From the moment her eyes had turned on him like a pair of gleaming needles he'd known to brace himself. Yet even that hadn't prepared him for her answer, and, had he the face for it, Zenyatta might even have flinched. Like watching someone pluck out their own eyes. Why not hurt yourself if it should mean hurting your opponent even more- why not, when you have nothing to lose anyway? When you know you lack a heart to break? Widowmaker, perhaps, might have been sure of as much. But this was not Widowmaker; this was her remains. Even as her voice rose, rich with velvet-black spite, the woman herself retreated further and further into her sweater until she barely seemed to be present at all within it, a pale spectre of herself.
Then, silence. They walked together for a while, the ghost in borrowed clothes and the ghost in the machine, side by side like a pair of mute twins. Even with his head down he felt her eyes drawn to him, almost childlike in their curiosity. But the hallway suddenly felt a stifling place for the two of them to be. Nothing of any real meaning was ever spoken in a hallway, was it? An inbetween space. Goodness only knew, the air between them was thick enough already with apprehension.
As they stepped outside he felt the air rush to greet them in a cool sigh, along with a wave of relief- and her voice.
Amélie.
His head tilted, ever so slightly, in her direction. Sunlight, even faded sunlight, seemed to pick out everything the halogens missed or disguised: the hollows under her eyes and cheeks, the delicacy of her features, as if picked out in fine china, the broken skin of her lip. Zenyatta could not describe what he felt then as pity, but it was something akin to it, something softer and warmer that flooded his systems with unexpected warmth. His first impulse was to touch her shoulder, but the moment was fragile, still, tangled behind even his good will in the bloodied web of their pasts.
With a small nod, he instead followed the second. "Of course. Call me Zenyatta, Amélie." And it was her name. To decide on it now, he'd already realised, was to pass his first judgement. He would puzzle over that later. For now, he raises a hand in a loose wave and directs a ball of golden energy from one orb to her side. "This will ease some of the discomfort. It is not as potent as Mercy's medicine," he admitted quietly, "but it will suffice, I hope."
The first peace offering. He hadn't expected it to come so soon.
no subject
Then, silence. They walked together for a while, the ghost in borrowed clothes and the ghost in the machine, side by side like a pair of mute twins. Even with his head down he felt her eyes drawn to him, almost childlike in their curiosity. But the hallway suddenly felt a stifling place for the two of them to be. Nothing of any real meaning was ever spoken in a hallway, was it? An inbetween space. Goodness only knew, the air between them was thick enough already with apprehension.
As they stepped outside he felt the air rush to greet them in a cool sigh, along with a wave of relief- and her voice.
Amélie.
His head tilted, ever so slightly, in her direction. Sunlight, even faded sunlight, seemed to pick out everything the halogens missed or disguised: the hollows under her eyes and cheeks, the delicacy of her features, as if picked out in fine china, the broken skin of her lip. Zenyatta could not describe what he felt then as pity, but it was something akin to it, something softer and warmer that flooded his systems with unexpected warmth. His first impulse was to touch her shoulder, but the moment was fragile, still, tangled behind even his good will in the bloodied web of their pasts.
With a small nod, he instead followed the second. "Of course. Call me Zenyatta, Amélie." And it was her name. To decide on it now, he'd already realised, was to pass his first judgement. He would puzzle over that later. For now, he raises a hand in a loose wave and directs a ball of golden energy from one orb to her side. "This will ease some of the discomfort. It is not as potent as Mercy's medicine," he admitted quietly, "but it will suffice, I hope."
The first peace offering. He hadn't expected it to come so soon.