#implied spiderbyte

[nitewrighter]

Did you know that Mcsombra week is currently going on?!

Oh dang! What’s the prompt for today?

…AU? Okay I can work with that. Okay since I got a couple of asks talking about “Spymaster Sombra” in the Witch Mercy AU, I think I’m gonna run with that even though I don’t know if Sombra’s getting a halloween skin because it sounds so cool. So have some “Spymaster of the Comtesse” Sombra and Monster Hunter McCree. 

—

He stood at the foot of the stairs and she easily trotted down them. She looked good. A part of him missed the ragged cloak and the bright violet eyes peeking out from the mask that covered most of her face, but there was no denying she cleaned up good. She wore breeches and boots that went just over her knees, and her bodice seemed midway between corset and doublet, though done up in a lovely violet damask. She kept her hood and cloak though, though her hood didn’t hide her like the old one and her cloak was shrugged off her shoulders, framing her rather than hiding her. He had known her to wear men’s clothes plenty of times before their parting, but now she was obviously wearing clothes tailored especially for her.

“Long time no see, Jesse,” she said, leaning against the bannister with a grin.

His hand didn’t leave the consecrated matchlock pistol on his hip.

“So tense,” Sombra bunched up her shoulders in a teasing way, “Look, if the Comtesse wanted to kill you, you would have been eaten alive before you reached the front door,” she grinned, “However, I told her about you, so she’s making an exception.”

“Sounds real hospitable,” said McCree, his brow remaining furrowed, “So I take it you know she’s not human.”

“She’s not human!?” Sombra’s eyes went wide in mock horror and she leaned against McCree in a false swoon, “Oh no! Save me from the vampires, Jesse!” 

“Y’know you’re only about half as funny as you think you are,” said McCree, taking his hand off of his pistol to fold his arms. 

“So still pretty funny huh?” said Sombra, grinning.

McCree scoffed.

“Tch, You know you still love me,” she said breaking away from him.

McCree huffed. “You know I’m not here for that,” he said, frowning.

Sombra smirked, “If you were, you would have—”

“….been eaten alive before I reached the front door. Yeah. I hear ya,” he exhaled, “I need information.”

“You always do,” said Sombra, “Huh… y’know you haven’t asked me if I’m still human yet.”

McCree’s eyes widened and his hand shot out and knocked her hood back with a flick of his fingers.

“Hey–!” Sombra started but he pulled the ribbon around her neck loose as she swatted his hand off. No mark. He exhaled.

Sombra clicked her tongue scoldingly. “Fresh,” she said wagging a finger.

“Teeth,” said McCree.

“There’s no mark on my neck—” Sombra said with a roll of her eyes.

“Teeth,” McCree said more insistently. Sombra sighed and pulled her lips back, showing her teeth. McCree leaned close, squinting, then seemed satisfied. “Don’t kid around about that,” he said, pulling himself back up to his full height. A long pause passed between them.

“So who is it this time?” said Sombra.

“Demon. Bringing storms wherever he goes. Washing out whole farms. Someone’s gotta stop it,” said McCree.

“And that’s you,” said Sombra, arching an eyebrow. She chuckled a little. “You have a bad habit of biting off more than you can chew, Jesse McCree.”

“Yeah well you’re exhibit A,” said McCree, rubbing the back of his neck, “Now your little network got anything on him or not?”

“You forget who you’re talking to, Cazador,” she said, affectionately trailing her fingers under his chin, “Step into my office,” she said walking away, “Let’s see what we’ve got.” 

McCree itched under his hat with a sigh and followed after her.

[nitewrighter]

#25 Sombra and Mcree. Strictly for a mission mind you

Me several hours ago: Haha answering that one McSombra ask isn’t going to make me get really into McSombra. I got my hands full just shipping McHanzo and Spiderbyte! I gotta have self control!

Me, right now: I have no self control.

—–

McCree rolled a cigarette as they stood in line. “A terminal you can’t hack. Never thought I’d see the day,” he said, smirking.

“There’s a difference between ‘I can’t hack it’ and ‘I can’t hack it remotely,’” said Sombra, folding her arms, “Pretty sure it’s at least some of the same quarantine tech they’re using on the God AI’s,” she muttered, furrowing her brow, “But I can hack it,” she put her hands on her hips, “I just need to find it.”

“Mm,” McCree gave a nod and then glanced up at the neon sign of the club, “Mictlan, huh? Bit on the nose, ain’t it? Might as well just put up a big ol’ sign that says ‘Los Muertos Aqui!’” The line moved forward and McCree found both he and Sombra were now standing in front of a large graffiti tag of Los Muertos. “Huh…” said McCree. Mictlan was a club, operating out of an abandoned Lumérico power plant on the outskirts of town. Still, the place seemed pretty popular. McCree exhaled smoke and readjusted the waistband of his pants again.

“Do you have to keep doing that?” said Sombra, rolling her eyes.

“These damn things keep riding up and shimmying down and creasing in places you don’t wanna know,” said McCree, shaking out one of his legs.

Sombra just scoffed and smirked. “I think you pull off skinnies really well.”

“Feel like a damn fool. Next time, I pick the disguises,” muttered McCree.

“Riiight and let you wear that stupid belt?” said Sombra.

“It’s lucky,” said McCree.

“Was the hat lucky too?” said Sombra.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” said McCree.

Sombra snickered. “Who wears a cowboy hat to a club?” She caught herself. “You,” she said, with a sigh, “You wear a cowboy hat to a club.”

“Well so long as we’re ragging on each other’s tastes, I will say it’s nice to see you in an actual pair of shoes rather than those neon…whatever the hell those things are.”

Sombra glanced down at her heels. “I thought they were a little tacky,” she said.

“Nah they’re… I dunno, strappy–they look fine,” said McCree, puffing out some smoke.

“Well they’re pinching my toes so I’m switching back to the neon whatever-the-hell-they-are as soon as this mission’s over,” she said, tossing a translocator into some nearby bushes.

“Fair enough. And you can bet I’ll be getting that belt back. Hat, too,” said McCree. He readjusted the waistband of his pants again, “And into a pair of pants that ain’t crushing my tender vittles.”

Sombra snorted as McCree took one last drag of his cigarette and stamped it out under his heel as they made their way to the front of the line. The bouncer glanced down at a list, then back up at McCree and Sombra and frowned.

“And you are?”

“Maria Escaton,” said Sombra, tossing her hair over her shoulders. She hooked her arm in McCree’s. “And this is Joel.”

McCree half-flinched and half-bristled at the name but quickly caught himself. “We’re on the list,” he said, moving to pocket his hands but finding it too difficult to do smoothly in the skinny jeans so just resting it on his hip.

The bouncer glanced down at the list, then up at them, then grunted and stood off to the side.

“Much obliged,” said McCree, walking past with Sombra. As soon as they were out of earshot of the bouncer McCree gave a glare to Sombra. “Joel? Seriously?”

A smile just tugged at the corner of Sombra’s mouth. “I thought Blackwatch was supposed to be good with cover identities,” she said.

McCree scoffed. “Let’s just get this over with,” he muttered. 

“We move too fast and Los Muertos will know something’s up,” said Sombra, taking McCree by the arm, “Dance with me.”

McCree complied and both were on the dance floor. Sombra languidly put her arms about his shoulders and he kept his hands on her hips. Both were looking over the other’s shoulders, scanning for security and exits, turning as needed. 

Sombra pressed herself close to McCree as a a Los Muertos member brushed past them “How you holding up, Joel?”

“I’m holding up just fine, Pumpkin,” said McCree.

“Pumpkin?” Sombra repeated.

“That’s Joel’s nickname for Maria,” said McCree, smirking.

“Joel needs to pick a better one,” said Sombra.

“Sweetheart.”

“No.”

“Sugar-pie.”

“No.”

“Baby cakes.”

“No.”

“Honey bee.”

“No! Are you even trying?”  

“What does ‘trying’ look like?” said McCree.

“Just call me ‘Darlin’,’” said Sombra, furrowing her brow.

“You picked out ‘Joel.’ You don’t get ‘Darlin’’ privileges,” said McCree.

“What–do I need to punch you in the face and have D-cups like your boyfriend?” said Sombra.

“He’s not my–” McCree started then cut himself off, “I dunno, would you be nicer to me if I had your girlfriend’s ass?”

Sombra shrugged, “Maybe,” she said. Both snickered. Sombra glanced over McCree’s shoulder and her brow furrowed. “Northwest corner,” she said, turning McCree so that he could see what she was seeing without turning his head. There was a dark stairway off in the northwest corner of the club with a single Los Muertos member standing watch next to it.

“Sure your little doohickey will work with two people?” said McCree.

“I’m sure,” said Sombra. They moved across the dancefloor, easily cloaking their movements as dancing and navigating the flow of the crowd. “We’ll have six seconds,” said Sombra. 

“Gotcha,” said McCree. They danced in place, each using the turns in the dance to keep an eye on the stairwell and its guard at all times until a group of people moved in front of them, obscuring them from view, and Sombra activated her thermoptic camouflage. As it had been with Widowmaker, spreading out the camouflage ended up distorting it, but between the darkness and pulsing music and flashing lights of the club, they might as well have been completely invisible. They quickly moved past the guard and rushed down the stairs, finding themselves in a dark hallway. They moved down it as far as they could until the cloaking wore off, then Sombra quickly hacked the security cameras so that they would only show a loop of the past five minutes to whoever was watching them. Sombra brought up a screen projecting a floor plan of Mictlan back when it had been a power plant. “This way,” she said, navigating the dark hallways with McCree following close behind. They stopped dead in their tracks when they reached a door guarded by two members of Los Muertos.

“Hey–Party’s upstairs, you two shouldn’t be down here,” said one of the guards.

“Well shoot, Sugarbum, looks like we took a wrong turn lookin’ for that bathroom!”

Sombra gave McCree an icy sidelong glance when one of the guards squinted at her, “Wait—Sofía?”

Sombra’s reaction was instant. She punched him in the face, sent him reeling back, his compatriot opened his mouth to shout for backup but McCree clocked him across the face, knocking him out instantly before he could do so. Sombra threw her weight against the first guard and elbowed him hard in the solarplexus before finally knocking him out with an uppercut. Both caught their breath as the guards slumped to the floor.

“So…” McCree looked over at Sombra, “Who’s Sofía?”

“Go lock these guys in a closet, Joel,” said Sombra, hacking the locking panel next to the doorway. McCree shrugged and started dragging the unconscious guards over to a closet. When he finished unceremoniously shoving them in there, he closed the door then elbowed off the door handle with his prosthetic. He made his way back to a now opened door and walked into a dark server room where Sombra was busily hacking her way through the server.

“I knew it,” she muttered, “Same Quarantine tech. This could take awhile.”

McCree kept a lookout at the door as she worked. 

“It’s not my real name,” said Sombra after a short while.

“What?” said McCree.

“Sofía. I just used that name because even when I was a kid I wasn’t dumb enough to use my real name with these guys.”

“Fair enough,” said McCree.

A silence passed between them filled only with the quiet chimes and blips of Sombra’s screens. “You’re not going to ask me about the real name?” said Sombra.

“’Sombra’ always seemed real enough to me,” said McCree with a shrug. 

Sombra brought up a screen featuring a feed from the security cameras she hacked then turned her attention back to the terminal. McCree continued keeping watch, but after several minutes he glanced over his shoulder, “Not rushin’ ya but… I don’t think you’ve ever taken this long,” he said, glancing over at the screens she had projected around the terminal, then he blinked. Sombra had about 8 more screens projected than usual, and was working furiously, her mouth drawn to a thin line.

“Sombra?” he spoke and she seemed to snap out of it briefly, then tossed him an info-drive.

“Here. The intel that Jack wanted,” she said, quickly returning to her work.

“Well we should get back to the rendezvous point then,” said McCree. Sombra didn’t seem to be listening, only glancing feverishly between different screens, moving them around, trying to sort through data. McCree cleared his throat. “I said, ‘I think we should get to the rendezvous point.’”

“Just give me a few more minu—ah!” All of the screens around her suddenly flashed red and featured the stylized image of an eye before disappearing altogether as sparks suddenly flew out of the neural implants on the side of Sombra’s head.

“Jeez!” said McCree, jumping back from the sight of the sparks. Sombra was shaking, her breath shuddering. “You okay?” said McCree.

Sombra was still shaking, gripping herself.

“What was that?” said McCree. Sombra shook her head.

“Nothing,” she said, “It was nothing. Warning shot, maybe…”

“What are you talking about?” said McCree.

“We should get back to Ja–” Sombra started then both fell silent at the sound of footsteps coming down the hall outside. Sombra started desperately searching through her bra for her translocator beacon.

“Shit,” said McCree, but Sombra suddenly seized him by the front of his shirt and yanked him close and kissed him. It took him about three seconds to register what she was doing before he leaned in and reciprocated, just in time for the guard to reach the door. 

“Hey lovebirds,” the guard said, folding his arms and McCree broke away and glared over at him.

“Is it so much to ask for just a little privacy?” said McCree as Sombra hastily started searching through her bra for her translocator beacon again.

“You two shouldn’t be down here,” said the guard, “Where are the other guards?”

“Sounds like you’ve got security issues,” said Sombra, wrapping her arms around McCree’s neck.

The guard scoffed and then pulled out a comm. “Valdez,” he spoke into the comm, “I’ve got two intruders in the server room–Valdez?” He grumbled and set his comm to a different channel, “Oi–Martín. We need security down in—”

Sombra and McCree translocated. 

They reappeared in a flash of violet in a patch of bushes outside Mictlan and quickly and quietly exited the scene and headed toward the rendezvous point, the ruins of an old church that had been shelled out during the omnic crisis.

“So… you all right?” said McCree.

“I’ll be fine,” said Sombra.

“I take it you’re not going to tell me about the mysterious and spooky eye symbol that scared the shit out of you and made your head all sparky,” said McCree.

“Nope,” said Sombra. 

McCree frowned, then took out his pouch of tobacco and started rolling a cigarette as they walked. “You in trouble?” he said, as he stuck the hand-rolled cigarette between his lips and lit it.

“When are we not in trouble?” said Sombra, smirking. 

“Fair point,” said McCree. They were both silent for a while before McCree spoke again. “You know, I figured this went without saying, but Overwatch ain’t Talon. We take care of our own. If you need help, we can help you.”

Sombra scoffed. “Yeah I’d rather not the whole of Overwatch get involved with this,” she said, folding her arms.

“Gotcha,” said McCree, he exhaled smoke, “Just so you know, I can keep a secret,” said McCree, “If you think you’re in over your head, feel free to bring me into the loop and I’ll see what I can do.” He paused, “I suppose the ability to keep secrets doesn’t matter much to someone who can hack her way to them whether I like it or not but—the offer’s there.”

Sombra chuckled, “I’ll keep that in mind, cowboy,” she said as the Orca appeared in the distance.

[nitewrighter]

#2 widow 76 (widow 76 = flipped around version of reaper and mercy)

Me, reading this prompt: “Oh cool! I can make a fic that’s a companion fic to that McSombra one!”

Me, reading “Widow 76 = flipped around version of reaper and mercy:”

2. “You do this sort of thing often?”

—

“Just– be sure to call it in if your chest starts hurting,” Sombra spoke over the comm.

“I know,” said Amélie, walking across the rooftop.

“Flashbacks too. And tunnel vision,” said Sombra, “Any disorientation–”

“You’re acting like I’ve never sat on a roof and aimed a gun before,” said Widowmaker, a bit irritated.

“Technically this is your first mission without Talon pulling your strings,” said Sombra, “Plus, last time we were in Dorado…”

“I know,” said Amélie, her voice a bit softer now, “Don’t worry about me, mon coeur, just focus on getting that intel with the cowboy.”

“Got it,” said Sombra, “You take care.”

“You too,” said Amélie, ending the call.

Widowmaker brought the scope of the rifle up and looked through it. It was a simple two-pronged mission: Harass, distract, and disrupt Los Muertos supply lines throughout the town, drawing their numbers out from Mictlan, allowing Sombra and McCree to grab the intel Sombra insisted was hidden in a terminal in there. Simple enough. She brought down her recon visor, expecting to have the whole thing thrown off whack from Winston’s pitiful attempts at repairs to it, but it worked just as well as it did with Talon.

“This is Lúcio with Bastion,” Lúcio spoke over the comm channel, “First point secured.”

Widowmaker pulled her comm away from her ear for Bastion’s beeping agreement, which always screeched with a bit of feedback over the comm before putting it back in her ear. 

“Excellent work, Dos Santos. Hold position,” Jack spoke over the comm. “Oxton, flank Point B from the southwest.”

“Got it, chief!”

“Widowmaker, do you have visual contact?”

 Widowmaker first turned her scope on a blue flash zipping through the streets. She scanned across the windows then fired off her grapple to a nearby water tower and perched on it for a different vantage point. “Southwestern sector is secure,” she said.

“Can I get a second confirmation on that?” Tracer spoke over the comm. 

“It looks like you’re just going to have to trust me, cherie,” said Widowmaker, looking through the scope at Tracer.

“You’re here and not in a cell, I’d say that’s more than enough trust,” said Tracer. 

“Dial it back, Oxton,” said Jack as Widowmaker turned her scope on Lúcio and Bastion.

“Dos Santos and the Siege unit are confirmed secure,” said Widowmaker.

“All right. Moving out,” said Jack. 

The next several minutes passed with little disruption. It was odd, being on a mission where there wasn’t exactly anyone she had to kill. She found herself continually looking through her own scope at her teammates. She knew not to pull the trigger, but it was sort of force of habit from the vague memories she had of Talon listing targets in her head. She turned her scope onto Jack and let the crosshairs trail up to his head.

“Bang,” she said softly.

Jack suddenly dropped to the ground.

 Amélie lowered her gun in horror. Had she done that? had she killed him? No, there had been no blood. “Morrison?” she quickly rang him up on the comm.

Jack grunted. “I’m fine.”

“What happened?” said Amélie.

“Nothing! I’m fine! Maintain your vantage point!” said Jack. 

“Should I get Lúcio?” said Amélie. 

“I said maintain the vantage point!” said Jack. Widowmaker narrowed her eyes and brought down her recon visor to see Jack’s collapsed figure behind a car.

“You are not strike commander,” said Amélie, firing a grappling hook over in Jack’s direction, “And Winston said to use our own discretion.” She leapt off the roof and retracted the grapple until she reached the opposite building, then rappelled down the side of it easily. Jack was gripping his ankle on the ground with a biotic field glowing around him. He glanced up at her.

“Get back in position,” he said.

“I will,” she said, hauling his arm over her shoulder and firing her grapple back onto the roof.

“You sure that thing can support two—” Jack started but Widowmaker retracted the grapple and both shot up onto the roof. “Watch the leg–watch–” Jack grunted as Widowmaker let go of him and he fell onto the roof, his hand went to his ankle again. Widowmaker swatted his hand away.

“Straighten your leg out,” said Widowmaker.

“What, you’re a medic now?” said Jack, sitting up. 

“Dancer,” said Widowmaker.

“What?” said Jack.

“Does this hurt?” said Widowmaker, moving his foot slightly.

Jack grunted in pain. “Yep–Yeah that hurts.”

“Lateral sprain,” said Widowmaker, “The girls in my studio would get it all the time.”

“Look, I just need another biotic field and—”

“The way you’re using biotics will just make your leg lock up more,” said Amélie, elevating his ankle, “Try and relax.”

Jack scoffed. “You do this sort of thing often?”

“Dancer,” Widowmaker said again. Jack gave her a steady look which prompted her to explain further. “The thing about being a ballerina is,” she said, grabbing a biotic field distributor off of Jack’s belt, “You hurt your feet and legs. A lot. I was lucky enough to be married to a man who could give me access to a steady supply of biotics for myself and other injured dancers in my studio to keep us all on our feet,” she smirked, “Gave us a bit of a competitive edge over other dance companies. Relax your leg.”

“Gérard snuck you biotics?” said Jack.

“I said relax your leg, and yes,” said Amélie “Can’t always call a physical therapist when a show is in 3 hours.” She glanced up at Jack and rolled her eyes, “Oh don’t give me that look. They were his unused own standard issue biotics from missions. They would have gotten thrown out anyway.”

Jack was quiet as Widowmaker carefully pried off his boot. He grunted a bit as she felt around his ankle, then watched as she worked and got the biotic field generator to disperse a more concentrated stream at his ankle.

“How much do you remember?” he asked. 

Widowmaker glanced up, then looked down, “A lot of what Talon did to me either I blocked out myself or is so…” she gestured vaguely at her head, “…affected that I really can’t trust the memory,” she looked out over the city, “But I find I’ve been… remembering more of Gérard… of the time before they made me…” she itched a bit underneath her recon visor, “There hasn’t been a huge rush yet… mostly broken pieces. But there’s more and more of them every day that I can put together.” She was quiet for a while, “I know you don’t trust me,” she said at last.

“Well if you give everyone some time to–”

“It would be stupid to trust me completely. Never trust me completely. I don’t trust me completely,” said Widowmaker, “I know what I can do. Is your comm off?”

“Yeah,” said Jack, “Didn’t want to subject people to an old man complaining about his bum ankle.”

Widowmaker smirked a little before turning her attention back to his ankle. Her smile faded. “If Talon finds some way to activate me again, you need to stop me.”

“I will,” said Jack.

“By any means necessary,” said Widowmaker.

“It’s not going to come to—” Jack started.

“Any means, Jack,” said Widowmaker, looking at him with a furrowed brow, “Take off the visor. Look me in the eye.”

Jack complied and clicked the visor off.

“Give me your word that you won’t let what happened with Gérard happen again,” said Amélie.

“I don’t know if I can—”

“I can’t do it again, Jack,” said Amélie, “I won’t do it again, and if I do it again, then the thing that is doing it again is not me and it needs to be killed. Give me your word that if it comes to that, you’ll stop me. I know Sombra won’t do it so it has to be you.”

Jack sighed. “I won’t let what happened with Gérard happen again,” he said. 

“Good,” said Widowmaker. She glanced down at Jack’s ankle. “Try moving it now.”

Jack rotated his ankle a bit and nodded before pulling his boot back on. “I should… be getting back to Oxton,” said Jack. He cleared his throat. “Thanks.” Amélie nodded and used her grapple to get him back down to street level and gave him cover fire as he ran to the rendezvous point to Tracer. She used her scope to make sure he was running all right, when he suddenly turned, and for a moment it felt as if he was giving her eye contact through the scope. He gave her a small salute and she pulled away from the scope and scoffed. “Pfft. Americans,” she muttered.