YOU DIED SCREAMING, YET THE MONSTER WAS SILENT.
tisse sa toile à
m i n u i t
YOU ARE A WEAPON, AND WEAPONS DO NOT WEEP.
WARNING: THIS APP CONTAINS SPOILERS AND THEMES OF KIDNAPPING, ASSASSINATION, MURDER, AND ARACHNOPHOBIA.
« ACTE I »
Ô ma douce souffrance, Pourquoi s'acharner tu recommences. Je ne suis qu'un être sans importance, Sans lui je suis un peu paro...
nce upon a time, you were a normal woman. Your name was Amélie, wife of Gérard Lacroix. You lived happily with your husband who was an agent of Overwatch, and you were a ballerina from a local studio. The two of you enjoyed
a cozy life in the alpine town of Annecy, France, although your husband often went on business trips around the world, and you were often scouted on troupe tours all across France. Despite your absences from home, whenever
the both of you were granted time off, you enjoyed each other's company to the fullest: cooking, cuddling, laughing. No matter how far you were from each other, the fire that was your love was not smothered in the slightest.
You thought that you would grow old together in this way, for you never tired of it once. That was, until Talon decided to intervene.
as it to be expected? Did you know that you would inevitably become a target since you were married to an elite agent? Perhaps. The thoughts lingered in the back of your mind but your heart told you otherwise.
Gérard is skilled, he is careful, he is my husband. That was how he was able to avoid the evil organization's grasp until now. The two of you were stronger and better than these preliminary fears, and
day by day the fears became buried underneath daily comforts. After all, you both had an unspoken agreement of not prying into each other's business unless absolutely necessary. The mechanism was to keep the negativity
out of your marriage, but little did you know it cushioned your inhibitions. And that was how Talon caught you completely unaware.
« ACTE II »
Une dernière danse Pour oublier ma peine immense. Je veux m'enfuir que tout recommence. Ô ma douce souffrance...
t felt as if the applause echoed unusually long after your performance. As you stood there with the curtains falling at your back, your rising and falling chest clad in white swan feathers, you could have sworn that something
felt different tonight. But everything had gone as expected. Today was the last show of your
« Le Lac des cygnes » tour in Paris, and as arranged per your contract with the dance company, transportation would be arranged for you toute suite after the last show. Taking the final
curtsy before heading backstage, you imagined being greeted by Gérard's face wrinkled with those laughter lines that you adored. He'd welcome you back home with champagne and roses―
« to make up for all of the cheering I would have done for ma danseuse étoile if I was there » ―he'd say with a curt peck on your cheek and a wink.
dette and Odile. The two most difficult roles in the entire production to be played only by the prima ballerina―and they were yours. You had fought tooth and nail for these roles, practicing endlessly at the studio on
nights when Gérard wasn't home and crushing the competition at auditions no matter what it took. Not eating. Bleeding toes. Aching legs. It didn't matter―to you, Odette and Odile were your sisters, two birds of a feather,
and you embraced them as your muses of dance without protest. Odette,
the tragic heroine, kidnapped from her family and forced to live as a swan by day and an ethereal goddess by night, brought you a pure, everlasting salvation every time you donned her ivory feathers upon your
the illusory temptress, disguised as Odette to fool the unsuspecting prince into abandoning his vow of true love, provided you with a dark, unfaltering liberation wrapped in her ebony feathers and blood red
lack and white ballet slippers were slung over your shoulder as your dark ponytail whipped back and forth behind you with every step, you tucked away Odette's and Odile's skins in the dressing room and flipped the lights
off. Bouquets and ribbons littered the outside corridor as fans had given up waiting for you to receive them. None of them mattered you, for you knew more worthwhile gifts were awaiting your return.
« Madame Lacroix, a moment of your time, s'il vous plait? » a voice behind you boomed. Someone was still here? The instant you turn around, a dark figure shoves a cluster of black roses into
your face, and a sudden pain invades your flesh. The roses were gone. The slippers fell. You collapsed. Your body was shoved into a car. Everything faded to black.
« ACTE III »
Je remue le ciel le jour, la nuit Je danse avec le vent la pluie, Un peu d'amour un brin de miel, Et je danse, danse, danse...
he next thing you knew, multiple blurry faces were surrounding you. You could have sworn you've seen them before. They were familiar, but something felt...wrong. They were all calling someone's name, a name that
was very important but you didn't know why they were saying it to you. As your amber eyes squinted at them and your raspy voice attempted to answer their many questions, things started coming back to you in pieces.
It was your name they were calling all this time. These were the people from Overwatch: Dr. Angela Ziegler, Ana Amari, and your husband, Gérard Lacroix. Other than that, you couldn't remember anything
since that night after the show. Gérard threw his arms around you,
« Ma chère, I thought I'd lost you, » he cried, your body listless as he did. His embrace, his voice, his words―they all felt foreign to you. And a part of you asked: were you supposed to be feeling something?
wo weeks later, you were back in your bed with Gérard soundly asleep next to you. Dr. Ziegler had examined you in detail and signed off on your discharge. Your dance company pressed for you to recover and Gérard asked
for a leave of absence until you became 'better'...yet you'd never be. The sweet return to your old life was meant to be brief. The last thing you remembered was the alarm clock striking midnight and then all
you saw was blood on the pillowcase. Handgun in your right and pillow in your left, your mind was screaming but your body remained calm. Your body was no longer your own. A chill ran through your spine and under the
moonlight you could have sworn that your skin was turning blue. Instinctively you ran out into the night in your bloodied nightgown, feet bare in the snow and your face splattered with red. They were
there to greet you, car door open in facilitating your escape. That was your first 'job well done.'
« ACTE IV »
Et dans le bruit, je cours et j'ai peur. Est-ce mon tour? Vient la douleur. Dans tout Paris, je m'abandonne Et je m'envole, vole, vole...
herchez la femme, »
Overwatch comms repeated over and over again. Indeed, behind every man's fall, the woman was always under suspicion as the perpetrator. Some believed that she was kidnapped again, some believed Talon killed Gérard themselves.
But no matter how hard they'd try to find Amélie, they'd find no traces. She was gone forever, and
« Widowmaker » rose from her ashes. Odette and her prince had long drowned in the depths of Swan Lake, with Rothbart and Odile reigning supreme to this very day. Together, the two only became stronger over
time. Rothbart only corrupted the black swan into further darkness; her talents became more than just a disguise but a covert art of killing. She was no longer the pretty face needed to fool the prince, no...she was
now a beast with a heart that beated for death.
our first official deployment as the perfect human weapon took place in one of Overwatch's futile anti-Talon operations. Each shot, each dead agent's body, each bullet, were but mere ticks of the clock to you. With
your visor, you tracked each target with the ease and precision of a machine's. Things became slightly more complicated when you faced the other team's sniper, Ana Amari. Although the woman was able to shatter your
visor, she did not change much. Your procedure remained the same: lock, load, scope...aim...fire. Your mark went straight through her sights, cleanly to her eye. You still would have been able to make your mark
without her hesitation for some odd reason, but that meant nothing to you. You felt nothing but exhilaration at the thought of making such an excellent kill.
hen you were a girl, you had a fear of spiders. Like every other little girl. Everytime you'd see their tiny black bodies scutter towards you, the thought of feeling their legs crawling upon your skin was terrifying.
There was this old saying:
« Araignée du matin, chagrin; araignée du soir, espoir. » But now, things were different, that saying was null and void. You have joined those who had destroyed you. You had become the very monster you
had condemned―a killer. Against your will, you have embraced all that you have feared for you are now
« l'araignée du soir, Cauchemar » and you represented neither grief nor hope. In fact, you had no emotion and your heart never beated. As you stood in the shadows, golden eyes glued behind your gun's
sights, you were your worst enemies' nightmare. You knew the truth now: at the moment of the kill, you were never more alive.
rom then on, the rush of adrenaline that came with every life taken was your opiate. Everything Talon threw at you, you took on willingly and immediately. Your next target was Tekhartha Mondatta, some omnic leader,
but honestly, you cared little about who the targets were and more about how'd you kill them. Stationing yourself at King's Row, you had the perfect shot after eliminating all threats within your web. That was
until this 'Tracer' girl you had heard of broke your cover, but you'd never let her get between you and your prey.
« Such a sweet, foolish girl » she was, unaware of the fact that either she or the omnic was destined to die by your hands. In the end, she still failed to stop you and your mission was complete. As
sickening feeling of emptiness overtook you at the mention of 'Christmas.' You had no desire for time off nor to celebrate the meaningless holiday. You'd rather finish your missions. Yet time was still granted
off for you and you spent it wandering aimlessly around Annecy's streets. A street vendor was giving away roses and you received one without care. After hours of dragging your heels along the snow-covered
cement, you found yourself at an abandoned cemetary. Wandering amongst covered cenotaphs and worn headstones, one caught your attention. Feet halting, chest twisting, you stared at the name as a foreign pain
infested your insides:
« Gérard Lacroix ». Why were these sensations coming to you? You were a different woman now, but why do visions of his face come to your mind now? Eyes darting away from their downcast gaze, you
saw another sight that made you swallow your thickened saliva―a grave for
« Amélie Lacroix » laid there, adjacent to Gérard's. Placing the red rose you had received upon his monotonous grave, you allowed the falling snow to pile upon your head and shoulders.
« Repose en paix, mon amour ». You never asked to forget; you never asked to remember. Yet the memories were crawling back as you stood there in the cold winter night, dead in your
tracks, a lone tear sliding down your cheek.