8 Chapter 8 The Girl With Enamel Eyes
A crisp breeze cut through the dry city heat, rustling Brian's golden hair as it swirled down the street. He sat motionless on the outdoor café patio, his blue eyes glazed over and unfocused as he stared unseeingly up at the baby blue sky.
Deep in thought, his fingers coiled loosely around a perspiring glass of ice water. Condensation beaded down the sides, forming a cool ring on the metal table beneath it. Brian paid no mind to the occasional droplet that broke free and trickled over his knuckles.
He remained perfectly still, his chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. The cacophony of pedestrian chatter, roaring engines, and distant construction clangs faded into a dull white noise.
Only when the ice cubes gave a subtle crackling shift in the dwindling water did Brian's gaze flick down. He blinked once, slowly, before raising the glass and Taking a long, languid sip of the chilled liquid. It soothed his parched throat as it trickled down, momentarily bringing him back to reality.
his thumb hovered indecisively over his phone screen, the bright display reflecting in his blue eyes. Lyudmila's contact information burned conspicuously under the harsh sunlight – a lingering reminder of the previous nights conversation.
A muscle ticked in his jaw as he warred internally, Before he could make up his mind, his thumb slipped, swiping upwards and switching to his contacts list.
Brian exhaled slowly through his nose, squeezing his eyes shut in a brief moment of frustration. When they reopened, his gaze immediately landed on the contact photo for Lena Oxton - her bright orange-tinted glasses and beaming smile practically glowing against the dark backdrop of his phone screen.
He jolted upright, his free hand swiping the air in panic as he rapidly dismissed the image as if burned. His phone clattered loudly against the metal tabletop, the blank screen flickering.
"Two or three days?" Brian muttered under his breath, his brow furrowing thoughtfully.
How long had it been since that morning of donuts and coffee with the effervescent Overwatch pilot on the park bench? The memory sparked a warmth that bloomed in his chest.
Even as his hand rose instinctively to wave the thought away, Brian found himself pondering aloud - "Was it...was that a date?"
The familiar rhythmic tap of leather soles on tile announced his father's arrival before Brian even looked up. His gaze flickered toward the open balcony door as the man strode through, necktie already loosened and the top buttons of his crisp ivory dress shirt undone. He moved with the casual, relaxed air of someone finally home after a long day's work.
Without preamble, Brian's father dropped into the patio chair beside him with a contented sigh, letting his head loll back against the cushion as a series of small pops emanated from his back. "Ah, that's better," he hummed, seemingly boneless now in his reclined position.
One eyelid cracked open, a salt-and-pepper eyebrow quirking upwards as he studied his son's pensive expression. "Girl problems?"
Brian's lips pulled into a tight frown, and he gave a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders. "Kind of. I'm...not really sure."
A knowing chuckle rumbled from his father's chest as he took a swig from a perspiring water bottle. "So what's the score, son?"
"There's nothing, really." Brian raked a hand through his hair with a mirthless chuckle. "A girl gave me her number, and—"
"Please tell me you waited a few days before calling her?," his father interjected, already shaking his head in playful admonishment.
Brian's frown deepened. "Not intentionally. I've just been...busy. And I learned some things that make me wonder if she's not who I thought she was."
The jovial spark in his father's eyes dimmed somewhat as his expression sobered. He gave a slow, measured nod, taking another pull from the water bottle. When he spoke again, his voice was low and considerate. "And so you're wondering if you should even bother texting her at all?"
A heavy sigh slipped from Brian's lips as he dragged his palm along the back of his neck. "Pretty much, yeah. What do you think I should do?"
That salt-and-pepper eyebrow inched higher. "Well, first tell me about her. What do you think of her so far?"
Heat immediately blossomed high on Brian's cheeks as his shoulders rolled in an awkward shrug. "I think she's...amazing. Incredibly kind, thoughtful, always looking out for others. And just..." His eyes drifted skyward, falling half-lidded as he conjured her vibrant image in his mind's eye. "Like a star - this radiant, beautiful thing you can't look away from."
His father watched him carefully for a beat before giving another solemn nod. "That's all that really matters in the end. If you genuinely like her and want to get to know her better, don't let rumors or speculation get in the way." He reached over, clasping Brian's shoulder firmly. "Meet with her again, and figure things out for yourself. If she really is hiding something, at least you'll know the truth. But don't let yourself get blinded by her 'star' quality, understand?"
Brian felt himself unconsciously leaning into the paternal strength of the touch and nodded slowly in agreement. His father's hand retreated into the pocket of his slacks, rummaging around briefly before withdrawing three slips of paper.
"Listen, my boss scored these tickets to a play in town - some fancy theatre production that's been all over the billboards recently." He held them out with a persuasive lilt to his tone. "I know you've always been interested in that artsy stuff. Could you do me a favor and go check it out? Give me your old man's take on it?"
Brian's eyes scanned over the elegant script printed on the ticket stubs - Coppélia. The name was indeed quite familiar around their city's arts scene. He allowed himself a small smile as he reached out to accept them with a nod. "Sure, Dad. I can do that."
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Amelie's Point Of View
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A dancer glided silently across the polished wooden stage, each step precise and practiced to perfection. The lithe dancer spun and twisted, the layered folds of her pure white dress flaring out like the delicate petals of a blossoming flower.
Every movement flowed with the effortless grace of a master at their craft. Balanced en pointe, she extended both arms overhead, fingers splaying elegantly as she executed a series of controlled, breathtaking turns. Her raven locks, tightly woven into a long braid, whipped out behind her like a silken streamer caught in a wild wind.
The harsh stage lights cast her pale, porcelain skin in an almost ethereal glow, lending an air of otherworldly beauty. But it was the calm expression on her face that truly entranced - eyes closed, lips slightly parted, completely attuned to the strains of music well practiced.
With a final pirouette, Amelie leaps across the wooden stage, landing with precision. Her arms spread outward to retain perfect balance. "Bravo! Bravo!" A young woman's voice echoes through the grand empty theater.
Amelie's eyes dart towards the suited figure waiting in the seats. "Mrs. Hollings."
Stepping off the stage, she moves towards the grinning woman. "I told you, call me Chloe." She rises, flattening her dark grey pencil skirt before extending a hand which Amelie takes.
"Today is the performance, right?" Amelie nods, a languid escaping her lips. Chloe watches the rise and fall of the dancer's chest quicken slightly. "Feeling pre-show jitters?"
Amelie's gaze drops to Chloe's shoulders as she considers the question. "I feel...nervous," she admits after a pause.
"I understand." Chloe offers a polite smile behind her thick-rimmed glasses. "How many days since our last session?"
"Fifty-three."
"Sharp as always." From behind the curtain, a cluster of performers in peach ballet dresses emerges onto the stage.
"Miss Director?" one calls out. "Shall we begin rehearsal?"
Turning back to Chloe, Amelie raises a hand gesturing towards the wings. "Could we move backstage, Miss Chloe?"
With a wave of her hand, Chloe follows Amelie's purposeful stride in her black heels. Boxes crates and set pieces painted and meticulously produced by the workers. ducking beneath a sandbag which hung overhead. Chloe spoke up "Coppelia, right?" she asks. "The summer ballet?"
Amelie nods, a wistful look crossing her delicate features. "Back home, it coincided with a festival. Every year my grandfather played Dr. Coppélius, and when I turned sixteen, I played Swanhilda - the female lead."
Her gaze drifts to a brown felt top hat resting on a nearby mannequin, eyes growing hazy with nostalgia. A small, fond smile curves her lips as she reminisces.
Chloe can't help but mirror the expression, touched by the glimpse into Amelie's memories. The usual poise and control she exudes seems to soften for just a moment.
"I played Swanhilda for the rest of my time at the Chateau," Amelie continues after a pregnant pause. "It is...a fond memory."
Her tone takes on a melancholic lilt that plucks at something deep within Chloe. She imagines a young Amelie, gracefully spinning across the stage in her hometown's quaint festival. A faint empathetic smile appeared on her face.
"Do you plan to stay for the show?" Amelie asks, a hopeful gleam in her hazel eyes piercing through the reverie. "I've cleared my night for this. I've even secured a reservation at a local place if you wish to have dinner." Chloe responds.
"We shall see," Amelie replies, measuring her words carefully. "I have to attend to some errands before the show, but..." Chloe pauses, holding Amelie's gaze. Before the ballerina cuts the silence "I have a ticket for you. It's a box seat, but I'm afraid you'll have to share."
A small, grateful smile edges across Chloes lips. "Merci"
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Brian's Point Of View
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Brian's fingers crawl up his shirt, jumping button to button as he closes the pearl white fabric. Reaching for the deck chair, he fetches the black wool suit jacket and slides his arms through the sleeves, letting out a sigh. Tired blue eyes and messy blond hair stare back at him from the mirror - the image of a man dressed for business.
His elbow finds the wall, and he leans against it, cracking an artificial smile. "I need to return some videotapes," he mutters aloud to no one in particular. With a quick shrug of his shoulders, Brian shuffles toward the pair of black leather shoes, sliding them on. Turning back to the mirror, he raises his arms, letting the jacket's shoulders and sleeves slip into place like a tailored glove.
"Dad's suits fit me now. I'm getting old," Brian notes wryly, taking in his polished yet weary appearance. He opens the bedroom door and walks into the living room where his father sits on the couch, dressed in a shirt and pajama pants.
"It's like looking into a mirror," his dad remarks, giving Brian an appraising once-over. "No tie?"
Brian raises his hands in a surrendering gesture. "It's not my thing, dad."
His father shakes his head with a resigned chuckle. "Have fun, and don't do anything stupid."
Brian nods, grabbing his keys before moving toward the door. He pulls his wallet from his pocket, tucking it into the suit jacket's inner breast pocket with a deft pat. "I'll be back," he announces, lifting a hand in a brief wave goodbye. The door closes behind him with a hollow thud.
Tuxedoed men with young women clinging to their arms flow past, but Brian's pensive blue eyes linger on the rich dark woodwork and plush red velvet carpet instead of the patrons themselves. An unsettling familiarity draws his gaze to a blonde ponytail for a moment before he shakes his shaggy blonde hair, ushering himself toward the glass booth.
Presenting his ticket to the omnic attendant adorned in red and gold regalia, Brian can't help overthinking the theaters designed wondering about the artisans from decades before pouring their souls into each intricate detail.
"Your box is on the third floor, sir," the omnic's mechanized voice snaps Brian's wandering mind back.
Brian's eyebrows furrow as he processes the attendant's words. "Box?"
The omnic gestures a metallic hand toward the grand spiral staircase, and realization dawns on the boys face. Of course - a private box seat. He nods awkwardly and picks up his pace, leather shoes scuffing against the plush carpet.
As he ascends, the hum of conversations and clinking glassware grows louder, setting an atmosphere that makes him nervous. Well-dressed men in tailored tuxedos line the stairwell, while the occasional young woman in an elegant gown cuts her eyes his way. He averts his gaze shyly, fixating on the steps ahead.
The clipped ticket feels tight in Brian's grasp as he follows the directions to a dark wooden door with "3" painted on the front. He sucks in a deep breath, steadying himself before grasping the ornate knob and pulling it open.
The lavish booth inside commands his attention immediately. A bottle of champagne and a charcuterie board lay untouched on a small, intricately carved table - except for the woman in her early 30s already picking at the spread. Her mouth falls open mid-chew as the door clicks shut behind Brian.
"Hello?" She manages around the mouthful, hazel eyes studying him curiously.
Brian offers an awkward little wave, feeling his cheeks flush. "Hi," he replies, his voice soft yet carrying an undercurrent of squeamish nervousness.
His observant gaze sweeps over the lush surroundings - plush velvet seats, gilded moldings, the shadows dancing from the soft lighting. It's overwhelming for someone so accustomed to finding beauty in life's simplest pleasures.
"So you're the...boothmate?" He ventures, the term feeling clumsy on his tongue as he meets her arched eyebrow.
Digging the ticket from his pocket, Brian rushes to explain, "I'm not sure I'm in the right place, the tickets were a gift. I didn't expect to have to..." He trails off, embarrassment tinting his cheeks.
"Dad..." Brian murmurs under his breath, a flash of understanding crossing his tired features. "Of course."
The woman looks briefly confused before Brian continues, his words tumbling out in a long-winded ramble. "Yeah, they were a gift from my father. I wanted to go, but the tickets were...well-"
He doesn't finish the thought, but the woman's knowing nod indicates she grasps the subtext. A understanding passes between them.
"I get it," she replies. "Mine was a gift too - one of my friends is a dancer, so I got one for free. Definitely not the usual splurge."
An awkward silence stretches between them, both seeming to appraise the other and finding unlikely kinship. Brian finally sticks out his hand, quirking a lopsided smile.
"It's nice to meet you...?" He trails off, leaving room for her name.
"Hollings. Chloe Hollings," the woman replies with a warm smile, shaking Brian's proffered hand.
"Wiser. Brian Wiser." His lips quirk up in a lopsided grin, the nervous tension easing slightly between them.
Turning his gaze outward, Brian takes in the opulent balcony view of the lavish stage below. Heavy scarlet curtains are drawn closed for now, but his mind begins whirring.
"It's like being in a movie," he muses aloud, eyes wide with childlike wonder. For all the simple things in life he liked, he couldn't lie, he enjoyed grandiose surroundings.
Chloe follows his line of sight down to the stage. "It was a trial to secure a place like this, so I've heard." Her tone carries a cryptic edge. "But luckily blood is thicker than water."
The strange comment hung in the air as Brian's eyebrows furrow, he tried to figure out the meaning. but the sound of curtains being pulled snapped him out of it.
Brian found himself perched at the edge of the plush booth, utterly focused on the performance unfolding below. A young dancer, clad in a flowing white dress with vibrant red and blue accents, moved with captivating grace across the stage. Her impassioned movements synced the joyful orchestral music which grew with every twirl.
Brian drank in every detail – from the dress to the hand painted set pieces, to the dancer's expressive physicality as she danced in the role of Swanhilda. When she playfully hid behind an oversized prop lamp, peeking out mischievously, a lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
From right of stage, a young man revealed to be Franz stepped into the spotlight, craning his neck upwards as if calling out to someone. Brian leaned forward, straining to catch sight of the object of Franz's longing. There, silhouetted in the window above, lurked a pale-skinned figure, arms wrapped protectively around a book.
Brian's brow furrowed as he willed his eyes to adjust, to bring the reader's face into focus. But the details remained stubbornly obscured by shadows and distance.
Giving up with a resigned sigh, Brian leaned back in the plush velvet chair to watch the play continue unfolding before him. Occasionally, Chloe would lean over, her voice carrying a hushed enthusiasm as she commented on the quality of the set pieces and dancers. She seemed to obsess over every intricate detail.
He simply nodded along, offering soft murmurs of agreement as her whispered comments washed over him. Brian's stare remained fixed on the graceful dancer portraying Swanhilda. From this distance, her raven black hair and lithe movements were the sole features he could make out clearly on the dim stage.
His pensive eyes followed her swaying form, Noticing subtleties and a familiar way of moving that made him feel something eerily familiar, if he could only view them up close. Brian's restless hands found their way to a small ornate table beside the chair, fingers brushing against an abandoned brass set of spectacles.
Curiosity piqued, he retrieved the eyeglasses and brought them to his face, peering through the clear glass lenses. As Brian refocused his gaze on Swanhilda, the dancer's previously ambiguous features snapped into vivid clarity,
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Amelie's Point Of View
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Chloe breezed through the dressing room door, her scarlet backstage pass swinging, "Excellent show, Amelie! I'm impressed!" Chloe's enthusiasm was palpable as she clasped her hands together. Amelie, still in full stage makeup and costume, shifted uncomfortably in her chair before forcing a tight smile.
"It was less extravagant than I had hoped for," the dancer replied, her tone carrying a tinge of melancholy that belied the grandeur of the earlier show.
Chloe's brow furrowed. "It was amazing, Amelie! Don't be so critical - it was a good show."
As if in defiant response, Amelie silently lifted the sleeve of her flowing white dress and began peeling away the peach-toned covering over her metal prosthetic arm. Chloe averted her eyes, but natural curiosity won out as she chanced a sidelong glance. Amelie was flexing her articulated metal fingers freely, seeming relieved to be liberated from the confines of the artificial skin sleeve.
"I apologize if I made you uncomfortable," she said softly, her hazel eyes flickering up to meet Chloe's. "I know you do not enjoy seeing prosthetics."
Chloe's expression softened into a warm smile. "Don't worry about it. It's part of your life, so I just have to learn to live with it."
As Amelie began removing the last streaks of stage makeup from her face, Chloe couldn't help but observe the familiar transformation unfolding before her Without the vibrant cosmetics, her natural beauty and vulnerability shone through - tinged blue skin, a smattering of faint freckles, slightly hollowed cheekbones.
When she sighed contentedly and chanced a small, unguarded smile at Chloe, the dancer's features seemed to relax into an expression of hard-earned peace. The weariness of performing melted away, if just momentarily.
"I must change for the greetings," Amelie said, her tone carrying an unfamiliar warmth and gentleness that appeared to catch even Chloe off-guard. "Please wait in the hallway."
Chloe's eyes widened fractionally at the unexpected courtesy before a broad grin spread across her face. "Yes ma'am," she replied with an amicable nod, respecting Amelie's request for privacy as she headed for the door.
Amelie places the fingertips of her remaining arm on the cold, metal shell of the prosthetic limb. She lets her fingernails trace up the smooth surface, finding the knuckles and making a tentative fist with the replacement arm. A heavy sigh escapes her lips as she takes in the alien feel of the prosthetic.
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March 10 20XX
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"Deploy anti-air defenses!" The static-laced voice of a distant commander cuts through the stormy sky as jagged lightning flashes overhead. Rain hammers down in sheets, the thunderous roars growing deafening, nearly drowning out the staccato bursts of gunfire and the earth-shaking rumble of artillery.
In response, the fortifications spring to life. Small cylinders, wrapped with scarlet neon rings, rise from the ground. Suddenly, swarms of missiles erupt from them, whistling through the air with spine-tingling speed.
For a moment, an eerie silence reigns, the world holding its breath as the missiles find their targets. Then, a series of muffled explosions ripple through the clouds, shaking the very foundations of the battered stronghold.
The chaos intensifies, the din of battle threatening to overwhelm the senses. Acrid smoke mixes with the stinging rain, visibility dropping to mere meters. Amelie Lacroix, the Widowmaker, grits her teeth, her enhanced senses straining to pinpoint any sign of the enemy as she focused.
Donning a black trenchcoat with the Talon skull emblem on the arm, Amelie strides purposefully towards a weapons rack. Her gloved fingers glide along the sleek metal of a high-powered sniper rifle, a cold efficiency in her movements as she retrieves it.
Making her way to a vantage point on the castle's stone walls, Amelie settles into a prone position. Peering through the rifle's crimson-tinted thermal scope, her eyes narrow as a flash of lightning crackles upwards in the distance. Zooming in, she tracks the bolt as it arcs across the sky, converging on the fortifications below.
Suddenly, a massive explosion of yellow and red erupts, the blast wave rippling outwards. Amelie flinches slightly, waiting for the vibrant glare to fade before lowering the scope back to her eyes. Activating the night vision, she spots a glowing light in the distance, the gleam of something reflecting the muzzle flash.
"Tenjite no aida de, watashi dake ga eiyo-aru mono de aru." With those words, Amelie's visor suddenly goes dark, vision obscured. But her finger moves with chilling efficiency, squeezing the trigger.
A single shot rings out, followed by a blinding flash of green light. Amelie reacts instantly, leaping backwards off the castle wall. With a flick of her wrist, the grappling hook attached to her suit fires, allowing her to narrowly avoid the massive energy wave that sweeps through the area.
Silence descends as the gunfire and thundering artillery abruptly cease. Amelie feels her heart rate spike, the sudden calm unsettling after the chaotic battle. Her enhanced senses strain, searching for any signs of movement, any indication of the enemy's position.
Pulling herself up over the crumbling wall, Amelie's eyes widen at the sight before her. A massive gash extends from the floor to the very top, the solid rock of the castle seemingly fused together, burning a bright molten red as it melts.
"Merde," she curses under her breath, the gravity of the situation sinking in.
Suddenly, a prickly sensation prickles the back of her neck. Reacting on instinct, Amelie leaps forward, narrowly dodging a vicious slice aimed at her throat. She lands in a crouch, the sound of the blade whistling past her ear still ringing.
Whirling around, she brings her rifle up, searching for the source of the attack. Her enhanced senses strain, scanning the shadows for any movement. The acrid scent of ozone and melted rock fills the air, obscuring her vision.
Amelie's gaze snaps to the source of the voice, her piercing eyes narrowing as she takes in the sight before her. The glowing green blade is unmistakable - the signature weapon of the recalled agent.
"Genji Shimada," she utters, the name laced with a hint of recognition.
As the green neon lights activate, Genji's stealth mode disengages, officially announcing his presence. The air crackles with tension, the two deadly combatants sizing each other up across the ruined battlefield.
Amelie's brow furrows slightly at Genji, the cold indifference of the ninja sending a ripple of unease through her. "Reyes believed you had died," she states, Genji lifted his blade to rest beneath his chin, the edge facing outwards towards the Widowmaker.
"I did."
In response, Amelie raises her rifle, her finger tightening on the trigger. A spray of high-velocity ammunition flies towards Genji, but to her surprise, each bullet is sliced in half and deflected around his slowly advancing form.
"Do you believe you can face me?" Genji's modulated voice echoes across the ruined battlefield, a hint of challenge underlying the question.
Amelie steps back, quickly replacing the magazine in her rifle as she backflips towards the edge of the castle wall. Raising the weapon, she peers through the scope, watching as a flash of lightning illuminates the dark sky, revealing the form of Genji Shimada bearing down on her.
The cyborg ninja's long, glowing green katana slices downwards with blinding speed. Amelie's eyes widen in horror as she watches her limb fall from her shoulder, the rifle she had been wielding sliced clean in half. The pieces hit the ground with a resounding thud.
Amelie clutches the injured area, searing pain shooting through her limbs as her heartrate spikes. The stress and adrenaline threaten to overwhelm her,
Amelie's eyes widen as a brilliant golden light suddenly flares to life, illuminating the darkness around her. Without hesitation, she whirls and breaks into a desperate sprint towards the castle stairs.
Fumbling with her remaining hand, Amelie retrieves a communicator from her coat pocket. Pressing the red button on the bottom, a crimson light begins to flash - an urgent extraction request transmitted through the device.
But before Amelie can make her escape, a familiar voice calls out, halting the Widowmaker in her tracks.
"Amelie Lacroix."
Amelie's blood runs cold, dread coiling in the pit of her stomach as she recognizes the voice. "Angela Ziegler."
