Chapter 14: chapter 14 The Longer Path Leads Here/Jammy Dodgers
"And I guess...I was hoping if I got to know you better, I might finally find something that makes life make sense." Peter repeated the line, a puzzled look on his face as his voice echoed in the call. Brian finished getting dressed. The blonde's hair was still damp, stray droplets of water sliding down the nape of his neck from his cold shower after the workout with Lena.
"Dude, you know you can't just drop something like that on people, right?" Peter spoke slowly. "That's the kind of deep, meaningful stuff you save for right before you tell someone you love them. Or like, when you're proposing marriage."
Brian felt his cheeks grow warm as he imagined being in that kind of overly romantic scenario with Lena. He ducked his head, avoiding thinking about it as he focused on buttoning up the crisp white shirt he had changed into. The sweltering late afternoon heat had made keeping his usual hoodie on unbearable, so he opted for the lightweight short-sleeved top and a pair of casual shorts instead.
"I was just...confused, I guess. Wasn't thinking straight, so I might have said some stupid stuff," Brian mumbled, still flustered.
Peter replied skeptically. "I mean, yeah, some of those lines definitely sounded like they were ripped right out of one of those cheesy romance flicks girls are always watching. So who knows, maybe it worked in your favor?" He paused, giving Brian a long look. "But you need to be straight with yourself about this, man. Not long ago you were saying being around Lena and Angela was weird for you. That the whole Overwatch thing seemed off. Now you're claiming you don't want to date her but she is like everything to you? Those are some mixed signals..."
Brian shook his head adamantly. "It's not like that, I swear. I really do like Lena, but just...as a person, you know? I don't want her thinking I'm only hanging around her because I'm harboring some kind of crush. We're friends."
An uncomfortable silence stretched between them as Brian grabbed his wallet and hover cycle keys from the kitchen counter, getting ready to head out. Peter commented carefully.
"What about Amelie though?" he asked slowly. "Her and Lena used to be an item, right? Now that Lena knows you and the Widowmaker know each other...you don't think she might wonder if you've got designs on trying to get with her ex?"
Brian's brows furrowed in confusion as he glanced down at his phone, arching one eyebrow skeptically. "Why would I want to 'get with' the woman who literally tried to kill me, Peter? That makes zero sense."
Peter scoffed loudly. "Oh come on, don't act like that's not every guy's dream! The sexy, dangerous, murderous girl? Haven't you heard of Remy from Grey Lagoon? Or Yuto and Love from Fullmetal Wizard and Destiny Diary? Those types are always insanely hot."
Shaking his head slowly, Brian sighed. "I think you might seriously need to get your brain scanned for worms or something, dude. I don't know where you're getting these ideas..."
"I'm serious!" Peter protested. "Just...be careful, okay? You might not be thinking about it now, but what if a few months down the line you start catching feelings? By then, you could already be so deep in the friend-zone with Lena that you don't even register as a blip on their romantic radar."
Brian acquiesced with a noncommittal shrug. "Alright, alright, I got it. I gotta go grab some groceries, so I'll call you back later."
After exchanging goodbyes, Brian ended the call and pocketed his phone. As the elevator descended towards the lobby, he glanced out at the view of the city, eyes lingering on an old, faded billboard for Coppelia visible in the distance from the parking garage.
Once outside, Brian slipped on a pair of blue and green-tinted goggles over his eyes before kickstarting his hover cycle. He sped off down the busy streets, mind wandering as the cool evening breeze whipped through his damp hair...until his phone began ringing. Tapping a button on the cycle's handlebar, he answered the call with a curious, "Hello?"
There was a rustling sound, like papers being shifted, before a warm, accented female voice called out, "Brian?"
His eyes widened in surprise at the familiar tone. "Angela?" he replied, brows furrowing slightly as he concentrated on the road ahead.
The Swiss woman seemed to be smiling as she responded in a sweet, lilting tone. "I got your number from Lena. You two went for a run together this morning, yes?"
Brian relaxed a bit at her friendly manner. "Yeah, me and her just went for a jog. Nothing too exciting."
"Oh, I would have loved to join you both!" Angela lamented. "But I had some work I needed to attend to, unfortunately."
"No, no, it's totally fine!" Brian assured her quickly in what Peter always jokingly referred to as his 'negotiating voice.' "Like I said, it was just a casual run between friends. No big deal."
There was a brief pause, as if Angela was considering his words, before her tone shifted slightly. "Well...I'm happy to hear you two got some time together at least. Lena seemed quite pleased when she returned home. We had coffee and she talked all about your outing."
One of Brian's eyebrows quirked upwards at that. "Oh yeah? Well, I was just being honest with her about how I've been feeling about...things. Didn't want there to be any confusion, you know?"
"I see..." Angela's voice took on a contemplative quality. "So you two are becoming quite close then, it seems."
Brian felt his face warming again, cheeks flushing. "I...I just really enjoy talking with her is all. Lena's an incredibly nice person. I'm glad I got the chance to meet you both."
His focus was tuned more towards navigating the roads and traffic patterns, so he didn't immediately notice the brief silence that fell over the line. After a moment, Angela spoke up again, her previous bright tone returning.
"Brian...do you like chocolate?"
He blinked at the random query. "Uh, yeah...? Sure, I like chocolate fine."
"Oh, wonderful!" She sounded delighted. "You see, I actually made some fresh chocolate confections recently. I was wondering if you might like me to give you a box of them? Consider it a small token of my appreciation for bringing such a lovely smile to Lena's face."
Her kind words caused Brian's flush to deepen slightly, heart skipping a beat. "I...yeah, that would be great. I'd really like that. Thank you."
Angela hummed in satisfaction. "Alright, how about you come over later today and I can give them to you? I'll even prepare us a little dinner, if you'd like."
"Really?" Brian's face split into a wide grin at the invitation. "That sounds amazing! What time works for you?"
"Hmm...how about 5 o'clock?"
"Oh!" He piped up eagerly. "Actually, if it's not too much trouble, I could come over a little sooner and help out? I do a fair bit of cooking myself."
There was a brief pause before Angela responded warmly, "Why, how sweet of you to offer! Alright then, does 4:30 work for you, Brian?"
"Definitely, 4:30 is perfect. I'll see you then!"
"Wonderful. I'm looking forward to it!"
Angela hung up the call the edges of her mouth falling into a frown as the medic pulled up the texts between her and Lena looking at the earlier messages.
6:47AM
Angela: so how's your run going?
Lena:its going well just on my way home do you need anything from the shops?
Angela:No no im fine so anything interesting happen?
Lena:Nope just running to the park and back.
Lena: Is there something on the news?
Angela: No just wondering.
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Amelie's Point Of View
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Amelie adjusted the purple-tinted glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, careful not to disrupt the sleek coif of her dark ponytail. Each measured step carried her closer down the sidewalk towards the supermarket's entrance. The earbud nestled in her left ear filled the quiet morning air around her with the soothing melodies of classical compositions.
As the harsh late spring sunbeams attempted to bear down on her fair skin, Amelie reacted with a slight tilt of her wide-brimmed white sunhat, angling the accessory to better shield her delicate complexion from the brightness. She kept her chin raised, chin-length bangs swaying lightly with each stride.
Up ahead, the crosswalk signal illuminated with a bright pedestrian crossing graphic accompanied by a cheerful dinging noise. In sync with the others awaiting their turn, Amelie joined the small crowd and crossed over the busy street unhurriedly. Even through her purple lenses, she caught the lingering stare of a street vendor - his gaze trailing brazenly down the fitted denim covering her legs before snapping back up as she turned her head.
Slowly removing her glasses, Amelie fixed the gawking man with an icy glare that could have flash-frozen even the fires of hell itself. She held his widening eyes for a long second before carefully resetting her spectacles upon the slope of her nose and pointedly snapping her vision forward once more to watch where she was going.
The faint vibration of her phone sounded from within her black leather handbag, followed by a muted ping of a new notification. Reaching into the purse with her slender fingers, Amelie retrieved the device and glanced at the bright screen. Her expression soured almost imperceptibly at the selfie of Lena smiling back at her beneath the note of '3 New Messages.'
With a quiet sigh, she thumbed the power button and returned the phone to its resting place without so much as opening the conversation. Stepping through the supermarket's automatic doors, Amelie moved aside to collect a small yellow and black plastic hand-basket from the stock, casually rolling it back and forth between her palms while mentally reviewing her list of needed items.
"Flour, rice, bread, ketchup..." She murmured the reminders to herself, a hint of an accent caressing the syllables as Amelie began her prowl down the first broad aisle.
Halfway down the stretch of shelving, her sharp gaze caught on the peculiar sight of a young man in a plain white t-shirt standing before a looming pallet of rice bags. His brows were furrowed in thought as he stared almost unblinkingly at the mass of product before him. Then, with sudden abruptness, he reared back one fist and brought it down solidly against the surface of one of the larger sacks with a muffled thump.
The unexpected action made Amelie's steps falter for the briefest moment as she watched him, analyzing the strange behavior. Was he...checking for quality? Freshness? Her nose wrinkled ever-so-slightly in consternation at his methodology.
Seeming to snap out of his odd reverie, the man collected a small red basket from the end of the aisle before turning on his heel and continuing in Amelie's direction. As he neared the baking aisle, he slowed, eyes dropping to the phone grasped in one hand. Thumbing at the screen sporadically, his expression settled into one of pensive contemplation, as if searching for something specific.
There was something vaguely familiar about his overall appearance that nagged at the back of Amelie's mind. Even with the goggles obscuring much of his features, she found herself scrutinizing him appraisingly as their paths converged in the baking aisle.
Extending one arm, she reached up towards the top shelf to snag a bag of flour, fingers tensing in preparation of the expected weight. But the bag shifted unexpectedly in her grasp, suddenly tipping forward in a way that would surely see its contents bursting open in a plume of white across the tiled floor.
Then, an arm extended beside hers, a firm hand snatching the falling bag and arresting its descent just in time. The powdery explosion never came.
"I got it, ma'am." The voice was warm but cautious as the young man straightened, lifting his gaze to meet hers...only to visibly start at the sight of her face. "Miss Lacroix?"
Amelie felt her stoic mask falter for just an instant at the use of her name and the all-too-familiar timbre attached to it. Pulling herself inward, she calmly appraised him through narrowed eyes, suddenly aware of the others occupying the surrounding aisle space. Keeping her voice carefully modulated, she asked, "What are you doing here?"
If Brian registered her icy tone, he gave no outward indication. Instead, his expression cycled through a range of micro-expressions - surprise, confusion, realization - before settling into his typical easygoing demeanor as recognition sparked.
"Oh, uh..." One hand rasped against the nape of his neck nervously as he seemed to consider how much to divulge. "I was going to do some baking, but I couldn't decide what kind of flour to use."
He used his free hand to gesture vaguely at the towering shelves of flour options surrounding them with a slight grimace. Despite herself, Amelie felt her eyebrows inch upwards infinitesimally at his response.
"You know how to bake?" The words slipped out in a tone laced with poorly concealed skepticism before she could rein them in.
If Brian took any offense, however, he didn't show it. A small smile played across his lips as he gave a single decisive nod. "Yup, I started out making breads, but I can cook all sorts of things."
As if suddenly remembering his original task, he refocused his gaze on the dizzying array of flour options, brow furrowing slightly as he concentrated. Amelie watched him surreptitiously for a long moment, taking in the achingly familiar set of his features - features she had, not so long ago, studied from afar through the scope of her deadly kiss.
"I would assume cake flour is standard for baking, non?" She offered at length when his search seemed to stall.
But Brian was already shaking his head before she'd even finished voicing her assumption. "Nope, cake flour actually has a lower protein content than regular all-purpose flour," he explained, not looking up from the shelves as his fingers danced across the screen of his phone.
Amelie remained silent, keeping her expression carefully neutral as she waited for him to continue. After a few seconds spent scrolling through whatever information held his attention captive, Brian proceeded.
"The lower protein means it has less gluten-forming potential," he elaborated, the words holding a practiced cadence that suggested this was not his first time reciting this particular piece of culinary knowledge. "So whatever you bake with cake flour turns out lighter and more airy."
A soft sound of satisfaction slipped unbidden past his lips as his eyes finally landed on whatever product he'd been searching for. Reaching up, he plucked a fresh box of cake flour off the shelf and deposited it smoothly into his small basket without a second thought. Amelie's eyes darted to the boys lower stomach as his shirt rose for an instant a faded white scar barely visible.
"But..." He continued, squinting slightly as he regarded the other offerings with a more critical eye now. "If it's not something that's supposed to be soft and delicate, using cake flour could actually make it fall apart while baking." One finger tapped out a rhythm against the plastic of his basket's handle as he mused. "So you have to be really careful with your ingredients and ratios and all that..."
Trailing off, Brian finally lifted his gaze up to meet Amelie's own guarded stare head-on. A tiny smile turned up the corner of his mouth as genuine interest colored his words. "Have you ever baked anything before, Miss Lacroix?"
The simple question seemed to catch the former Talon operative momentarily wrong-footed.
As such, Amelie felt herself swallowing once, hard, before responding in as steady a tone as she could manage. "Not in a very long time." Her eyes drifted away from his searching hazel gaze to stare sightlessly across the aisle instead. "I'm...out of practice."
When her admission was met with only silence, Amelie forced herself to look back at Brian. He was regarding her with an unreadable expression, lips slightly parted as if to speak. But whatever thought had occurred to him seemed to die on his tongue before he could give it voice.
Instead, the young man shuffled his feet slightly closer to her, one hand raising to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck. "Sorry..." He mumbled the apology, gaze dropping away from hers to stare unseeingly at a point somewhere in the vicinity of her collarbone.
Amelie said nothing, letting the uncomfortable silence blanket them both as the ambient noise of the bustling supermarket filtered in around their motionless forms. She could hear the dull roar of the refrigeration units humming, the squeaking rolls of carts being pushed down neighboring aisles, the occasional snippets of muttered conversation as other shoppers went about their business.
"I'm probably distracting you. I should get the rest of my stuff and head out." Brian huffed out an awkward chuckle, taking a half-step back as if preparing to withdraw completely.
But before he could fully turn away, Amelie seemed to close what little distance remained between them in the blink of an eye Brian barely registered it happening at all. One cool hand clamped down on his shoulder with a firm grip, stalling his retreat.
"I'd like to ask you something," she stated simply, holding his surprised gaze with her own unflinching stare.
Brian opened his mouth to respond, a reflexive, "Miss Lac-" falling from his lips. But Amelie's fingers tightened ever-so-slightly around the curve of his shoulder, cutting him off before he could even finish voicing her surname.
"I told you to call me Amelie," she reminded him, her tone leaving no room for argument or misinterpretation. "At the dance."
He felt his throat constrict as he swallowed hard against the lump that had formed there. "Amelie..." Brian breathed out the name, unconsciously leaning back to put just a bit more space between their bodies.
The former Talon agent seemed to realize then that she had unintentionally intimidated the boy. Her grip loosened, hand slipping away from his shoulder as if a switch had been flipped. "I..." She paused, licking her lips in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture before continuing in a slightly lower tone. "I have something to ask you. But this isn't the place."
Brian couldn't help the way his eyes cut instinctively toward the front entrance at her veiled suggestion of meeting elsewhere. Every single self-preservation instinct he possessed screamed at him to remove himself from this situation immediately. Adrenaline began to pump through his veins as his body prepared for fight-or-flight...only to be derailed by Amelie's next words.
"Do you know how to make jammy dodgers?" She asked the mundane question almost tremulously, hazel eyes skittering away from his in a rare show of what could have been anxiousness.
The unexpected query took Brian's mind a moment to process, like getting stuck in the gears for a second before it could click back into place. "Oh, like the cookies?" He replied automatically, bewildered confusion chasing away his rising panic. "Yeah, I can do that. Why?"
Amelie wet her lips again, seeming to struggle with her response for a beat before answering. "I've been trying to find some at local markets," she admitted in a quieter tone, still avoiding his searching gaze. "I haven't had any luck."
A dozen different scenarios flickered through Brian's mind in that instant. From her tone and body language, he was abruptly struck by the impression that the former assassin was thinking about something else.
But he didn't voice any of those thoughts aloud. Instead, his brain automatically jumped to the easiest, most obvious solution. "Can't you just order them online or something?"
Amelie frowned, finally lifting her eyes to meet his again. There was a glimmer of...something indecipherable flickering there. "It is better to make them at home, isn't it?"
Brian found himself nodding in agreement, a detached part of his psyche admiring her practicality. "Of course. Homemade always tastes better than store-bought." He inclined his head consideringly, looking her over with a more appraising eye. "If I can find a good recipe, I could...probably teach you how to make them yourself."
It was an olive branch of sorts, he realized. An offering to prolong their interaction - to indulge whatever ulterior motive may have driven her to seek him out in the first place. For what reason he wasn't sure.
For several heartbeats, Amelie was perfectly still and silent, her expression utterly inscrutable as she seemed to weigh his proposition internally. Just when Brian was beginning to think he'd overstepped, she spoke again in that same hushed tone. "I would appreciate your help."
Some of the tension bled from her stance as she lifted her chin long brown lockes swaying gently with the motion. When she spoke again, her voice had regained its usual composure. "You seem...different today." The observation was delivered evenly, without any overt hint of judgment one way or the other. "different from before."
It was such an oddly casual remark that Brian couldn't help but huff out a surprised chuckle. Shaking his head bemusedly, he replied with an easy grin, "Yeah, well...its a good day, I guess."
Arching one sculpted brow delicately, she asked, "In this heat what could possibly make it a good day?" Her tone carried a droll undercurrent, daring him to elaborate on his flip response.
"hanging out with a friend," Brian shot back quickly, not thinking as his mind lingered on Lena. Amelie felt her façade crack for a moment "I barely know you." she commented making Brian wave his hands. "no, no I got to hang out with someone this morning. But this is cool too honestly I'm just glad to spend more time with you." Be blurted out
Amelie simply stared at him for a long beat, her expression utterly impassive and unreadable. Just when Brian was beginning to wonder if he'd miscalculated and said something wrong, the corners of Amelie's twitched almost imperceptibly. It was the barest ghost of a something unreadable – there and gone again in a blink. But it was enough.
"Very well," she acquiesced at length. "If you're certain you can make the cookies..." Her tone remained crisply professional, not a single inflection betraying any hint of emotion at the boys words. "I believe it would be best for you to collect the remaining ingredients you need while I attempt to find a recipe."
Brian smiled brightly and Amelie felt at ease "I just have to grab a few things it shouldn't take long I'll just grab it and we can meet at the front, okay?" Brian suggested making the woman nod.
Brian's fingers curled around the final ingredients, red bean paste and castor sugar, as his eyes scanned the lengthy recipe one last time. With measured steps, he made his way back to the register, offering the cashier a friendly smile. One by one, the items were rung up and tucked into white and blue plastic bags. Turning towards the automatic doors, Brian's gaze landed on Amelie.
A flicker of irritation creased her brow as a young man spoke to her. With a dismissive wave, she shooed him away, her attention shifting back to the street as he departed. Brian crossed the threshold, calling out her name. Amelie pivoted, her eyes immediately fixating on the odd assortment of groceries cradled in the bags.
"Red bean paste?" Her tone carried a hint of curiosity, one eyebrow arched inquisitively.
Brian's shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug, a sheepish grin spreading across his features. "Yeah, I'm making some treats for someone. They really like it, so I figured..." He trailed off, letting the explanation hang in the air.
"How thoughtful," Amelie murmured, her voice soft and contemplative.
She held up her phone, the screen illuminated, casting a faint glow on her face. "I found a recipe for the cookies." A beat passed as she studied his expression. "Would we be able to make them today?"
Brian's eyes widened fractionally, blinking a few times as he processed her request. "Oh..." He hesitated, considering his schedule. "We could, but I have to be somewhere in a few hours." His brow furrowed as a thought occurred to him. "Can I see the recipe?"
For a moment, Amelie remained still, her body tensing ever so slightly. Then, a flicker of suspicion crossed her features before she leaned in closer, angling the phone towards him. Brian scrutinized the instructions, his gaze intense as he scanned the screen.
"It should only take about two hours," he said finally, the words emerging slowly as if he were mentally calculating the preparation time. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "That's plenty of time." His free hand fumbled in the pocket of his jacket, producing a set of keys. "We can go back to my house if you want, but if you'd rather use your place, that's okay as well."
Amelie's response was curt, her voice carrying a subtle hint of surprise. "I live close by."
As if on cue, a hovercycle glided into view, parking itself nearby with a soft hum. Amelie's gaze followed the self-driving vehicle, her expression one of mild curiosity. "Are these popular nowadays?"
Brian turned his attention towards the hovercycle, a flicker of amusement dancing across his features. "Not really," he admitted with a slight shake of his head. "But I rode one for a few years and got used to it, so I kept it." Stepping closer, he stowed the groceries in the small compartment beneath the seat, taking care to secure them properly.
Turning back to Amelie, he gestured towards the space behind him, his movements somewhat awkward. "You can carry yours, but the compartment will keep stuff cold, so..." His voice trailed off, leaving the suggestion open-ended.
Amelie complied, placing her items in the steel box with deliberate motions. Brian lowered the seat, and a faint flush colored his cheeks as he settled onto it. "Hope you don't mind, but walking in this heat has to be a nightmare."
Amelie followed suit, situating herself behind him, her arms encircling his torso in a loose, almost tentative embrace. Brian's face grew warmer, but he quickly refocused, clearing his throat softly.
"Can you send me the address?" he asked, turning his head slightly to glance at her over his shoulder.
Amelie paused, her thumb hovering over her phone's screen as she stared at the device. A flicker of distrust passed over her features, her brow furrowing ever so slightly. Then, her gaze met Brian's, and she seemed to soften at the familiar, bright, and energetic expression on his face something she saw in someone else before. Lifting her phone, she gently bumped it against his, transferring the address to his map app.
Brian studied the location for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the information displayed on his screen. After a prolonged silence, he spoke again, his tone light and casual. "Ready?"
"Yes," Amelie replied, her voice steady and unhesitating.
With a low rev of the engine, Brian eased the hovercycle out into traffic, merging onto the bustling streets with practiced ease. The vehicle glided smoothly, the wind whipping around them in gentle gusts as they navigated through the city.
"Are you not used to the weather?" Amelie's question broke the comfortable silence that had settled between them, her voice cutting through the ambient sounds of the city.
Brian considered her words for a moment, his brow furrowing ever so slightly as he formulated his response. "I've lived here for a while," he began, pausing briefly before continuing. "But the weather close to the summers..." He shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I'm still not used to it."
Amelie's gaze remained fixed ahead, but her peripheral vision caught sight of faded lines on the back of Brian's neck, just below the nape. She squinted, trying to make out the details as the fabric of his shirt shifted subtly in the breeze.
"So you moved here?" she prompted, her curiosity piqued by his admission.
Brian nodded, his eyes focused intently on the road ahead as he maneuvered through the traffic. "Yup, I used to live in New York, actually." Another pause, as if he were carefully considering his words. "My grandparents used to live in San Francisco, so my family would sometimes take trips over here. After my grandparents passed, my father inherited their apartment, so it just made sense to live here since it would be cheaper than buying something completely new."
A contemplative silence fell between them once more, punctuated only by the steady hum of the hovercycle's engine and the muted sounds of the city around them. Amelie's hands, still loosely wrapped around Brian's torso, tensed imperceptibly as she felt his breathing quicken ever so slightly.
"Did you like New York?" she asked, her tone carefully neutral, betraying none of the worry that had begun to gnaw at her.
Brian didn't respond immediately, and Amelie felt the knot of apprehension in the pit of her stomach tighten. Finally, he spoke, his voice subdued and tinged with a hint of melancholy. "I did when I was younger. But things change, and I really needed somewhere new, you know?"
Amelie's gaze flickered to Brian's hands, gripping the handlebars with a white-knuckled intensity. "Is that where you got the scars?" she asked, her voice low and measured, devoid of judgment.
Brian's grip tightened further, his knuckles growing pale as his breathing grew shallow for a fleeting moment before evening out once more. "Yeah, it's kind of--" He broke off, the words hanging in the air, unfinished.
"You don't need to explain it if you do not wish to," Amelie interjected, her chin dipping forward to rest on the nape of his neck as she leaned closer. She felt the goosebumps rise on his skin at the new sensation but remained silent, waiting for him to continue at his own pace.
"It's not that," Brian said after a beat, his voice strained. "It's just--I haven't really told anyone about that sort of thing."
Amelie's head tilted slightly, her eyes studying the tense lines of his profile with a mixture of curiosity and concern. "You don't have to if you do not wish to," she reiterated, her tone gentle but firm, leaving no room for doubt.
Brian shook his head, his shoulders sagging slightly as if a weight had been lifted from them. "I just don't want anyone to think less of me," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
A ghost of a smile curved Amelie's lips as she recalled their conversation from the dance, those familiar words echoing in her mind. "Do you think you're the only one who's been forced to do things they regret?"
Brian relaxed a fraction at her familiar phrasing, a wry chuckle escaping his lips. "I did tell you some things then, huh?" There was a comedic lilt to his tone, but Amelie detected an underlying edge, as if he were masking the true depth of his thoughts and emotions. He sighed, the tension leaving his shoulders as he spoke once more "An Overwatch Agent gave it to me."
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A Few Years Ago
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The incessant droning of hoverjets caused Brian's teeth to vibrate with each bone-rattling pulse. The convoy grew nearer by the second, its thunderous approach raising the hairs on the back of his neck. His gloved hands gripped the taut metal netting firmly, muscles tensed.
Blue eyes darted to the ragtag assortment of men and women gathered behind him on the rooftop's edge. Hunger and paranoia were etched into the deep lines of their worry winkled faces, clothes hanging in various states of disrepair. Despite their obvious exhaustion, each set of eyes remained sharp and wide - locked on the horizon from which the hovering crafts steadily grew nearer.
On the opposite rooftop, his father knelt in a slightly crouched firing stance, the jury-rigged rifle nestled into the pocket of his shoulder. A grizzled older man crouched just behind him, carefully feeding a glowing power cylinder into the ramshackle weapon's loading breach. Brian watched and waited with bated breath for the signal to initiate the ambush.
The radio - a bulky, antiquated brick of a device - crackled to life with a burst of static. A sandpaper-rough voice grated through the speaker's tiny output.
"NOW!"
It was as if the single barked word flipped a switch. In one coordinated motion, every member of Brian's team pulled back, straining against the webbed netting clutched in their gloved grips. Muscles burned and tendons creaked as the steel mesh went suddenly taut, rising to capture their approaching target.
The hoverjets attached to the bulky purple convoy strained against the resistance, their combined thrust no match for the anchored net. Brian felt his boots skid perilously close to the rooftop's edge as the netting pulled them forward, fighting physics with every ounce of strength they could muster.
Then, with an ominous click from his father's rigged rifle, everything changed in the span of a heartbeat.
A blinding flare of brilliant blue-white energy lanced outward, the supercharged projectile leaving a blazing trail of ionized air in its wake as it closed the distance with the hover convoy at blistering speed. There was a brief, almost beautiful flickering corona of electrical discharge as the round found its mark...and detonated against the craft's armored hull in a deafening thunderclap of force.
The confused hoverjets cut out in an instant, plunging the entire convoy into a powerless free-fall as every system abruptly died. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the multi-ton hunk of dead metal plummeted towards the cracked city streets below in an unstoppable arc.
Then, with a resounding crash and deafening shriek of rending metal, the convoy slammed into the unforgiving tarmac. Sparks and plumes of acrid smoke erupted in all directions as its sleek shape was torn asunder, cleaving enormous furrows in the road surface. The collision ripped open entire sections of the hull, exposing the ship's innards like a eviscerated carcass as it careened onward - rebounding and tumbling end-over-end in a delirious spiral.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity happening in a single motion, the mortally wounded craft ricocheted off an old subway entrance at an angle, causing its shredded mass to keel over onto one side in a bone-rattling roar of groaning, warping metal. Grinding to a halt at last, the convoy lay crumpled and hopelessly crippled amid a field of debris scattered for nearly a city block.
Brian sagged in relief as the tension finally released from the netting, taking a knee and gulping down greedy breaths of air. His chest heaved from the exertion, but he barely registered the strain over the pounding of adrenaline singing through his veins.
One of the older men in their group snatched up the radio, voice already barking out the next phase of their operation. "The ship is down! Send in everyone else!"
At this, Brian's father finally shifted his intense focus away from their downed quarry. Shooting his son a meaningful glance, he tilted his head sharply towards the imploded wreckage before turning to make his way towards the fire escape - the hunter's rifle never straying too far from its ready position braced against his shoulder.
Brian understood the unspoken order immediately. With a curt nod of acknowledgment, he turned and broke into a flat sprint for the building's interior stairwell. His boots pounded down the crumbling steps, the heavy treads sending up puffs of dust and pulverized debris into the stale air with each footfall. He didn't allow his gaze to linger long on the scorched outlines burned into the concrete the silhouettes of past casualties left seared into the very walls by plasma weapons' fire long since spent. This building marked with death, like so many others across the ravaged cityscape.
Before the upheaval, this towering skyscraper had been an investment firm, its polished lobbies and pristine office floors a monument to excess and achievement Now, the structure's impressive height made it an ideal vantage point for the kind of high-stakes ambush their group had just executed. - a fact which had earned such operations the moniker of "fishing" among the other scavengers.
Hurtling down the final flight, he burst through the battered metal door and out onto the rubble-strewn street level. Shards of broken glass crunched underfoot as Brian sprinted across the cracked asphalt, vaulting over the rusted husks of long-abandoned vehicles with a nimble burst of speed borne from years of practice.
Once he reached the crater where their massive, beached "catch" lay in an tangle of fractured metal and burning smoke, Brian wasted no time. Sucking in a deep breath, he brought his fingers to his lips and loosed an ear-splitting whistle - the piercing trill cutting through the stillness like a knife.
It was the signal for the other teams to mobilize and begin the next critical phase.
From every darkened crevice and shadowed alcove within a block's radius, smaller clusters of figures materialized like roaches scattering from a flipped rock. Groups of five or six, heads swiveling to focus on the wreckage.
Each team hurriedly converged on the crash site from their hidden staging areas, pulling or shouldering heavy-laden carts and makeshift sleds bristling with all manner of salvaging equipment - everything from basic crowbars and bolt cutters to high-powered plasma torches burning with sickly green-white glow.
In seemingly organized chaos, the people swarmed over the downed hover convoy, scurrying like ants onto a fresh carcass. The torches' superheated beams lanced out, slicing carefully through reinforced bulkheads and blast doors to carve open new entrance points with precision.
A familiar hand fell upon Brian's shoulder, causing him to spin defensively - only to find his father looming behind him. The grizzled man's expression was set in grim determination, the rifle's stock still resting against his shoulder in a state of semi-readiness despite the apparent lack of any hostiles in their vicinity.
"Watch the skies," was his father's only terse instruction, the words laced with an undercurrent of wariness.
Brian opened his mouth to respond. But before he could give voice to his thoughts, a squeaky shout rang out across the din of scavenging activity.
"Brian!"
His head whipped around at the familiar sound of his younger brother's voice. Sure enough, Tim was hurrying over as quickly as his spindly legs could propel him while helping to shoulder one end of a small, wheeled supply cart. Brian's mother trailed close behind, features pinched with the same haggard stress that creased the brow of his father.
"You okay?" Tim panted out the question, his wide eyes searching his older brother's face for any signs of injury or distress.
In response, Brian could only muster the barest hint of a reassuring smile as he bobbed his head in a shallow nod. Truthfully, he could still feel the lingering adrenaline running through his veins in the aftershocks of their ambush, heart pounding in rhythm against his ribcage.
But there was no time for such acknowledgments. Already, the sounds of slicing torches and grunts of exertion echoed out as the first team breached the downed hull, prying apart an improvised entrance just wide enough for two people to slip through in a low crouch.
No sooner had the makeshift portal yawned open than Brian's mother straightened, eyes snapping to the opening with the same predatory intensity her husband had exhibited mere minutes before. Planting her hands on Tim's shoulders, she guided the boy to stand slightly behind her.
The harsh crackle of the radio shattering the relative quiet caused Brian to flinch instinctively. Raising the bulky device to his face, he keyed the transmission with a rough press of his thumb. "Brooklyn, do you copy?"
A terse pause lingered on the other end before the scratchy response filtered through the static-laced speaker. "This is Ellis. Scouts are saying there's some dropships heading north towards your position."
Brian felt his gut clench with a surge of apprehension as he processed those words. "They aren't supposed to be this far north," he bit out, unable to keep the edge of trepidation from his tone.
"That's what they're saying," Ellis confirmed grimly. "Did you tell Royal?"
Shaking his head despite knowing the gestured couldn't be seen, Brian pocketed the radio and whirled to seek out his mother's questioning gaze amid the controlled chaos unfolding around them. "I'll tell my dad," he informed her curtly, already pivoting to make his way towards the carcass of the downed convoy.
His father's form was silhouetted against a billow of oily smoke coiling up from the shredded hull as Brian approached. Without preamble, the young man reached out and planted his hand firmly on the older man's shoulder, using the grounding contact to forcibly hold his father's attention.
Leaning in close so as not to be overheard, Brian murmured the update in clipped phrases. "Dropships north. The scouts didn't say how far away, but they're coming in this direction."
For several taut seconds, Royal didn't react save for the muscle jumping in his weathered jaw as he clenched his teeth. His grip on the battered rifle shifted minutely, tendons tensing...before he seemed to reach some internal decision and relaxed his posture. Inclining his head in a solemn nod, he turned and loosed a shrill whistle that cut through the noise like a knife.
The nearest cluster of scavengers - those currently using torches to slice apart the convoy's outer hull - paused in their efforts at the summons. As one, they looked to their leader with a mixture of resignation and thinly veiled fear writ across filth-streaked features.
Royal didn't mince words. Lifting one hand, he made a spinning motion with his finger. As soon as the silent command registered, the scavengers reacted in near-unison. Torches were extinguished, teams hopping down from the hull to begin frantically loading the carts of any and all salvageable components already gathered.
Brian watched in silence as the evacuation procedures commenced. An older scavenger - one of the few Brian didn't recognize by name or face - jogged over to where the two of them stood in the epicenter.
"Royal, Deadlock's coming back," the man grunted out in a smoke-roughened rasp, shaking his head. "We can't afford not to take this loot."
For a fraction of a second, Brian's father looked as if he might argue - might insist that abandoning their prize and fleeing to safety took precedence over any potential material gains. But in the end, cold pragmatism and bitter experience won out over gut instinct.
Royal turned his stony gaze towards the ongoing evacuation. "Leave two jacks here!" He bellowed, voice carrying over the noise with a life-honed rasp of command. "We only need a few crates worth! Get everyone underground and meet us at Liberty!"
The grizzled old-timer didn't wait for a response, already barking out secondary orders to those still within earshot. Teams broke off and began peeling away, scattering like startled insects while dragging their laden carts behind them towards the nearest subterranean access points. Within what felt like a handful of frantic heartbeats, the street had been all but abandoned - home now only to the drifting plumes of smoke and the husk of the lifeless convoy.
Moving with a calm efficiency that belied the urgency of their situation, Royal crossed the short distance to where Brian still stood rooted to the spot. "Go with your mom and brother," the order was gruff but tinged with a flicker of something akin to regretful resignation. "See if you can round up someone else to help me with these."
Brian opened his mouth to protest. The words had already formed on his tongue, but Royal took a moment and held up a staying hand before he could give them voice.
"You need to go with them escort them back " his father amended; mouth set in a tight line that brokered no argument. "I'm trusting you with this."
Finally, Brian gave a slow, response. "Peter knows the way back to Liberty better than I do and he's better with guns." He spoke in a low tone.
Royal's expression didn't outwardly shift, but Brian caught the flicker of acknowledgment in the depths of his father's eyes all the same. Another moment passed in silence as the older man seemed to grapple with some internal debate before expelling a weary sigh.
"Fine" he relented at last with a curt dip of his chin. Turning away, Royal lifted two fingers to his lips and issued another shrill whistle - this one noticeably sharper and more piercing than the last.
The summons had an almost instantly galvanizing effect. From one corner of the wreckage, a lone figure emerged - one of the scavengers from the camp. The boy couldn't have been much older than he was.
"Petey!" Royal barked out, the sharpness of his tone making the boy flinch before snapping to attention with a visible startle. "Y-yes sir?"
"Go with Tim and Ruby," the older man commanded without preamble, jabbing one calloused finger towards the mouth of the subway entrance where two indistinct figures loitered in the shadow of the access shaft. "Take 'em to Liberty and don't make any stops along the way."
As if to punctuate the gravity of the assigned role, Royal reached into the tattered satchel slung across his chest with his free hand. When it emerged, his gnarled fingers clutched the rubberized grip of a well-worn but functional plasma pistol.
In one smooth, economical motion, the weapon arced through the air to land with a solid thunk against Petey's chest - the boy's hands flying up to cradle it reflexively before it could clatter to the ground between them. Brian watched the interaction with practiced detachment, keeping any outward reaction from registering across his features.
With the same rigidly-controlled calm, Royal met the frightened teens stare head-on. "Pull the slide back and fire it only when they get close," he growled out each word with deliberate measure, allowing no room for ambiguity or misinterpretation. "I'm trusting you."
Petey swallowed once, hard, but gave a jerky nod of understanding all the same. Clutching the plasma pistol against his ratty clothes like a lifeline, he turned robotically and began trotting towards the waiting figures lurking in the tunnel's shadow - not sparing a backward glance.
Only once the boy had vanished from sight did Royal finally shift his focus fully back to his eldest son. His expression remained an inscrutable mask, but Brian thought he detected a fleeting glimmer of something he couldn't quite put a name to flickering in those steely eyes.
Whatever it was, it was gone in an instant - shuttered away behind a expression of control and grim determination. "Go grab two pallet jacks," Royal spoke, the words more of a dismissal than an instruction as he turned and ducked into the sheared-open hull of the downed convoy without a backwards glance.
The rusty wheels of the abandoned pallet jacks screeched in protest as Brian hauled the two carts closer to the ravaged shell of the downed convoy. A brief scuffle and clatter of shifting debris echoed from within the sheared-open hole serving as their makeshift entrance.
"Dad?" Brian called out, lifting his voice to ensure it would carry over the noise. "Just grabbing the last of the stuff!"
Several tense beats of silence answered him at first. Then, without warning, a volley of scavenged items came raining out through the jagged opening in a discordant clatter of metal and plastic hitting the unforgiving ground.
A plasma pistol, its barrel smoking but otherwise functional.
A faded smoking blue trenchcoat bearing the insignia of a white globe.
Then, a small golden cylindrical object - one Brian immediately recognized with a surge of adrenaline. As it struck the pavement and rolled, it began emanating a soft golden glow, as if a light source burned within.
Without a second's hesitation, Brian snatched up the potential treasure and carefully placed it atop the nearest pallet, the canister denting slightly on impact but blessedly not rupturing
Just as he was turning back towards the hull's torn flank, Royal himself came into view, squeezing through the hole with ease. What made Brian's breath catch in his throat, however, was the vivid spatter of crimson marring the right side of his father's face.
"I have bandages-."
"It's not mine," Royal cut him off, not even breaking stride as he hefted himself down from the wreckage and stalked over to grasp one of the pallet jack's worn handles. Seemingly completely calm, the older man simply jerked his head in a silent command to follow before setting off back in the direction of the subway tunnels they'd arrived from earlier.
Without a word, Brian tightened his grip on the second pallet jack's handles and tugged, putting his back into forcing the heavily laden cart into lurching motion after his father.
Each impact of boot against cracked asphalt echoed through the wrecked city like individual salvos of muted gunfire in the uneasy quiet.
It wasn't until they reached the mouth of the access shaft and began slowly working their way down the graffiti-tagged wheelchair ramp that the quiet was broken.
The first thing Brian registered was a dull ringing sensation in his ears, He was only vaguely aware of the ringing's growing louder until Royal's voice suddenly cut through in a growl of alarm.
"Down!"
It was the only warning Brian received before his father's broad chest slammed into him with staggering force, bodily hurling them both behind the dubious cover of the pallet jack. Not a split-second later, a teeth-rattling explosion rocked the subway access tunnel in their periphery, a dense oily cloud of acrid smoke billowing through the breach like a thunderhead.
Hacking against the sudden assault on his senses, Brian scrambled to push himself upright while simultaneously willing his pulse to decelerate from its panicked gallop. Beside him, Royal was already in motion - untangling his limbs and clawing for something tucked into the back of his waistband with a grim purpose.
When the older man's hand re-emerged, it was wrapped around the comfortingly solid weight of a military sidearm - a battered but highly serviceable plasma pistol.
"Take the jacks onto the track and get moving," Royal snapped the order. He didn't spare a single glance in Brian's direction as he brought up the pistol in a well-practiced firing stance towards the smoke-choked access ramp, finger already pulling the slide to chamber a new magazine.
For Brian, it was as if his body had already leapt into motion before his mind could even process the command. With exertion, he rocked the pallet jack backwards until its swivel wheels found purchase on the raised metal lip of the railbed's edge. The strain of the overloaded cart's momentum made the ancient ball bearings protest in a shriek as he muscled it up and over, finally letting out a grunt as it clattered down onto the metal rails with a clang.
No sooner had he cleared the obstruction, Brian spun and lunged for the second pallet jack still laden with their scavenged bounty. It proved even more unwieldy and cumbersome thanks to its unbalanced cargo, requiring the young man to brace his shoulder against the weight to force it up and over the railbed's edge in an explosion of effort.
By the time the second jack had crashed down onto the rails beside the first, a fresh series of detonations echoed from the surface, this time noticeably closer than the initial concussive blast. A wave of scorched air washed over them from the breach, carrying with it the stinging stench of plasma scoring through concrete and rebar.
"Move!"
The bark came from somewhere directly behind him. Brian didn't even have time to turn before Royal's broad hand snared a fistful of his jacket and shoved him forward into motion. The pallet jack's bulk immediately began careening ahead of him as the young man's boots found traction on the rails.
With grit teeth and heaving lungs, Brian adjusted his stance into a controlled stride, the soles of his boots ensuring stablility as he leaned forward and wrapped both arms around the jack's long pull-arm. All around him, Royal's footfalls clanged in an erratic rythmn, the older man keeping pace with his son through sheer dogged momentum.
Something whistled through the space between them, impossibly close. Brian flinched before he could help himself, hunching his shoulders instinctively against the unseen threat. A moment later, an impact erupted against the subway's curved ceiling in his peripheral vision with a thunderous boom, showering them both in a hailstorm of metal shrapnel and pulverized rubble.
A ragged breath escaped Brian's abused lungs as he careened onward, face already growing damp with a cold sweat of exertion and rising terror. He didn't dare shift his focus for even an instant away from simply pouring every fiber of his being into putting one foot in front of the other with the pallet jack held ahead of him like a deranged battering ram.
From somewhere behind his straining shoulders, he became aware of an odd, sound like a metal filing cabinet being shredded by a chainsaw cut through the noise, swiftly growing louder with each staggering stride.
Brian did the only thing he could think to do in the face of that onrushing monstrosity - the one thing that, in hindsight, was more a primal desperation than a conscious choice:
He looked back.
++++++++++++++++++
The Modern Day
++++++++++++++++++
The drive descended into silence after Brian finished his story. Amelie remained motionless, her eyes fixated on the road ahead. A myriad of emotions flickered across her features as she processed the weight of his words. She opened her mouth, words seeming to dance on the tip of her tongue, but they never materialized, remaining unspoken.
As Amelie's home came into view, Brian arched an eyebrow, his expression one of mild surprise. The picturesque, cookie-cutter suburban home seemed plucked straight from the set of a sitcom, a stark contrast to the woman seated before him. He guided the hovercycle alongside the curb, deactivating the hoverjets with a soft hum. The motorcycle bounced gently as it made contact with the asphalt of the street.
"I--" Amelie began, her voice barely above a whisper, but Brian swiftly interjected.
"You don't have to say anything. It wasn't your fault." His words were firm yet gentle, carrying an undercurrent of understanding.
Brian dismounted first, allowing Amelie to rise from her seat. He opened the compartment beneath the seat, retrieving the groceries with careful motions before securing the bike once more. A subtle shimmering shield enveloped the vehicle, a reassuring barrier against potential threats.
Handing Amelie her belongings, Brian's demeanor shifted, a warm smile spreading across his features. "Now, we still have some time. Let's make some cookies!" His tone was light, almost playful, a stark contrast to the heaviness that had lingered only moments before.
Amelie's frown remained etched upon her face, her expression unreadable. Without a word, she turned and stepped forward, her movements fluid and purposeful as she approached the door, unlocking it with ease.
Brian followed a few paces behind Amelie, his footsteps muffled as the soles of his shoes met the plush fibers of the seemingly brand-new welcome mat. He watched, almost mesmerized, as she lifted the wide-brimmed white sunhat from her head, her movements unhurried and graceful. she placed the hat upon a nearby rack, a thin sheen of perspiration glistening on her brow.
It was then that Brian noticed the subtle shift in her complexion. A bluish tinge had begun to creep across her skin, . Amelie's eyes, sharp and perceptive, tracked his gaze, instantly recognizing the source of his curiosity.
"I apologize," she spoke, her voice low and measured. "The heat outside must be affecting my makeup." Raising a delicate hand, she traced the contours of her forehead, her fingertips coming away tinged with the same blue hue. The motion seemed to worsen the discoloration, causing it to become more pronounced upon her features.
"No, no, don't worry," Brian hastened to reassure her, his hands rising in a placating gesture. He held her gaze, his expression open and sincere. "it's nice."
Amelie studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. When she finally spoke, her words carried a hint of resignation, as if she had grown accustomed to a certain response. "It draws a lot of negative attention," she murmured, her eyes briefly averting from his. "Not everyone is so forgiving."
Reaching for a nearby towel, she began to dab at her face, attempting to remove the traces of makeup that had smeared across her skin. "I will go remove this," she declared, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Please, sit."
Brian nodded, his movements suddenly stiff and awkward as he lowered himself onto the plush couch. The cushions seemed to envelop him, their new condition and firm support suggesting they were recently bought. He shifted uncomfortably, his hands resting in his lap as his eyes darted around the room, taking in the surroundings.
It was immediately noticable that the house had been designed to fit a larger family, with large space and furnishings that seemed better suited to a full household. Yet, the clean condition of the decor and the lack of personal touches hinted that Amelie was either never around or had only recently moved in.
Amidst the cliché drab setting, a single item caught Brian's eye – a traditional painting hung upon the wall, its ornate golden frame and picture standing in stark contrast to the modern furnishings. The canvas depicted an young woman, adorned in a wine-purple dress that hung elegantly on her form. A crown of delicate flowers adorned her head, creating an air of ethereal beauty. She sat amidst a lush garden, her expression one of serene contentment, her amber-colored, golden eyes gazing off into the distance, away from the painter's canvas.
Brian found himself drawn to the portrait, rising from the couch and crossing the room in a few measured strides. He came to a halt mere feet away from the painting, his eyes tracing the intricate brushstrokes and lifelike details. The woman's pale skin was dusted with a smattering of freckles, their familiar face tugging at the edges of his mind, stirring a sense of recognition he couldn't quite place.
"Do you know who that is?" Amelie's voice cut through the silence, causing Brian to start slightly.
He turned towards her, his brow furrowing as he shook his head.
"It's a portrait taken of me when I was twenty-three," Amelie explained, her tone carrying a hint of wistfulness as she moved to stand beside him. "After I had completed my first major show in Paris."
Her gaze became distant, as if lost in the memories that the painting evoked. For several seconds, a heavy silence hung between them, punctuated only by the sound of their breathing.
"You mentioned that you have been acting and dancing for a long time," Brian ventured after a moment, his voice gentle, careful not to disrupt the fragile quiet that had settled around them. "Do you plan to have another show here?"
Amelie seemed to ponder his question, her lips pursing ever so slightly as she considered her response.
"It takes weeks to properly rehearse new dances and prepare sets," she said at last, her words emerging slowly, as if she were carefully measuring each syllable.
Brian's attention returned to the painting, his eyes tracing the delicate features of the woman depicted upon the canvas. "Are you going to hold more shows of Coppelia?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, lest he disturb the tranquil atmosphere that had enveloped them.
"There will likely be three more shows," Amelie confirmed, her tone subdued, almost reverent.
A faint smile tugged at the corners of Brian's mouth, a glimmer of genuine joy sparking in his eyes. "I really liked the show," he admitted, his words carrying a warmth and sincerity that seemed to fill the space between them. "If you have the dates set, I'd like to see it again."
Amelie seemed to mull over his request, her brow furrowing ever so slightly as she weighed the implications of his words. An eternity seemed to pass before she turned and began making her way towards the kitchen.
"I will arrange for you to have tickets sent to you," she called over her shoulder, her voice quiet yet carrying a finality that brooked no argument.
Brian raised his hands, as if to protest, but the words died on his lips as Amelie pivoted on her heel, fixing him with an icy glare that effectively silenced any further dissent. " Taisez-vous! We have cookies to bake," she stated, her tone leaving no room for debate or discussion.
++++++++++++++
1 year ago
++++++++++++++
The gentle rays of the early morning sun filter through the glass balcony door, bathing Amélie's kitchen in a warm, golden glow. Her brow furrows as she stares at the familiar red packaging, the scent of chemically altered sickeningly sweet jam wafting out and assaulting her senses. A distasteful grimace tugs at her lips as she imagines the artificial flavor pervading every bite.
Amélie's nightgown is still wrapped snugly around her as she leans back in her chair, slowly turning the pages of an old book she had purchased online. The rhythmic pitter-patter of approaching footsteps grows incrementally louder, pulling her gaze up from the worn pages. Lena appears in the kitchen doorway, her wild brown hair tousled, framing a tired yet warm smile that causes Amélie's heart to skip a confusing beat as their eyes meet.
"Morning," Lena greets, her voice still husky with sleep as she trudges over to the kitchen counter. She reaches for the red plastic cookie box, sighing contentedly as the sugary aroma envelops her. Plucking out a jam-filled treat, she takes a bite, savoring the sweet taste.
Amélie watches with a look of thinly-veiled disdain. "I have no idea how you enjoy those things," she remarks, her thick French accent dripping with disapproval.
Lena's grin widens as she holds out the half-eaten cookie. "They're good, you old lady. You should try one."
Amélie's eyes narrow at the proffered sweet, her nose wrinkling in contempt. "You should try some real sweets," she counters, deliberately turning back to her book and taking a sip of her coffee.
With a soft chuckle, Lena pours herself a cup of the steaming brew. Cradling the warm mug, she strides off toward her room, leaving Amélie alone with the lingering aroma of artificial jam and the quiet patter of her retreating footsteps.
Amélie's steely demeanor subtly falters for a moment as Lena announces. "I have to take care of some stuff back on the mainland, so I'll be gone for a few days. You'll be alright?"
Amélie's stony expression return when Lena pokes her head out from the bedroom, a frustrated lilt in the frenchwomans voice makes Lena frown. "I'll be fine. It'll be nice to have some quiet."
Amélie dismisses her with a slight shake of her head, but a strange clicking noise from the hallway snaps her attention that way. The whirring of a camera echoes, causing her to frown. "What is that for?"
Lena waves the freshly printed photo through the air. "Marks the occasion."
"There is nothing happening," Amélie states flatly.
"It's a momento," Lena corrects herself, retreating into the bedroom with the photo clutched in her hand.
Curiosity piqued, Amélie rises from her seat and places herself in the doorway, observing the inside of Lena's room. The clothes she had arrived in a month ago lay haphazardly in the backpack. "What do you plan on doing with that photo?"
Lena's teasing grin returns. "Not keen on having photos of you in your skimpy clothes out and about?"
Amélie scowls deeply at the insinuation. Catching the look, Lena sighs and rises to her feet, meeting Amélie's gaze. "It's normal for your girlfriend to have a photo or two of you." She reaches up, placing a gentle hand on Amélie's cheek.
The tender gesture causes Amélie to recoil sharply, a flicker of unease in her eyes. "You're not my girlfriend," she bites out, the final word dripping with disdain. Turning on her heel, she leaves Lena alone in the room, tension lingering in the air.
Brian pulled the oven mitts from his hands, placing them gently upon the counter. His gaze was drawn to the tray before him, adorned with freshly baked cookies – small, circular discs filled with a vibrant strawberry jam. "They just need to sit for a bit now, I think," he murmured, his voice carrying a hint of satisfaction.
The sound of his voice seemed to rouse Amelie from her reverie, and she blinked slowly, her eyes refocusing on Brian's face. He offered her a warm smile, using the sleeve of his shirt to dab at the beads of perspiration that had formed on his brow. "I don't know if they taste alright, but they look good!" he exclaimed, his enthusiasm infectious as he studied the tray of cookies.
His smile was blinding, and for a moment, Amelie found herself momentarily dazzled by his unabashed joy. She watched as he checked the time on his phone, his expression shifting abruptly. "Oh, crap, I'm going to be late!" he exclaimed, rising hastily from his chair. "I have to head home and get ready for dinner!"
With brisk movements, Brian gathered his groceries from the counter, cradling them against his chest. Amelie glanced at her own phone, her expression pensive. "Hm. I suppose you should," she replied, her tone measured. "It is late."
Brian nodded, his steps carrying him towards the door. His hand wrapped around the handle, but he paused, turning back to face Amelie. "Sorry for heading out, but it was fun to hang out, Am–"
His words were cut short as a blue-tinted hand pushed the door closed once more, the force causing it to slam shut with a dull thud. Brian felt a sudden pressure against his back, Amelie's hand pinning him firmly against the unyielding surface. Through the glass, he caught a glimpse of her golden eyes, reflected in the pane, their intensity causing his face to flush crimson, a heat spreading across his cheeks that made him wonder if he was running a fever.
"Brian," she spoke, her voice low and quiet, effectively silencing him.
A heavy silence hung between them, charged with a tension that seemed to crackle in the air. Finally, Amelie broke the stillness. "Thank you," she said, the words emerging strained.
Brian swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. "I just wanted to help my friend," he responded, his voice barely above a whisper.
The golden eyes disappeared from the glass, and Brian felt the featherlight touch of delicate fingers tracing the contours of the scars on the nape of his neck. Amelie's fingernails followed the path of one of the marks, her touch so light, so careful, that he wondered if he had imagined the sensation.
"I have no right to judge anyone for the things they've done," she murmured, her breath warm against his skin. "Don't think I'll ever judge you or think of you as lesser."
In a single, quick motion, Brian whipped around, his face mere inches from Amelie's as he stared into the depths of her eyes. "You have every right to," he countered, his voice low and intense. "You didn't do all those things willingly. I know that."
Amelie remained silent, her eyes widening ever so slightly, her expression unreadable.
"You're a good person who's been made to do a few bad things," Brian continued, his words tumbling forth in a rush. "Even if you try to hide it, I saw how passionate you were, and I could see how content and at peace you were in the past, before all this."
He reached out, his fingers curling around Amelie's hand, the cool metal of her prosthetic contrasting with the warmth of his skin. Gently, he raised her hand, holding it before him as if it were a priceless treasure. "Don't let yourself suffer, trying to atone for something that wasn't your fault," he implored, his voice thick with emotion. "It's not fair to you."
A sudden sensation against his pocket caused Brian's phone to chime, and Amelie withdrew her hand, pulling her own phone back. Brian stared at the screen, his brow furrowing as he registered the new contact information – Amelie Lacroix – that had been shared to his device.
"I…..trust you," Amelie spoke, her voice barely above a whisper, her words carrying a weight that seemed to resonate in the air around them.
Turning away from Brian, she waved him towards the door, her movements unhurried and graceful. "You said you had dinner to prepare for," she reminded him, her tone gentle yet tinged with a hint of finality. "So do I."
With those parting words, she disappeared into another room, leaving Brian alone in the doorway.
"I trust you too Amelie."
+++++++++++++++++
Lena's Point Of View
+++++++++++++++++
Lena set her keys down with a gentle clink, the metal contacting the small dish stationed beside the door. With practiced motions, she slipped out of her cropped black leather coat, its orange inner lining peeking through as she removed it from her shoulders. She turned towards the nearby rack, her movements halted by a chiding voice echoing from the kitchen.
"Please put that in your room," Angela's voice carried through the open space, tinged with a hint of exasperation. "We are expecting company."
Lena arched an eyebrow, her hand stilling as she gripped the jacket, draping it over her arm instead of hanging it up. "I didn't know anyone was coming to visit," she called back, her tone laced with curiosity. "Is it one of the lab people?"
Angela appeared in the doorway separating the kitchen from the entryway, a black apron tied neatly around her waist. She wore a white turtleneck, its snug fabric clinging to her curves, paired with black denim jeans that cut off just below her midriff. "Ah, no," she replied, offering Lena a bright smile that seemed to illuminate her features. "I invited a friend or two over for dinner. I hope you don't mind?"
A prickle of suspicion began to crawl up Lena's spine, her brow furrowing ever so slightly as she studied Angela's expression. "Who?" she asked, her tone measured, betraying none of the apprehension that had begun to coil within her.
"It's a surprise," Angela responded, her voice light and airy, as if the matter were of little consequence. "Now, our guests should be arriving in a few minutes. Do you mind grabbing the grocery bags from the fridge? I'm not quite sure if they have any allergies, so I'm making chicken pesto."
Lena nodded, her movements slow and deliberate as she made her way towards the refrigerator. Bending at the waist, she peered into the cool interior, retrieving several bags filled with fresh produce and ingredients. A package of defrosted chicken cutlets already sat upon the counter, awaiting preparation.
Straightening, Lena glanced down at her own attire – a t-shirt emblazoned with a red-circled star, paired with her signature orange leggings. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly self-conscious under Angela's scrutinizing gaze.
"Is this like a black tie thing, or can I wear this?" she asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty.
Angela's eyes swept over Lena's form, her expression unreadable for a brief moment. Then, a warm smile stretched across her features, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "You look absolutely adorable," she declared, her tone carrying a note of finality that brooked no argument.
Lena felt her cheeks flush, a rosy hue blooming across her skin. "I–" she began, her words trailing off as she grumbled under her breath. Turning on her heel, she made her way towards her room, her steps carrying a hint of petulance. "I'm going to change," she called back over her shoulder, disappearing from sight.
With a huff of barely contained frustration, Lena flung her jacket towards the chair positioned in front of her desk. The supple leather sailed through the air, landing in a crumpled heap upon the cushioned seat with a dull thud. She pivoted on her heel, her steps carrying a weight, a purpose, as she strode across the room towards the bed.
Her hand reached out, fingers curling around the familiar form of her headphones as she snatched them from the wireless charger. Without preamble, without hesitation, she began to undress, peeling away the layers of clothing that clung to her body. Piece by piece, the garments fell to the rumpled sheets, discarded with a casualness that belied the turmoil simmering beneath the surface.
Turning her attention to the closet, Lena took a moment to survey the hanging garments, her eyes scanning the array of fabrics and colors. Finally, her gaze settled upon a wide-collared black sweater, and she reached for it, plucking it from its hanger. She held it before her, inspecting the orange ring pattern that adorned the elbows, her fingers deftly plucking a stray lint from the fabric.
With a smooth motion, she pulled the sweater over her head, the soft material cascading over her form, draping around her slim figure in gentle folds. She turned her focus to the task of selecting a pair of shorts, her hands rifling through the neatly folded stacks until they settled upon a pair of sun-yellow cotton.
Lena stepped into the shorts, drawing them up over her hips, smoothing the fabric over her thighs with a series of practiced motions. A faint rustle, a whisper of sound, accompanied each adjustment, each tug and pull, as she ensured the garment sat just so.
Satisfied with her ensemble, she pivoted once more, her gaze falling upon the mirror that adorned the wall. She scrutinized her reflection, her brow furrowing ever so slightly as she studied the image before her. With deft motions, she tousled her hair, her fingers raking through the strands, coaxing them into a carefully cultivated disarray – a look that Hana had once affectionately dubbed "floofy."
A soft smile tugged at the corners of Lena's mouth as she reached for her headphones once more, settling them over her ears and cuing up her favorite playlist. The opening notes of a rock riff filled her senses, the pulsing beat thrumming through her veins, and she found herself humming along to the familiar melody.
"She's in love with the world," she sang under her breath, her voice barely audible over the music.
With a purposeful stride, Lena made her way towards the door, her hand wrapping around the cool metal of the handle. She pulled it open, stepped out into the hallway, and let the door fall shut behind her with a soft click. Her feet carried her towards the couch until she planted herself upon the plush cushions with a contented sigh.
She reached for the remote, her fingers curling around the slender device, and adjusted her position until she was stretched out in a relaxed pose, her body sinking into the welcoming embrace of the couch. Her eyes drifted closed, the weight of her fatigue settling over her like a gentle veil, as she allowed the music to wash over her.
The gentle weight of her hands settled over her eyes, shielding them from the soft light that filtered through the room. Lena rubbed at her lids, the tendrils of weariness gnawing at her, beckoning her towards sweet slumber.
A sudden tap on her forearm jolted her, shattering the tranquil relaxation. Her eyes snapped open, the familiar lyrics dying on her lips as she blinked rapidly, her vision slowly adjusting to the dim lighting of the room.
"Yeah, Angie?" she mumbled, her brow furrowing as the silence stretched, punctuated only by the faint strains of music that still thrummed through her headphones.
The rhythmic tapping persisted, and Lena felt a flicker of irritation. She blinked again, her gaze refocusing, and found herself staring into a pair of bright blue eyes that were decidedly not Angela's.
With a startled yelp, Lena bolted upright, as if possessed. Her headphones tumbled from her ears, clattering onto the floor in a discordant clatter, the music abruptly silenced.
"Shit!" she exclaimed, her heart pounding in her chest, the rapid staccato of its beat echoing in her ears as she whipped around to face the unexpected visitor.
"There's no need for foul language, Lena," Angela's voice chided gently from the kitchen, the soft rebuke carrying a tone of fond exasperation.
Lena's eyes darted between Brian and Angela, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson as the realization dawned upon her. Brian raised his hands in a placating gesture, offering her a sheepish grin, his expression one of genuine apology.
"Sorry, Angela thought it would be funny to scare you!" he offered by way of explanation, his tone tinged with a hint of residual mirth.
A soft giggle escaped Angela's lips, the melodic sound carrying across the open space and settling upon Lena's ears like the gentle caress of a summer breeze. Lena's gaze snapped towards her, her expression one of disbelief, her mouth falling open in a wordless protest.
"What's the matter with you?" she sputtered, her finger swiveling to point accusingly at Brian, the digit trembling ever so slightly. "And you! You're the dinner guest?"
A look of confusion flickered across Brian's features, his brow furrowing as he processed Lena's words. "Angela didn't tell you?" he asked, turning towards the former medic with a quizzical expression, his head tilting ever so slightly to one side.
"I thought it would be nice to have a meal together," Angela replied, her voice carrying a wistful lilt that seemed to resonate with a deeper yearning, a longing for simpler times. "I have so missed having a full dinner table."
Lena watched as Angela's face fell, a shadow of melancholy passing over her features. Her own expression softened, the indignation she had felt mere moments ago melting away like ice in the sun. She sighed, a long, drawn-out exhalation, and her hands came to rest upon her hips, her fingers curling into the soft fabric of her shorts.
"Brian," she began, her tone gentle yet firm, brooking no argument. "Can you give us a moment?"
She gestured towards the glass door leading out onto the balcony, and Brian nodded, a silent understanding passing between them. A flicker of acknowledgment danced across his eyes, and he inclined his head ever so slightly, acquiescing to her request.
"I can go–" he started, but Angela's voice cut him off, her words slicing through the air with a quiet authority.
"That won't be necessary," she interjected, her hand coming to rest upon Brian's shoulder in a gesture that seemed equal parts reassuring and restraining.
Lena's eyes narrowed as she watched Brian's shoulders stiffen, his entire body growing taut at Angela's touch. Their gazes met, and Lena could see the unspoken intimidation lingering in the depths of his eyes.
With a curt nod, she silently reassured him, offering him a fleeting semblance of understanding, and he stepped out onto the balcony, pulling his phone from his pocket as the glass door slid shut behind him with a soft hiss.
"What are you doing?" Lena demanded, rounding on Angela, her hands falling to her sides in exasperation, her fingers curling into loose fists.
Angela's expression remained serene, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, her features bathed in a soft glow that seemed to emanate from within. "Lena Oxton,it has been so long since you've spent time with someone outside of Overwatch," she repeated, her tone carrying a gentle insistence, as if she were imploring Lena to truly consider the weight of her statement. "And much less a young man."
She paused, allowing her words to linger, to sink in, before continuing. "I want to make up for my perhaps inappropriate first impression. Its important to be in the good graces of a young man whose caught your attention."
Lena's eyes widened fractionally, her brows drawing together as she processed the implications of Angela's declaration. A soft exhale, barely more than a whisper, escaped her lips, and she shook her head vehemently, her chestnut tresses swaying with the adamant motion.
"I'm not going to marry the kid!" she half-whispered, half-yelled, her voice rising in pitch and volume, yet still restrained by the confines of the room. Her gaze bored into Angela's, a silent challenge flickering in the depths of her eyes.
Angela's smile only broadened, her features softening as a melodic chuckle bubbled forth from her lips..
"You don't have to marry the young man," she assured Lena, her words carrying a weight of understanding, a recognition of the absurdity of Lena's protestation. "He's just coming over for dinner. And I want to have a good evening"
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Lena let out a long, drawn-out sigh, the exhalation carrying a palpable sense of exasperation. Her shoulders rose and fell with the motion, her posture shifting ever so slightly as she struggled to maintain her composure.
"Just don't do whatever it was you did at the café, alright?" she implored, her tone carrying a sharpened edge, one that caused Angela to flinch ever so slightly. The medics eyes flashed with a dangerous glint, a warning that flickered briefly before being extinguished, replaced by a familiar warmth.
"The last thing I want is for him to be uncomfortable," Lena added, her voice softening as she spoke, the earlier heat dissipating like a summer storm giving way to the calm that follows in its wake.
The shrill chime of the doorbell cut through the quiet, its insistent trill echoing through the space and causing both women's heads to snap towards the door. Lena turned back to Angela, her expression one of barely contained exasperation, a silent question lingering in the furrow of her brow.
"Oh, great," she muttered, her steps carrying her towards the entrance, each footfall punctuated by the soft thud of her bare feet against the hardwood floor. "Who could it be now?"
With a firm grip, Lena grasped the door handle, her fingers curling around the cool metal as she pulled it open with more force than necessary. The hinges protested with a faint creak.
"Who is it?" she demanded, her eyes falling upon the newcomer, the words dying on her lips as her gaze met a pair of piercing golden eyes.
"Amelie?"
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
Ravio_The_Thief
Ravio_The_Thief 3 or so weeks ago someone commented that the last few chapters seemed to be really short or at least shorter than usual. so i sat down and wrote this entire chapter from a 2 sentence outline.
It probably shows.
this chapter is 13880 words and amounts to 36 pages while the average word count for an individual chapter averages out at 3000.
Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!
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