[ Widowmaker has, in accordance to what is becoming a distressingly frequent habit, ducked onto the wrong street in hopes of finding a shortcut through the crowds. This was exactly the wrong street, as it turns out, and the crush of crowds had swiftly blocked off any hopeful backtracking.
So she's working her way through the crowd instead with great determination, but does pause to divert a sliver of attention to the latest glitter bombing victim (the cascade of it just missed her, luckily). She appraises the situation coolly, then informs him: ] It seems to be a boy color now, mon choupinet.
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So she's working her way through the crowd instead with great determination, but does pause to divert a sliver of attention to the latest glitter bombing victim (the cascade of it just missed her, luckily). She appraises the situation coolly, then informs him: ] It seems to be a boy color now, mon choupinet.