he widow had left her nest in Pandora for a new playground: Capitol. Under the ever-darkening evening sky, the sniper was draped in a long, flowing overcoat and sported a floral headscarf that sheltered her infra-sight helmet from prying
eyes. With her slick purple hair tailing behind her, Widowmaker side-eyed the meeting place, a dilapidated autobody repair shop. For far too long was she accustomed to lurking in the shadows of Pandora, where she had yet to explore the many
hunting grounds available to her.
he was supposed to meet with a new informant, known as Deacon, and the woman recalled seeing heavily-waxed hair and black shades in her colleague's files. He was a man credited with knowing all the inner and outer workings of the bustling
metropolis--a feat not so simple, but at the same time, not so uncommon, among those in her trade anyways.
fter finding herself in Elysion, Widowmaker continued to do what she knew best: killing, as per her clients' requests of course. Usually the solitary sniper had no need to branch out to external sources other than those of her usual
employers. But her current assignment involved a different sort of target--one that was just as mobile and elusive as herself. She only knew that the target belonged to the mayor's office, but other than that, he was just another political
busybody. And to pin down such an individual was somewhat difficult, even for a marksman of her caliber--but not without a tracker who knew more about Elysion than she did.
he stood across the street from the meeting place, sharp block heels tapping against the pavement in a steady beat. She had no need to stay hidden, and Widowmaker told herself it would be incredibly easy to spot someone dressed
like a greaser walking about. Sure enough, the smooth texture of leather under the flickering street lights came into her field of vision and she followed suit.
ungent residual odors of varnish and paint invaded her nostrils instantaneously as she surveyed the nearly-empty garage, its past history marked by oil stains and tire streaks on the concrete floor. As instructed, the assassin
made her way through the abandoned space and proceeded directly to the roof. From this vantage point, the streets were now fully illuminated by never ending dull street lights. In the corner, the widow's guest only took form as a dark
silhouette against the cityscape: surrounded by puffs of smoke, and identified by the ember of his cigarette and the pointed rims of thick sunglasses.
"Iam here to pick up my coupe,"
she broke the silence with a sultry tone, speaking in code as instructed by her previous source, "Is it ready for me yet?"