proper, and all that. I'm sorry. I just want to say why."

Widowmaker... hesitated. Surprised, not in the combat way, but in the cognitive dissonance way, and she shook her head and failed to clear it, stuck on the idea of being apologised to, and overrode her reaction, sure she must've heard wrong, and tried again. "Three minutes, so your friends can close in, and..."

"I promise, no, that's not what we're doin'." Tracer pulled her earbud and thumbed her comm. "McCree, Tracer here. No sign of Widowmaker. Sweeping north for further recon." She received a brief "I hear ya" from McCree, and Widowmaker could hear it too, just, from the tiny exposed speaker.

Thirty seconds to bullets. Thirty seconds to possible escape. Or, three minutes to... what? She narrowed her eyes, but lowered her weapon. "Truce." she said. "Three minutes."

"I'm sorry," said Tracer, again. "I've been doin' everything wrong for three years and I am so sorry."

Widowmaker felt confusion, and again, not the uncertainty of battle, but an unfamiliar emotional reaction she did not want to admit she felt. "Pour quoi? We fight, it is what we are for. And you have hardly ever managed to hurt me."

"I think I have, though," replied the teleporter, earnestness clear in her voice. "Emotionally. Not on purpose, I swear. I talked to some..." - she nodded her head back and forth - "...can't say friends, can't say enemies, it's complicated, they're kind of Talon, they're kind of not... 'bout a month ago, and they set me straight about you. And about what I've been doin' wrong."

Mystifying, thought the assassin, but she mimed a bemused look. "Are you talking about the hacker? Are you and the Mexican woman talking about me? My controllers will be interested to know that."

"No," the Englishwoman shook her head. "Not Sombra. It's... look, it's nobody in your Talon. It's complicated and three minutes ain't long enough. But that's not important! What's important is I got shook up, but good. An' I realised I've been tryin' to get to Amélie, and trying to tell her we'd get her back, and I've been an bloomin' idiot because I've not been tryin' to talk to you."

Widowmaker snorted - this is nonsense, she thought, but something scratched at her, something in her head saying this is important - and flipped her rifle onto her shoulder. "I seem to remember a large number of rather one-sided conversations, myself. Even more, including the ones spoken only with bullets."

"Not what I mean. I've been..." she grimaced.C'mon, Lena, she thought, you've been practicing this, don't let's throw a spanner in these works. "You're real. I finally get it. You're a person, not some ... construct. And I've been promising we'd change you into somebody else, just like Talon did to Amélie, and that's wrong, and I'm sorry, and it's gonna stop, starting now."

Widowmaker tilted her head, dismayed, as she picked through what she was hearing. Is... that... why...? she thought, but did not know what to say.

"I've seen you, you talk about how emotions are my weakness, and you say you don't have any, but you do, it's obvious, even if you don't like it, and I've been takin' that as Amélie peekin' out, but it's not, it's you, it's just you, and I'm sorry for... for everything."

"What..." the assassin managed, feeling strangely light, strangely separate from her place on the rooftop, surrounded by her enemies. "...what is the point of this?"

"She'd given up on you," came Kestrel's voice, from above. Two minutes, she thought. "But I hadn't."

"...you?" the assassin looked up. "I do not even know you. You are not a priority target."

"I know," said the flying agent. "But my wife's into you, if it isn't obvious, and - cards on the table - I kinda am too. Giving up made her all depressed, so... here we are."

"Kestrel!" shouted Tracer. "C'mon, I'm not on the pull, that's not why..."

"It is so," retorted Kestrel, "underneath everything."

"...it is so, isn't it?" The Widowmaker smirked, grasping at a little more control of a decidedly out of control situation. "You are trying to, you say, chat me up? Pathetic. We are enemies, and that is all, and you are a fool to think otherwise."

"Oh no," said the teleporter, "Don't pretend this don't go both ways."

"It does not," sneered the assassin. "I am not burdened with such trivialities."

"Oh yeah?" asked Tracer.

"Yes," said Widowmaker.

"If that's true - you've had bullets again for 45 seconds. I don't even got my pistols out, and here I am, all not shot up. Why not?"

What?! thought the assassin, knowing her opponent was right. She hadn't even lost track of time, she just hadn't acted, and she could've. She should've. She grasped for a reason, and settled on, "...we have a truce."

"Okay, maybe. This time. But why ain't I dead? You fought anybody else who lived this long?"

"No," admitted Talon's most effective killer. "But it is not for lack of trying."

"Don't underestimate yourself, love. You've had your chances, I'm number one on Talon's hit list, and you ain't even been takin' the shots, even though I've been promising to take your mind apart and not even knowin' I was doin' it. It's more than I deserve. Thanks, for that."

Widowmaker raised her rifle, Tracer in her sight. "Should I fix it, then? Right now?"

Kestrel froze, gravity blade ready. But Tracer did not raise her pistols, or grin, or dodge, or dance. She held her ground, being very still. "Y'could, y'know. G'wan. I'm right here."

Widowmaker stood, looking through the site, the shot unmissable, time counting away. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. And, again, confusedly, she lowered her rifle. She couldn't even say why, other than it did not seem... right, to shoot. "70 seconds," she said, softly, almost distractedly, her focus disturbed, disrupted. What is wrong with me?

"Look," said Tracer, "I'm not gonna try to bring you in, not now, maybe not even later. I'll stop ya if I see ya at work, but... c'mon. Y'gotta admit, Talon's no good. Maybe Talon made you, and maybe I'll even give 'em that, but on the whole, they're no good."

From above, Kestrel quietly noted that Widowmaker did not bother trying to defend her makers, or even dismiss the attack. She'd just accepted it as a given. Halfway there, she thought to herself. C'mon, blue girl, show me. Show me you're real.

"From now on," continued Tracer, "I'm promising: no changin' you. No tryin' to turn you into somebody else, not even somebody you maybe used t'be. But if you want out - if you want out, as you - tell me. We'll find a way. And if Overwatch does catch you, somehow, if we bring you in, I will not let them change you against your will."

The woman built from Amélie Lacroix raised an eyebrow, sceptically. "No one in Overwatch would tolerate my existence. None of you..." - no, she thought, I don't believe that, do I? - "...present... company... perhaps excepted."

"I mean it, love," Lena said, as plainly and honestly as she knew how. "I swear. Even if I have to break you out of a Watchpoint myself, they won't change you. It won't happen. I won't let it."

Widowmaker believed her. Something inside her believed Lena's oath, believed every word of it, knew it to be true, and the spider dropped her rifle in shock. "I... I do not believe you," she lied, a hitch in her breath betraying her.

"I think maybe you do," said Kestrel, gently, "even if you don't want to." Oh fuck me, what am I about to say here? she thought, swallowing. "Lena's promise goes for me, too. I'm no Pharah - but I'll provide the air support. We'll get you out." C'mon, c'mon, be real...

Oxton nodded, looking up gratefully at her lover. In for a penny. "I'm not sayin' come with us now, love, I know that's not gonna happen. But if you want out..." started Tracer...

"...we'll get you out. And not to Overwatch," continued Kestrel...

"...unless that's what y'want," finished Tracer.

Widowmaker picked up her rifle. Twenty seconds, she thought, absently.

"Have they ever reconditioned you again, love? After the first time?"

The assassin frowned. "They did... once, after..." She did not finish the sentence.

"Tekhartha?"

"Yes," she nodded. "Because I laughed."

"Did y'like it?" asked the teleporter.

"...no," admitted the assassin, after a pause, resentment in her voice, and above her, Kestrel silently cheered, clenching her firsts, Yes!

"We wouldn't try," repeated Tracer. "I get it now. I swear."

"Never," said the flying agent. "We both swear," she said, in for a pound.

Widowmaker looked down at her Kiss, ready, pulse rounds fully charged and ready to go. Enough chain regeneration to get away, as well - three minutes is a lot of time, if you think about it, isn't it? Talon, signalling, in her headset, trying to raise her, trying to make sure she was alive and, if not well, at least functional. This could all be a new lie, she thought, warring against herself. But... it also might not be.

After Tekhartha, she'd learned now not to tip off her controllers. It wasn't the only thing they'd missed.

"Your three minutes are up," she said. "And I do not trust your masters, either." She threw her rifle onto her back, looked up at Kestrel, over at Tracer, and leapt up into the air, but not far, chain assisted to a nearby perch. "But your offer... a third way, all of us free from Overwatch as well as Talon..." she called, as her chain rewound, and she threw it again. "...I will consider it." And she vanished into the night.

Kestrel flew down to Tracer, eyes wide, after the assassin disappeared into the darkness. "I... I think we might've done it."

Tracer nodded her head, half in shock, but entirely in agreement. "I'm gobsmacked, love - I think we really might've. But... I... it can't be that easy."

"It wouldn't be," her wife agreed. "We made some hard promises. We'd likely have to quit Overwatch ourselves. Become freelancers, maybe."

Tracer shrugged, thinking of the many possibilities - and difficulties - involved. "Winston wouldn't throw us out, love - it's not like any of it's legal anyway. And even if he does, there's good money to be made in adventuring, I should know." She started shaking, as it all sank in. "Gor blimey, Em. What'd we just do?"

"Threw away our careers?" Emily giggled, weakly. "And maybe... just maybe... started saving some lives, too?"

Lena's half-grin popped back onto her face. "One life in particular, y'mean?"

"Yes," her lover confirmed with a grin of her own. "In particular. But also her targets."

"Hoo," breathed the teleporter, shaking tension out of her arms, out of her hands. "It's a big gamble. Long odds. We must be starkers."

"Better odds than we had a month ago."

Tracer snorted. "No question about that."

"None." Her lover put her arms around her, and kissed her nose, gently. "C'mon, sweetie, finish shaking it off. Risk is what we do, isn't it?"

Lena let out a little 'heh' sound, and rested her forehead against Emily's.

"And put your earbud back in," said the ginger. "McCree's getting curious about our sweep."

"Righto." She puffed out a big breath of air. "We've made this bed, might as well lie in it. North it is!" She keyed her comms. "McCree, Tracer here, your signal got week, you say somethin'? ... Yeah, we're still sweeping north. No sign of her yet - I think she's gone home. ... Right. We'll keep looking a bit more, then circle back in a few. Tracer out."

From closer than either of them imagined, the Widowmaker listened intently, laser microphone bouncing off the HVAC's metal shell. The part of her - and it was part of her - that had believed Lena Oxton implicitly sat proud, vindicated, and a little smugly in her mind. And the parts that did not...

...began, most reluctantly...

...to contemplate hope.