Post by rime on Sept 4, 2020 10:19:47 GMT -8
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The leaves were turning, changing the folds of the French countryside into mounds of gold, amber, rubies and burgundy. The broad, flat lake lay still and tranquil underneath a veil of the kind of secretive morning mist that autumn alone could bring. The only sound on the air was the murmur of a motor and the hiss of water softly churned as a boat charted a sedate course across it.
[break][break]
That boat cut an unerring path toward a solitary island that waited patiently in the midst of the lake and, on top of it, a solemn but inarguably elegant château. One hundred meters out, the pilot of the craft cut the engine, riding the lingering momentum until coming to rest at the dock of the isle. From behind the wheel, a woman emerged, swaddled in a long, white coat synched under her ribs with a black belt. Gloves covered her hands; knee-high boots clasped her legs; a broad-brimmed sunhat and tinted glasses obscured her face in mystique as thoroughly as the fog limning the lake.
[break][break]
Deftly, the woman cast out a line of rope. Her long legs stretched over the railing on the boat's edge and touched down with a ballerina soloist's grace on the timbers of the dock. Amélie Lacroix spared a moment to look up with gold, half-lidded eyes at the proud edifices of her ancestral home. She waited for a stirring of nostalgia or emotion to bubble up in her chest but, as always, nothing shifted beneath the icecaps of her heart. Amélie exhaled derisively through her nose and went about tying the rope off.
[break][break]
She pulled a nondescript, armored case from within the boat and, holding it loosely at her side, set off. Her heels struck a hollow rhythm on the wooden posts of the dock that changed to a sharp staccato when she moved onto the marble and stone patios of the château. Amélie passed like a well-dressed phantom into the manor, moving through rooms in various states of remodeling and renewal - a pet project she'd been managing as something of a queer experiment between assignments from Talon.
[break][break]
Finally, she reached the top of the stairs and passed into what was the master suite. Amélie set her case down and quietly pulled the dust-covers off of an antique desk. Moving that case onto its veneered surface, the mistress of Château Guillard pulled off her hat and sunglasses. Long, silken, deep blue hair was wound and coiled in a graceful bun at the top of her head. Her golden eyes glinted in the twilight of the room like a predator's, catching even more fire when a concealed scanner in the case flashed in them, confirming her identity.
[break][break]
The case clicked open, revealing foam inserts and, cradled in the especially-formed contours of that foam, a slim, black laptop of indeterminate make. Amélie eased the computer from its place and opened it, putting it beside the case. The screen lit up and while its systems began to run, the assassin pried the lid off of a crate waiting beside the desk. From it, she withdrew a bottle, an opener and a single, long-stemmed glass. She popped the cork and filled her cup with a wine so red it was almost black.
[break][break]
Amélie was just raising the glass to her lips for a preliminary taste when her computer rolled fully online. Alerts scattered across the page, catching the corner of her eye. Widowmaker paused, lowering her drink, and turned to fully face the screen. Headlines from Parisian newspapers and others - in almost every language, from every corner of the earth: Secteur nul contrarié par Overwatch. A Null Sector attack in Paris had been stopped by an allegedly-reformed Overwatch.
[break][break]
Her eyes widened fractionally. The closest to surprised as her numb body could manage. Amélie skimmed the article, frozen in place. Then moved to the numerous secure Talon missives that had peppered her in that headline's regard. Gloved fingers curled into the foam of the case's insert and raised the panel that'd held the laptop. Underneath, the tools of her trade lay in a second layer of formed foam. Widowmaker pulled out the components of her rifle and began cleaning each part, reading what her retainers had sent her.
[break][break]
Because everything - everything - had changed.
The leaves were turning, changing the folds of the French countryside into mounds of gold, amber, rubies and burgundy. The broad, flat lake lay still and tranquil underneath a veil of the kind of secretive morning mist that autumn alone could bring. The only sound on the air was the murmur of a motor and the hiss of water softly churned as a boat charted a sedate course across it.
[break][break]
That boat cut an unerring path toward a solitary island that waited patiently in the midst of the lake and, on top of it, a solemn but inarguably elegant château. One hundred meters out, the pilot of the craft cut the engine, riding the lingering momentum until coming to rest at the dock of the isle. From behind the wheel, a woman emerged, swaddled in a long, white coat synched under her ribs with a black belt. Gloves covered her hands; knee-high boots clasped her legs; a broad-brimmed sunhat and tinted glasses obscured her face in mystique as thoroughly as the fog limning the lake.
[break][break]
Deftly, the woman cast out a line of rope. Her long legs stretched over the railing on the boat's edge and touched down with a ballerina soloist's grace on the timbers of the dock. Amélie Lacroix spared a moment to look up with gold, half-lidded eyes at the proud edifices of her ancestral home. She waited for a stirring of nostalgia or emotion to bubble up in her chest but, as always, nothing shifted beneath the icecaps of her heart. Amélie exhaled derisively through her nose and went about tying the rope off.
[break][break]
She pulled a nondescript, armored case from within the boat and, holding it loosely at her side, set off. Her heels struck a hollow rhythm on the wooden posts of the dock that changed to a sharp staccato when she moved onto the marble and stone patios of the château. Amélie passed like a well-dressed phantom into the manor, moving through rooms in various states of remodeling and renewal - a pet project she'd been managing as something of a queer experiment between assignments from Talon.
[break][break]
Finally, she reached the top of the stairs and passed into what was the master suite. Amélie set her case down and quietly pulled the dust-covers off of an antique desk. Moving that case onto its veneered surface, the mistress of Château Guillard pulled off her hat and sunglasses. Long, silken, deep blue hair was wound and coiled in a graceful bun at the top of her head. Her golden eyes glinted in the twilight of the room like a predator's, catching even more fire when a concealed scanner in the case flashed in them, confirming her identity.
[break][break]
The case clicked open, revealing foam inserts and, cradled in the especially-formed contours of that foam, a slim, black laptop of indeterminate make. Amélie eased the computer from its place and opened it, putting it beside the case. The screen lit up and while its systems began to run, the assassin pried the lid off of a crate waiting beside the desk. From it, she withdrew a bottle, an opener and a single, long-stemmed glass. She popped the cork and filled her cup with a wine so red it was almost black.
[break][break]
Amélie was just raising the glass to her lips for a preliminary taste when her computer rolled fully online. Alerts scattered across the page, catching the corner of her eye. Widowmaker paused, lowering her drink, and turned to fully face the screen. Headlines from Parisian newspapers and others - in almost every language, from every corner of the earth: Secteur nul contrarié par Overwatch. A Null Sector attack in Paris had been stopped by an allegedly-reformed Overwatch.
[break][break]
Her eyes widened fractionally. The closest to surprised as her numb body could manage. Amélie skimmed the article, frozen in place. Then moved to the numerous secure Talon missives that had peppered her in that headline's regard. Gloved fingers curled into the foam of the case's insert and raised the panel that'd held the laptop. Underneath, the tools of her trade lay in a second layer of formed foam. Widowmaker pulled out the components of her rifle and began cleaning each part, reading what her retainers had sent her.
[break][break]
Because everything - everything - had changed.
[attr="class","ooc-area"]amélie lacroix — WIDOWMAKER
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