Lena Oxton, call sign Tracer, was good at making bad decisions. She was also good at two digit multiplication, making an omelet, and finishing a season of television in one night. She was also good at finding light in a literal mindless murderer- an...
Everything in this godforsaken compound was grey. It wasn't as if she could complain, any color more saturated than the drab monotone that painted all the walls Widowmaker could seem to remember would be far too bright for her eyes. They wouldn't hurt, no, they'd just be really annoying.
Widowmaker slid off the cot of her dorm and raised herself. The room she had been assigned was small- and intensely monitored. Perhaps it wasn't at the thought of mutiny, they had washed that out of her (because they had to), of course. Four cameras lined each corner of the square room like beady black eyes assuring her that someone would be here immediately when her heart finally gives out. Nothing but a cot and a cloudy mirror stayed in the room. She didn't need anything else but these necessities, her rifle, and her uniform. The latter two were stocked in an armory down the maze of hallways. They weren't a maze to Widowmaker, however, she knew them by heart.
She glanced in the mirror. She saw herself: too pale, too skinny, too unhealthy. Yet she could do her job. That's what mattered. Reaching to tie her waist length hair into it's uniform, tight ponytail, she let a tight sigh escape. The useless breath constricted her chest, like most did. She was sore all over from the normal lack of circulation, her fingertips numb and white. The blue polish (one of her only senses of individuality- though she had a hard time even welcoming it-- along with her dyed indigo hair and various blue makeup) meticulously painted on each nail stood against her white fingers like crystal sapphires on a lifeless corpse. Widowmaker neatened her ponytail and exited the room without a glance back.
Somewhere, perhaps deep and buried into her gut, something grabbed out and begged to crawl back into the uncomfortable bed she had risen from not too long ago. Widowmaker could almost laugh; What a pitiful thought to even dare to cross her mind. She killed it instantly.
There was no clear regime decided for her today by some disembodied higher up, but she still had her regular check up to accomplish. Since her body was nothing more than a corpse now, her immune system was weak and she had t constantly be pumped with any sort of numbing drug to keep her functioning. She felt none of it. Widowmaker exited the dormitories, the surveillance and cameras that were once dotting every corner of the bare hallways dotting down to a one each hallway. The compound itself was so deep in a desert Widowmaker didn't even know the name of she couldn't find a reason they would need surveillance in the first place. Not that she even cared to think about it that often, anyway.
The monochrome of the living spaces melted into a sterile white as Widowmaker made her way to the infirmary and hospital section of Talon. Room four thirteen- her usual office. She imagined it in her head as it normally was- a large chair in the center like a dentist's chair. She'd sit in it and one of the faceless doctors that somehow got themselves caught up in Talon would plug various devices and chemicals into her arms and they would put whatever they decided into her today. She reared the final corner until the office door came into view.
She could see people discussing on the other side of it. Maybe today will be a little different. Maybe among those chemicals would be arsenic or chloroform, if she was lucky. Widowmaker almost laughed. Where did that thought come from?
She raised her hand somewhat above her waist to turn the handle, but the door opened automatically. A man in a suit came out, his walk swift and confident, like he was important. He technically was- a CEO or even a leader of Talon. She knew of him, she'd had countless debriefings and conversations with this man, she'd just never bothered to look at his face. She never bothered this with anyone. Widowmaker instinctual stepped back and turned to face him, lifeless eyes staring above him instead of at him. She saw his mouth move in her peripherals. The words barely focused, she felt like a computer receiving commands, rather than a human, a living person, being told what to do. Like always. What's with her today?
"Hello Widowmaker." The CEO started, obviously just as interested in the conversation as she was. She didn't acknowledge him. "You're early for your routine today, do not do this again."
Somewhere, she knew she had always been early a lifetime ago. Early meant you missed nothing. Early meant socializing before a meeting. Now these ideas disgusted her. She opened her mouth, but closed it. She had no excuse.
"Anyway," The faceless man stated, as if her being outside the office seconds before she was assigned to be was a major inconvenience on his precious time. Widowmaker noticed she was nearly an entire foot taller than him. "Finish your check up and go to floor eight. We have a mission for you today, be hasty." He walked swiftly off after this, leaving Widowmaker to process the command. Something to do, at least, she thought. Widowmaker entered the office, feeling his eyes on her back
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She sat mechanically in the chair in the center of the room and shut her eyes. The white light above her bore against her eyelids, reminding her even now she was never alone, never safe. A young doctor hurried into the room.
She looked nervous and jittery, small hands fumbling around the various needles and appliances that would be injected into Widowmaker sooner or later. The small girl, a shaggy blonde, jolted quickly around each corner. Widowmaker found her familiar. Perhaps not her, but her aura of haste and excitement. It sickened her.
As the girl rushed over, the first needle (a numbing chemical perhaps, to lessen the rest to come even though Widowmaker felt none of it) glaring sharply in her tiny palms. She hesitated for a moment, looking up and down at the shell of a woman before her. Widowmaker pretended not to notice, yellow eyes trained ahead. She felt the brush of the needle enter her system. It didn't hurt, just a minor nudge against her frail skin. It would bleed more than it should.
She opened her mouth to say something to the doctor, but she stopped vividly. The doctor was technically on top of her, bending over her chest to apply neural attachments to her forehead and another numbing needle. She envisioned the agent that had attempted to stop her job at Kings Row, holding her against the roof of a building and yelling into her face. Widowmaker could not remember who she was, her face only an obscure mirage, as most faces were now. She felt a jolt of something and moved to push the doctor off.
Visibly gasping, the girl jumped off, eyes fearful and wary. Her hands were at her sides, fingers gracing over some sort of appliance. Obviously made for this sort of instance; she saw them on everyone she interacted with. Widowmaker only remained pressed against the chair, anything that had been plugged into her or attached hanging lifelessly beside her. She knew she had acted rashly for no reason, which would only slow down the time until she met the CEO again for any sort of debriefing. She cast her eyes down and pretended not to notice the doctor again, who begin to step closer.
Her hands were shakier than before -- Widowmaker didn't blame here. Closing her eyes, she let the doctor finish the routine.
