who: Widowmaker and Dick Grayson, also I will probably shove some other threads in here what: Rin ruined everything when: July 15th where: Widowmaker's weird hovel warnings: probably not
[ She'd grown complacent, that was her first immediate thought. Just because she was no longer in her own world, pitted against Talon's many enemies, she'd made the mistake of allowing her guard to slip just slightly. She'd thought finding a house outside of the easily tracked community housing had been enough, but she was wrong, and if she dies for this stupid mistake it will be well earned.
Widowmaker leans hard against the inside wall of the little house she had found, secluded and lonely out where the population grows thin, and breathes hard. The things she's seeing aren't real, she knows that, she is nothing if not a logical woman — but the restless fighting instinct that lives so close to the surface in her will not let her ignore the shadowy enemies that lunge at her from every corner. Her body reacts, sometimes completely against her will, springing out of the way of the jab of a knife that doesn't exist, ducking the barrel of a gun that was never made.
She needs to leave. Even frantic, on the verge of a barely contained panic, she's certain she knows who to blame for this — and if he'd planted this trap here for her, then here is where he expects her to be. She can hardly see the street through the swirling images in her head when she throws open the door, only five minutes after she'd arrived to her home in the first place, and she doesn't bother to close it behind her. There isn't time, he could be anywhere. He could be watching her right now. Blindly she throws out the hand not clutching her sniper rifle, firing off her grappling hook. She doesn't see what it hooks to, but it grabs something, retracts, and pulls her along with it. She flies through the air with none of her usual grace, and hits hard the side of a chimney as she makes it to the rooftop she'd brought herself up to.
That's where she slumps, breathing labored, arms folding in over herself and cradling the hard, cool metal of her Widow's Kiss. She needs to move. She needs to be gone. But first, squeezing her eyes shut, she will take just a few seconds to try and reel in a mind spiraling rapidly out of control. ]
[ Somewhere along the way tailing her had turned into a habit. A guilty one he'd ridden on a hunch more than a certainty, and probably (definitely) it should have stopped when she left Tim's officially assigned apartment. She's moved on, and that means she's not a threat anymore. Not to their secret in the abstract or to Tim himself. Whatever she's looking to guard, whatever reason she had for packing it in and leaving is her own. It's not his business to keep tabs.
But there's something there with her. Something shrouded in a mystery he can't put hs finger on, and so on the slow nights sometimes he still checks in, every now and then. He has other stuff on the roster for tonight, so mostly he's there to give the place the cursory glance and then be on his way. And that's when he sees her hit the roof. Sees her fall, stumble. ]
Whoa, hey- [ Just like that cover's blown, but there's nothing for it now. He releases his line in mid-air and hits the roof a few paces away. Then he takes a cautious step forward, ready to brace for pursuit. Being injured or ill rarely stops a smart quarry from trying to run from a masked man. ]
[ That there's a voice isn't unusual, she's begun to hear those. But that it addresses her kindly snags her attention. She stares wide-eyed at this masked newcomer as he appears, who stands out for his unfamiliarity more than anything else. The other shapes popping up around her — she knows them all, unfortunately. But this one is new.
Her snagged attention has come with the barrel of her rifle instantly twisted around to point directly at his chest; she doesn't need the scope to aim it at this short a range. She doesn't lower it, but neither does she make to escape.
(Honestly, she's not sure she could manage an escape right now.) ]
Who are you?
[ Her voice is tense, but only slightly. The distress she's under shows primarily in her taut face, the tension in the lines of her body. It might not look like much, but in Widowmaker they're screaming signals of something wrong. ]
[ Well that's definitely a proximity and an angle on her end that he's not going to mess around with. He holds his hands up, backing up a cursury step. ]
I'm a friend. [ His gaze through the mask is steady. He can't help if she won't let him get close. ]
[ She knows the first part is a lie, because she hasn't had friends since Amélie Lacroix died. Does that make the second part a lie as well? Her head is spinning, growing clouded with hallucinated realities, it's difficult to focus on what she needs it to focus on. ]
Why are you here?
[ She notes, with some private horror, that the barrel of her gun weaves slightly as she speaks. The barrel of her gun never weaves. This poison must really be wreaking havoc in her system. Her hand shakes just slightly as it lifts to rest fingertips at her forehead, although her gaze doesn't falter from him for a second from between her fingers. ]
Just passing through this lonely neighborhood, I am sure. Do not lie to me, monsieur, I am in no mood for it.
I can see that. [ He doesn't mess the tremor in the gun, but he knows better than to react. Play his cards right and he won't have to take it away from her at all.
With a little sigh he shakes his head, as if he's ready to throw in the towel. ]
...Alright, you got me. I was, uh- following someone.
[ Following someone. Who in this neighborhood could be worthy of scrutiny, besides herself? Well, a few, she has to admit. Those who intentionally live so far out from others aren't always up to good — herself included, of course. But her paranoia is nothing if not at an alltime high, and so the answer does nothing to reassure her. ]
Who?
[ Her smooth voice makes it a demand, currently a little less than its usual smooth, even tones. It feels fair to her. She's just been poisoned, and immediately after meets a man in a mask on a rooftop. She would question herself not to find him suspicious. ]
[ She knows that none of this real, she's known that since about five seconds after it's started happening. But, god, how long is it going to last? It's been about an hour of it so far, and Widow's infamously even and steady bearing is currently neither of those things after such wear upon her.
She's claimed a chair close to the wall, where when she spots things coming from her left, she can at least remind herself that there's literally nothing there but wall. She leans her head against the cool plaster, eyes shut and brow knit. Even still she starts once in awhile, like someone jarring themselves out of a near sleep with a surprising daydream. If only she had been sleeping, though. She suspects sleep might stave off some of this, but how would she ever relax anywhere near enough to get there?
Widowmaker sits coiled as tightly as a spring, as a loaded gun, gripping the smooth barrel of the Widow's Kiss. She doesn't need it, not under the Reaper's watchful eye, but it's a comfort to her nonetheless.
Eventually she murmurs, certain that Reaper will hear it: ] Water. [ She says it in French at first. After a moment, in English: ] ....Water. Do you have any?
[ Of course he does. But it's as near as she can come to asking for it. ]
[Watching the usually cool, calm, and calculated sniper was starting to grind on his nerves. Any other day he'd barely regard her with any more of his usual indifference, seeing her as a comrade and an ally but never quite being able to bring himself to enjoy her company. Not with everything he knew, everything he still felt in a body and mind that wouldn't quite die.
But it's different, now. She looks vulnerable, her expression is pained, far from collected and professional. And the most irritating part of all is how she hasn't said a damn word about why she looked like this.
Was she wounded? Had she been attacked? Poisoned? Did she catch some alien illness, drank some alien substance that made her body react badly? He was waiting, patiently, for her to speak up and tell him. There was little point in pushing the issue, he knew she'd finally let him know what's wrong, and when she finally does speak...
It's not what he wants to hear.
He makes a low sound, almost like a growl of irritation as he fumbles with his things. Of course he has water. Even if his corpse of a body doesn't work quite right as it used to, any soldier worth his weight carried a canteen.
He reaches to pull it out from under his cloak--even uncapping it for her before handing it over.]
Looks like you need a fair bit more than water. [Bitterly.]
[ Reaper wants to know, of course. And of course she will tell him. She must. He should be aware of the state one of his assets his in, and who has brought it to such a place. But shame has kept her silent so far, and it will last a little longer. It's only her own fault she'd allowed this to happen — she hadn't been cautious enough, she'd been lulled into a false sense of security by this place.
She opens an eye to see the canteen, takes it, and sips carefully. She only starts once, and small sips keep her from splashing any of it. She hands it back over again shortly.
Only then does she finally look at Reaper. At his mask. It doesn't look as it should, it might be melting. The face it drains slowly off of is even more horrible than the melting mask, and she wonders what part of her mind has generated this interpretation. That's how these things work, isn't it? She's the root of them, the drug has only provided the opportunity. She closes her eyes again. ]
I am hallucinating. [ And all that she knows he'll know that goes with it: her judgment is impaired, she won't spot true dangers for all the imagined ones, her balance is off. In short, she's currently useless and nearly helpless. A little sharply: ] It won't last.
[ She has no proof of that, but if it does last, she won't last. So either way, she figures it's true. ]
[Of course he wants to know. He waits, as well--expecting for her to fill him in. There's two options to why she hasn't yet--so he's keeping from being prying (for now) entirely due to them. Either she's not feeling well enough to tell him exactly what happened to cause her to... Hallucinate, or...
She'd messed up and didn't want to show weakness to even him.
Whichever it was didn't much matter to him, they both knew there was little point in her hiding it. Whomever caused this would be taken care of, either by her alone or with the help of her 'asset' who sits across from her now, quiet like the grave and waiting.]
Won't do you much good to move around, then, will it. [She could be in danger, even in a place so (irritatingly) peaceful as this.]
I'll tell you what's real and what isn't. So rest, for now.
[ No, moving won't do her any good at all, and she intends to wait as long as she must in exactly this chair. The place is safe enough, even if Dodger has guessed where she's gone. He may be perfectly willing to attack her, but she believe he will think twice when it comes to Reaper.
Rest, for now. It's unexpectedly soothing, to be given permission. Her head sinks back against the wall, and one finger traces a line down it. ]
I will not need assistance.
[ Her eyes have opened again, and her steady sniper's gaze is not quite as steady as it should be, as she follows some unseen thing that flits about Reaper's head. With some effort, she refocuses on the unsettlingly visceral image that her mind has made of his face. Her voice grows cold. ]
But I hope you have not grown too attached to Dodger. I will have him in my sights the instant I am back in operation.
[It's not delivered in a tone that's either hot or cold--but he's worked with this version of the sniper for long enough to know how she worked, how she dealt with things.
Actual kindness was something he was incapable of, even now; telling the other when it was fine to put your guard down to just heal, he knew, would go a long way.
His head lifts a little when her tone reaches below Zero, and his eyes almost narrow from under the confines of that mask Amelie can't quite see thanks to her wild hallucinations right now.]
I have no attachment to the welp.
He's done more than enough to gain my ire as of late.
Is he the one who caused this?
[His tone almost bubbles out with an icy tone of anger, now, expecting to hear exactly what he suspects.]
[ She knows his habits by now, varied and unpredictable as they may be. No one is ever truly chaotic or untraceable. Still, her chances are few and far between, and this, she has decided, is the one that she will not waste.
He's in a cafe at the moment. It's a shame there will be so many witnesses, but such a thing has never stopped her before. She'll be half a city away by the time they realize where the shot that killed him so cleanly had even come from. Widowmaker stands three rooftops away, watching the back of Dodger's head through a window and under an eave. She has about a foot's worth of give, and should he move to one side or the other past that she will need a new position.
This is her chance.
Her hands move smoothly over the Widow's Kiss, tracing the familiar actions. She checks the ammunition, she steadies the aim. She can almost taste the kill. She's one thundercrack away from savoring her victory.
And that is precisely when the scope, with a nearly imperceptible whine, gives out.
It goes black, and Widowmaker lifts her head with some alarm. No. No. It has been some time since a specialist has looked over her gun, true — but why now? She grins her teeth, firing off a glance with the naked eye at her target. He's moving. This is the only chance she's going to get —
Her hands fly as she switches on the manual sight, that little red light that she has always detested as belonging to amateurs. She has never needed anything but her trusty crosshairs. But without them, she must have it. She lines up her shot again, the little red dot racing, flying over bricks and mortar and into the cafe, up to Dodger's shoulder —
[While weaponry had come up a few times in their interactions, he had yet to tell her about his training in sniper rifles - nor has he gotten his hands on one since getting here. So at the very least it isn't her fault that she couldn't know how prepared he is the moment he sees that red dot.
He'd been following someone himself, but that can wait... the moment the dot races past him he vanishes from sight, not even leaving the traces of sparks from his teleportation. While he's invisible, he can teleport undetected with some extra effort - and without any hesitation he turns to start tracking that light back to the rooftop that shows the proper angle for that attack. A moment later he's got his objective, and while he can't teleport all the way there without winding himself terribly, he's gotten himself onto the rooftop closest to him and is still invisible as he dashes toward her.]
[ Oh, hell. Hell. She doesn't even get her chance to squeeze the trigger, Dodger instantly vanishes. And Widowmaker knows exactly what that means, she's seen him operate before. A teleporter can only be caught unawares, if he is onto the hunt then the hunt is over.
So Widow reacts instantly. She throws the gun over her arm with its strap, and has hardly even lunged to her feet before her grappling hook has fired. She doesn't know where he is, but she knows where she is: anywhere but here.
She flies into the open space between her rooftop and the one across the street, twisting herself sharply through the air and landing cleanly under the cover of a tall chimney. Immediately her visor folds down over her face, seven red eyes scanning body heat signatures in almost all directions at once. Where is he? ]
[That heat signature is there, a few roofs back - and then, a few flashes later, one roof away. His heat signature seems to turn into an arrow when he teleports, clearly visible but moving too fast to track. But he's given up on being invisible, now too tired to muster too much power as he finally starts to catch up with her.]
Damn it, Lacroix, I know that's you!
[His voice is hoarse, he sounds like he's been running for miles just from all of those consecutive teleportations. And he fully expects her to just disappear again as soon as he gets there... god damn illusive spider.]
[ Of course it's her, who else could it be? Although, she corrects herself: undoubtedly a man as foolish and violent as this has many enemies, maybe hers is just one name on the list. But it will be the last name on the list, if she has her way.
She's moving again. With another quick line sent out she zips back across the street again, giving herself as much open space between them as possible. But now she's tracking him, gauging those fiery red zips as he runs, teleports himself. When she lands, the Widow's Kiss has already lifted. She gazes along the barrel cooly, tracing his red silhouette through a brick wall. And it's about time for another teleport — yes.
She fires off a shot just a few instants after he streaks forward — without the time to line it up, as she knows well that he reacts much too quickly at the sight of that little red dot, she does her best. It isn't the headshot she would have under any other circumstance, but a shot to the meat of a leg is better than nothing.
Then once more she's on the run, unwilling to hold a position for too long in the face of wounded prey. More often than not pain lends strength, and she will give him no more chances to catch her unprepared. ]
[He'd been keeping his teleportations to just between buildings, so they aren't hard to follow - but he has very little energy for them anymore, much less for dodging on top of that. And when the shot hits, he barely has the time to find his bearings on the new rooftop before it has him slipping and falling unbalanced off the rooftop. And just enough time to figure out what's going on before he teleports closer to the ground and hits it with a hard smack.
At the very least... he didn't gather much momentum, in the few seconds between teleportations. He didn't fall hard, but he did fall. And he's sure he'll have to rest those bruises off before he's of much use, but more importantly... he needs to deal with this gunshot before anything else. He struggles to a sitting position, body protesting at every movement as he leans his back against the building's wall, and shoots a text to Shigeru before sending an audio message to Widowmaker. Maybe she'll pick up, maybe she won't... but the least he can do is try.]
[ She's put in a brief appearance at the masquerade, but she doesn't intend for it to be lengthy. She certainly doesn't intend to participate in any of the bidding. But if nothing else, it's an excuse for an elegant dress and a glass of wine, and she won't turn up her nose at that much.
When Widowmaker's eyes pass over Rin as they scan the crowd, dancers and non-dancers alike, it's with only minimal recognition. Of course, a non-human like him is fairly unforgettable, but she certainly doesn't look him over with any of the vehemence that he currently deserves. Her eyes find him, he gets a brief nod of recognition and greeting, and she moves on. Surely he has business elsewhere. ]
[ Rin hasn't got much of an agenda when it comes to these parties. He goes to them because it's a good way to meet people; to gather information. Find out what's happening in this little city, find out who's useful, who's dangerous. The layers of illusion at work for this fancy soiree just make that effort even more fun.
But for the moment he's just leaning against one of the drink tables, observing. Quiet and dark, his expression inscrutable, his drink pressed lightly to his lips. He spies Widowmaker over the candy-colored rim, and a smile spreads across his mouth, distorted by its reflection in his glass.
He glides over to her, twirling his skull-topped cane in one hand. Like he knows her well. Like they're best friends. ]
Fancy seeing you here.
[ He bows slightly. ]
Forgive me, but you didn't strike me as the partying type.
[ Well, apparently he doesn't have business elsewhere. Widowmaker doesn't particularly care one way or another, of course. She returns his greeting with a brief dip of her head, even less than his slight bow. ]
And yet here I am. [ Partying. Clearly. You can tell by the way she dazzles the room with her sparkling personality. She takes a leisurely sip of her wine. ] The drinks here — I have seen worse.
[ He watches her carefully, though his face is a construct, a facade of easy friendliness. His poison had not been lethal, purposefully so: he had only wanted to frighten her, to have some satisfaction for her insult. He wonders if he succeeded. If she felt afraid, if she felt sick and confused. Whatever her suffering, she looks perfectly hale now--or at least, as hale as she can.
He offers his hand. ]
But I can get a drink anywhere I like. Tonight is for dancing, my dear. Won't you join me?
[ She doesn't seem enthused about the idea, and goes from studying the crowd impassively to studying his hand impassively instead. She takes another slow sip, just to really drive home the idea that she's in no rush, here. ]
I am not so much for dance, these days. [ Her eyes travel slowly back up to meet his from over the brim of her cup. ] And my drink is not finished, you see. Surely a face like yours can easily find any other dance partner you would like.
[ It'd be a lie to say he doesn't look good — the coloration is a little unusual, but who is she to comment on that. ]
[ He can't help but preen a little. He knows he's attractive--no need for false humility on that score. Yet he won't fall for this distraction, either. ]
Ah, well. I'd hate to force you. Wouldn't want you to suffer undue humiliation, hmm?
[ He buffs his nails on his sleeve, looking at her through half-lidded eyes. ]
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for Dick
Widowmaker leans hard against the inside wall of the little house she had found, secluded and lonely out where the population grows thin, and breathes hard. The things she's seeing aren't real, she knows that, she is nothing if not a logical woman — but the restless fighting instinct that lives so close to the surface in her will not let her ignore the shadowy enemies that lunge at her from every corner. Her body reacts, sometimes completely against her will, springing out of the way of the jab of a knife that doesn't exist, ducking the barrel of a gun that was never made.
She needs to leave. Even frantic, on the verge of a barely contained panic, she's certain she knows who to blame for this — and if he'd planted this trap here for her, then here is where he expects her to be. She can hardly see the street through the swirling images in her head when she throws open the door, only five minutes after she'd arrived to her home in the first place, and she doesn't bother to close it behind her. There isn't time, he could be anywhere. He could be watching her right now. Blindly she throws out the hand not clutching her sniper rifle, firing off her grappling hook. She doesn't see what it hooks to, but it grabs something, retracts, and pulls her along with it. She flies through the air with none of her usual grace, and hits hard the side of a chimney as she makes it to the rooftop she'd brought herself up to.
That's where she slumps, breathing labored, arms folding in over herself and cradling the hard, cool metal of her Widow's Kiss. She needs to move. She needs to be gone. But first, squeezing her eyes shut, she will take just a few seconds to try and reel in a mind spiraling rapidly out of control. ]
slides in here
But there's something there with her. Something shrouded in a mystery he can't put hs finger on, and so on the slow nights sometimes he still checks in, every now and then. He has other stuff on the roster for tonight, so mostly he's there to give the place the cursory glance and then be on his way. And that's when he sees her hit the roof. Sees her fall, stumble. ]
Whoa, hey- [ Just like that cover's blown, but there's nothing for it now. He releases his line in mid-air and hits the roof a few paces away. Then he takes a cautious step forward, ready to brace for pursuit. Being injured or ill rarely stops a smart quarry from trying to run from a masked man. ]
You okay, miss-?
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Her snagged attention has come with the barrel of her rifle instantly twisted around to point directly at his chest; she doesn't need the scope to aim it at this short a range. She doesn't lower it, but neither does she make to escape.
(Honestly, she's not sure she could manage an escape right now.) ]
Who are you?
[ Her voice is tense, but only slightly. The distress she's under shows primarily in her taut face, the tension in the lines of her body. It might not look like much, but in Widowmaker they're screaming signals of something wrong. ]
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I'm a friend. [ His gaze through the mask is steady. He can't help if she won't let him get close. ]
I'm here to help, Miss.
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Why are you here?
[ She notes, with some private horror, that the barrel of her gun weaves slightly as she speaks. The barrel of her gun never weaves. This poison must really be wreaking havoc in her system. Her hand shakes just slightly as it lifts to rest fingertips at her forehead, although her gaze doesn't falter from him for a second from between her fingers. ]
Just passing through this lonely neighborhood, I am sure. Do not lie to me, monsieur, I am in no mood for it.
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With a little sigh he shakes his head, as if he's ready to throw in the towel. ]
...Alright, you got me. I was, uh- following someone.
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Who?
[ Her smooth voice makes it a demand, currently a little less than its usual smooth, even tones. It feels fair to her. She's just been poisoned, and immediately after meets a man in a mask on a rooftop. She would question herself not to find him suspicious. ]
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for Reaper
She's claimed a chair close to the wall, where when she spots things coming from her left, she can at least remind herself that there's literally nothing there but wall. She leans her head against the cool plaster, eyes shut and brow knit. Even still she starts once in awhile, like someone jarring themselves out of a near sleep with a surprising daydream. If only she had been sleeping, though. She suspects sleep might stave off some of this, but how would she ever relax anywhere near enough to get there?
Widowmaker sits coiled as tightly as a spring, as a loaded gun, gripping the smooth barrel of the Widow's Kiss. She doesn't need it, not under the Reaper's watchful eye, but it's a comfort to her nonetheless.
Eventually she murmurs, certain that Reaper will hear it: ] Water. [ She says it in French at first. After a moment, in English: ] ....Water. Do you have any?
[ Of course he does. But it's as near as she can come to asking for it. ]
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But it's different, now. She looks vulnerable, her expression is pained, far from collected and professional. And the most irritating part of all is how she hasn't said a damn word about why she looked like this.
Was she wounded? Had she been attacked? Poisoned? Did she catch some alien illness, drank some alien substance that made her body react badly? He was waiting, patiently, for her to speak up and tell him. There was little point in pushing the issue, he knew she'd finally let him know what's wrong, and when she finally does speak...
It's not what he wants to hear.
He makes a low sound, almost like a growl of irritation as he fumbles with his things. Of course he has water. Even if his corpse of a body doesn't work quite right as it used to, any soldier worth his weight carried a canteen.
He reaches to pull it out from under his cloak--even uncapping it for her before handing it over.]
Looks like you need a fair bit more than water. [Bitterly.]
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She opens an eye to see the canteen, takes it, and sips carefully. She only starts once, and small sips keep her from splashing any of it. She hands it back over again shortly.
Only then does she finally look at Reaper. At his mask. It doesn't look as it should, it might be melting. The face it drains slowly off of is even more horrible than the melting mask, and she wonders what part of her mind has generated this interpretation. That's how these things work, isn't it? She's the root of them, the drug has only provided the opportunity. She closes her eyes again. ]
I am hallucinating. [ And all that she knows he'll know that goes with it: her judgment is impaired, she won't spot true dangers for all the imagined ones, her balance is off. In short, she's currently useless and nearly helpless. A little sharply: ] It won't last.
[ She has no proof of that, but if it does last, she won't last. So either way, she figures it's true. ]
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She'd messed up and didn't want to show weakness to even him.
Whichever it was didn't much matter to him, they both knew there was little point in her hiding it. Whomever caused this would be taken care of, either by her alone or with the help of her 'asset' who sits across from her now, quiet like the grave and waiting.]
Won't do you much good to move around, then, will it. [She could be in danger, even in a place so (irritatingly) peaceful as this.]
I'll tell you what's real and what isn't. So rest, for now.
[A quiet, cold pause.]
We can hunt down who's responsible later.
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Rest, for now. It's unexpectedly soothing, to be given permission. Her head sinks back against the wall, and one finger traces a line down it. ]
I will not need assistance.
[ Her eyes have opened again, and her steady sniper's gaze is not quite as steady as it should be, as she follows some unseen thing that flits about Reaper's head. With some effort, she refocuses on the unsettlingly visceral image that her mind has made of his face. Her voice grows cold. ]
But I hope you have not grown too attached to Dodger. I will have him in my sights the instant I am back in operation.
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Actual kindness was something he was incapable of, even now; telling the other when it was fine to put your guard down to just heal, he knew, would go a long way.
His head lifts a little when her tone reaches below Zero, and his eyes almost narrow from under the confines of that mask Amelie can't quite see thanks to her wild hallucinations right now.]
I have no attachment to the welp.
He's done more than enough to gain my ire as of late.
Is he the one who caused this?
[His tone almost bubbles out with an icy tone of anger, now, expecting to hear exactly what he suspects.]
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for Dodger
He's in a cafe at the moment. It's a shame there will be so many witnesses, but such a thing has never stopped her before. She'll be half a city away by the time they realize where the shot that killed him so cleanly had even come from. Widowmaker stands three rooftops away, watching the back of Dodger's head through a window and under an eave. She has about a foot's worth of give, and should he move to one side or the other past that she will need a new position.
This is her chance.
Her hands move smoothly over the Widow's Kiss, tracing the familiar actions. She checks the ammunition, she steadies the aim. She can almost taste the kill. She's one thundercrack away from savoring her victory.
And that is precisely when the scope, with a nearly imperceptible whine, gives out.
It goes black, and Widowmaker lifts her head with some alarm. No. No. It has been some time since a specialist has looked over her gun, true — but why now? She grins her teeth, firing off a glance with the naked eye at her target. He's moving. This is the only chance she's going to get —
Her hands fly as she switches on the manual sight, that little red light that she has always detested as belonging to amateurs. She has never needed anything but her trusty crosshairs. But without them, she must have it. She lines up her shot again, the little red dot racing, flying over bricks and mortar and into the cafe, up to Dodger's shoulder —
In an instant more, he'll be hers. ]
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He'd been following someone himself, but that can wait... the moment the dot races past him he vanishes from sight, not even leaving the traces of sparks from his teleportation. While he's invisible, he can teleport undetected with some extra effort - and without any hesitation he turns to start tracking that light back to the rooftop that shows the proper angle for that attack. A moment later he's got his objective, and while he can't teleport all the way there without winding himself terribly, he's gotten himself onto the rooftop closest to him and is still invisible as he dashes toward her.]
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So Widow reacts instantly. She throws the gun over her arm with its strap, and has hardly even lunged to her feet before her grappling hook has fired. She doesn't know where he is, but she knows where she is: anywhere but here.
She flies into the open space between her rooftop and the one across the street, twisting herself sharply through the air and landing cleanly under the cover of a tall chimney. Immediately her visor folds down over her face, seven red eyes scanning body heat signatures in almost all directions at once. Where is he? ]
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Damn it, Lacroix, I know that's you!
[His voice is hoarse, he sounds like he's been running for miles just from all of those consecutive teleportations. And he fully expects her to just disappear again as soon as he gets there... god damn illusive spider.]
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She's moving again. With another quick line sent out she zips back across the street again, giving herself as much open space between them as possible. But now she's tracking him, gauging those fiery red zips as he runs, teleports himself. When she lands, the Widow's Kiss has already lifted. She gazes along the barrel cooly, tracing his red silhouette through a brick wall. And it's about time for another teleport — yes.
She fires off a shot just a few instants after he streaks forward — without the time to line it up, as she knows well that he reacts much too quickly at the sight of that little red dot, she does her best. It isn't the headshot she would have under any other circumstance, but a shot to the meat of a leg is better than nothing.
Then once more she's on the run, unwilling to hold a position for too long in the face of wounded prey. More often than not pain lends strength, and she will give him no more chances to catch her unprepared. ]
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At the very least... he didn't gather much momentum, in the few seconds between teleportations. He didn't fall hard, but he did fall. And he's sure he'll have to rest those bruises off before he's of much use, but more importantly... he needs to deal with this gunshot before anything else. He struggles to a sitting position, body protesting at every movement as he leans his back against the building's wall, and shoots a text to Shigeru before sending an audio message to Widowmaker. Maybe she'll pick up, maybe she won't... but the least he can do is try.]
What the fuck... is your problem...
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and for Rin, as i am too lazy to top level
When Widowmaker's eyes pass over Rin as they scan the crowd, dancers and non-dancers alike, it's with only minimal recognition. Of course, a non-human like him is fairly unforgettable, but she certainly doesn't look him over with any of the vehemence that he currently deserves. Her eyes find him, he gets a brief nod of recognition and greeting, and she moves on. Surely he has business elsewhere. ]
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But for the moment he's just leaning against one of the drink tables, observing. Quiet and dark, his expression inscrutable, his drink pressed lightly to his lips. He spies Widowmaker over the candy-colored rim, and a smile spreads across his mouth, distorted by its reflection in his glass.
He glides over to her, twirling his skull-topped cane in one hand. Like he knows her well. Like they're best friends. ]
Fancy seeing you here.
[ He bows slightly. ]
Forgive me, but you didn't strike me as the partying type.
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And yet here I am. [ Partying. Clearly. You can tell by the way she dazzles the room with her sparkling personality. She takes a leisurely sip of her wine. ] The drinks here — I have seen worse.
[ And they're free, so, y'know. ]
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[ He watches her carefully, though his face is a construct, a facade of easy friendliness. His poison had not been lethal, purposefully so: he had only wanted to frighten her, to have some satisfaction for her insult. He wonders if he succeeded. If she felt afraid, if she felt sick and confused. Whatever her suffering, she looks perfectly hale now--or at least, as hale as she can.
He offers his hand. ]
But I can get a drink anywhere I like. Tonight is for dancing, my dear. Won't you join me?
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I am not so much for dance, these days. [ Her eyes travel slowly back up to meet his from over the brim of her cup. ] And my drink is not finished, you see. Surely a face like yours can easily find any other dance partner you would like.
[ It'd be a lie to say he doesn't look good — the coloration is a little unusual, but who is she to comment on that. ]
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Ah, well. I'd hate to force you. Wouldn't want you to suffer undue humiliation, hmm?
[ He buffs his nails on his sleeve, looking at her through half-lidded eyes. ]
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