@withspite
SHE IS A MACHINE, BRUTALLY EFFICIENT AND UNENCUMBERED by human morals that would keep most from pulling the trigger. The removal of feeling, the slowing of her heart rate, further honing of her body... it all served to make her a better weapon, a better killer. She obeyed without question, she pulled the trigger without question, and sometimes - she even enjoyed it (as much as she could). The Widowmaker’s current state allowed her to exist in a limbo that bore no consequences for her human psyche, no concern for her past, only her present. At Talon’s behest, she killed and killed and killed, seeing the change of history at each pull of her sniper rifle. This would be no different - or so, she thought.
When Amélie had been given the order to dispose of Jesse McCree, former Blackwatch/Overwatch agent, she had hardly bat an eyelash at the provided dossier. Inwardly, however, curiosity had bloomed. She remembered him of course, she remembers everything from her days with Gérard, few of the agents included. The cowboy stuck out vividly in her mind, charming, vivacious, even daringly flirtatious. A wink and a tip of his hat to a married woman... well, she had enjoyed it. Had enjoyed that Southern drawl and politeness that came with it. Gérard had seemed to especially like him, too, something about ‘a heart of gold.’ Those memories did not leave her, but they did not haunt her either. Emotion was not attached to them - even if she knew they should make her feel something.
Every machine has it’s rusty gears, it’s un-oiled cogs and displaced screws. Amélie didn’t recognize the proverbial blind spot she had for this gun-totting, belt-buckle wearing, cigar-smoking idiot until she had her sights trained on him, has her fingertips upon the trigger. He is, perhaps, the most dangerous mark she’s ever had - the one who could end her as easily as she ends him. But that’s not what she notices, as she stares at him through her scope, visor allowing the adjustment to the night time darkness and her body remaining chilled despite the Southern heat. On the contrary, instead she notices how finely he’s aged - how that rugged handsomeness and exuded combination of warmth and slight danger is still prevalent in all that he does. And that distraction... it makes her sloppy.
She actually misses the shot, and all she remembers afterwards is pain.
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When Amélie comes to, it’s not in a morgue, not in a Talon hideaway, and not in her own home. She expects to be either dead, or in intense agony, but instead... she feels like she’s floating. Eyes that have been shut for what feels like an eternity slowly peel open, amber hues adjusting the bright, diffused light of... the bedroom. She blinks once, twice, and a third time - fog in her brain toiling away at her awareness. It takes a good several minutes for her to grow aware enough to truly assess where she is, starting with the bed, the walls, her clothes... Her clothes. Eyes squint almost accusingly down at the large shirt (definitely not hers... is that plaid?) hiding her svelte frame, stuttering briefly on the side of her abdomen - where most of that dull pain is coming from. On reflex, she moves to reach down her right arm to peel back the hem of the shirt-dress, only to find that it will not budge.
“ Merde. ” She tugs again, and again. When each attempt gives her nothing, her head tilts and she finds the object of her placation: one hand, cuffed to the railing of the bed. Somehow, it only being one felt more insulting than both. Slowly, she sits up, relieving a bit of the pressure upon her shoulder to press her back against the bed frame (wincing, as she does so). Mile-long, dark tresses fall about her like a curtain, and an impatient huff blows them aside, while she exams the blankets warming her chill body. Rustic, country... and to be quite honest, they smelled nice. The shirt smelled nice, the room smelled nice, the bed smelled nice... all of it was masculine, earthy. She knows where she is in an instant.
“ Jesse McCree. ” Her voice is lilting, even with it’s rawness from sleep. She purrs over his name, sensuous, dangerous... like a Siren’s call, beckoning him to her side. “ Where are those Southern manners? Terribly impolite, restraining me to the bed before taking me to dinner. ” She shows no fear, feels no fear. On the contrary, the thought of a challenge is exciting.
