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 GIVE-AND-TAKE, DEACON / CASCADE
AMÉLIE LACROIX VI SHE/HER MST Offline
33 posts
fandom OVERWATCH
age THIRTY-THREE
occupation ASSASSIN
species (ALTERED) HUMAN
prefers SHE/HER
PANDORA
award cabinet
T
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.

S
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.

A
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.

S
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.

P
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.

"I
am 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?"
ssıʞ s,ʍopıʍ ǝɥʇ
Now, do not misunderstand me; when I call myself a shell. I mean-–a used up bullet casing. As in, the aftermath of something lethal. As in, an echo of inflicted evil.
453 words
excuse the cheesiness rip me
nhi @ ooc


DEACON Cascade she/her Pacific Offline
28 posts
fandom Fallout 4
age Forty-Three
occupation Odd Jobber
species Human
prefers He/Him
CAPITOL
award cabinet
DON'T SWITCH THE BLADE ON THE GUY IN SHADES

It wasn't often that Deacon's job of the day was acting as an informant, despite the fact that it was a profession he was particularly good at. Keeping tabs on others was something he was a natural at. The Railroad recognized that when they took him into their ranks, so it only made sense that his job was to go out into the Commonwealth and gather information on anything he thought could help their cause. When he found himself without the Railroad, without a purpose, it left him feeling... lost. He continued to observe others and make note of what they were up to, so if someone was in desperate need of intel on another person, he could easily provide such information.

Deacon would freely admit that he was caught off guard when someone approached him and asked if he could meet with a contact to provide information on one of the mayor's staff members. His response was a... skeptical yes. He told the middle man that if this contact wanted to meet with him, then they'd have to play along with his code words and meet up with him at an automobile shop.

He had to make sure he was getting in touch with the right person, after all. He couldn't trust someone who just said they needed to meet up with him; he needed a little more verification than that. A simple pass code would have done the trick to convince him that the right person was approaching him.

So it was off to the shop he went, blue eyes scanning every which way behind his shades, searching for someone who may have potentially been his contact. He had minimal information about said contact -- he was told that her name was "Widowmaker," and that he'd know her when he saw her, which felt like an odd thing to say. Though, he could swear he spotted someone with blue-tinted skin, and thought perhaps that's what was meant by saying he'd know her when he saw her. He supposed he'd find out soon, so he dismissed the thought and made his way to the roof of the garage.

He was sure that he blended in quite nicely with his surroundings. Everything about him screamed that he belonged in a garage, like he spent all day dealing with cars, and that's exactly what he was aiming for. Few people would have taken notice of a greaser-esque man going into a garage late at night and thought much of it; hopefully, they'd just think he was an employee going in to get some work done.

Once he reached the roof, a cigarette was stuck between his lips and lit, illuminating his face against the dim and dull lack of lighting around him. A puff of smoke exited his mouth, his cigarette removed from his mouth as he flicked ashes away from it. It was quiet up there. Too quiet. He was beyond thankful for a voice to break through the silence, uttering the code phrase he was waiting for.

"It's in the shop," he replied, a smirk forming on his lips.

He took a better look at the woman standing before him. Ok, now he was definitely sure that she must have had blue skin. "You must be the Widow, am I right? I hear you're looking to hear about somebody important."

# 560 words | AMÉLIE LACROIX | i'm all about the cheesiness lol


AMÉLIE LACROIX VI SHE/HER MST Offline
33 posts
fandom OVERWATCH
age THIRTY-THREE
occupation ASSASSIN
species (ALTERED) HUMAN
prefers SHE/HER
PANDORA
award cabinet
"O
ui, I am Widowmaker," the assassin nodded, taking a tentative step forward from the shadows while looking over the man, "You must be the Monsieur Deacon I've heard so much about from my associates. They say you are the man to see about...you know who."

H
er arched brow piqued at the man's all-too-familiar lingering glance in her direction, for it was a reaction that many projected during initial encounters. She witnessed it so often after she became this way, that it no longer agitated her--she accepted it as part of who she was now; she had no choice. "You must know, I am not like the other people in my line of work. I work...comment le dire...differently, so-to-say. I require specifics. And I hope you are able to help me with that."

A
simple assassin would usually rendezvous with their contact rather quickly and move on, often just exchanging coded messages and other intel. Widowmaker, however, was hired to execute a much more complex action. Her employers had specifically noted that they reached out to her since she handled business cleanly, regardless of the identity of the target. In any case, Widow was never a simple assassin, nor was she the sort to pass messages when she could be taking action in ensuring personal success.

W
ith such a complex situation at hand, the blue-hued woman demanded sufficient resources to carry out the confidential duties assigned to her. Fortunately, for herself and also her employers, no force was required to make them comply to her wishes, so she got everything she wanted with ease. One of those essential items on her mandatory list was to scout out every location the politician frequented--be it a public space or one of his hideouts, for he was also no saint--she wanted to know them all. Not only to gain the obvious upper hand, but also to familiarize herself with her new playground as it were. It surely wouldn't hurt to do both at once. The Widow liked to work efficiently and secretly...and also to identify any convenient escape routes.

"A
lors, Monsieur Deacon, would you care to show me where the 'rat' normally hides? I am especially interested in that so-called 'nest' of his and where he often lingers." Her sources eventually led her to the man in her company, who she knew typically did not serve as an informant, but she heard talk of his notoriously keen eye and unrivalled cynicism. Such qualities she did not have any qualms about, especially since she possessed them herself and has worked with them in past allies, thus there were no worries about problems with cooperation. Wherever her previous coworkers may be, she didn't know, but she only cared to continue what she did best: to hunt and kill.

E
xtending an outstretched arm, the woman casually rolled back on her heels into a small curtsy. "Après vous. Should you need us to travel to another rooftop or get a better look at something, just let me know. I have my ways."
ssıʞ s,ʍopıʍ ǝɥʇ
Now, do not misunderstand me; when I call myself a shell. I mean-–a used up bullet casing. As in, the aftermath of something lethal. As in, an echo of inflicted evil.
517 words
here's your chance deacon let's be super cool spies together
nhi @ ooc


DEACON Cascade she/her Pacific Offline
28 posts
fandom Fallout 4
age Forty-Three
occupation Odd Jobber
species Human
prefers He/Him
CAPITOL
award cabinet
DON'T SWITCH THE BLADE ON THE GUY IN SHADES

"Oh, you've heard about me, huh? I trust it's all been good things," he joked. Truthfully, Deacon had no idea exactly what Widowmaker might have heard about him. With several words coming out of his mouth being blatant lies, there was no telling if all -- or any -- of the information she had was even accurate. He decided it would be best not to test her knowledge of him. She wasn't there to get to know who he was anyway. Her interests were more focused on her political target rather than her contact.

She wasted no time in getting straight to business. She needed specific information, and hopefully, Deacon would be able to comply and hand over such knowledge. The last thing he needed was to screw something up and piss off an assassin. He would have much rather preferred not being in the crosshairs of someone who was a trained killer, so he'd have to tread carefully and be sure to not give her a reason to turn on him anytime soon.

Luckily, he knew quite a bit about this politician the widow was hunting down. He knew hardly a soul in Elysion liked him much, and Deacon certainly didn't have much sympathy for him either. Aside from him supporting policies Deacon didn't agree with, he was definitely corrupt. Rumors tarnishing his reputation appeared every once in a while only to suddenly get squandered and denied. Deacon knew that the denial was bullshit; most rumors floating around about him were true. Political machines, gambling rings, extramarital scandals. This politician was involved in every one of them, and if he didn't have so much money, Deacon would have wondered how he still had a job.

He'd seen the politician enough times to know where his stomping grounds were. Most evenings, he hid out behind Figaro's and frequented the Supernova, often walking in alone and exiting with a new woman hanging on his arm. During the daytime, he visited various shops in the uptown region of the Capitol to try to appeal to more constituents.

"If it's information you need, it's information I've got. Trust me, nothing gets past me in this place." Spending half of his lifetime as a spy, it was hard to relinquish spy behavior. He was always keeping an eye on suspicious individuals, always keeping tabs on others. Sometimes he wished he could give it up altogether, but he supposed that was not meant to be. Besides, it looked like his prowess in spying on others paid off, right? People were actively seeking him out for his talents, and that wasn't such a bad thing.

"Stick to the sewers if you want to find the rat at night," he started. He turned to face the general location of Figaro's and pointed towards it. "There's a sewage grate over behind Figaro's. He hangs around there during weekends. Sometimes he'll go there for gambling, sometimes it's for bribery." He turned to face more in the direction of the Supernova. "And then there's another grate over by the Supernova. He goes there all the damn time and gets shitfaced drunk every time too." He looked back at Widowmaker before speaking again. "You want to catch him in the middle of the day, your best bet is to check out the boutiques where he'll be making the same tired speech trying to get more people to like him even though it's probably doing the opposite of what he wants."

Admittedly, he was curious about how they would go from rooftop to rooftop. Though he wasn't a big fan of heights, he supposed he'd have to refrain from mentioning that little fun fact about himself if he wanted to see how they'd move around. "You think you can get us further to the north end? I can point out specific shops he hangs around better if we head to that building.' He pointed towards the building in question, hoping that the assassin had a quick method to get there.

# 666 words | AMÉLIE LACROIX | *mission impossible theme plays in the distance*



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