1. Angel Food Cake

Widowmaker is a woman with needs, contrary to the popular belief that she's as cold as her skin tone.

One of the first things that happens when you aren't being periodically brainwashed is that you figure out that there's other things besides the Mission and the Kill.

Sure, she ate food and slept. But for several years, Talon had her completing mission after mission. No rest. No downtime.

And why would she have downtime? She was a living weapon, not a real girl.

Overwatch loomed, first dismantled and then rebuilt.


Talon unraveled. Not overnight, but soon enough they had other worries aside from keeping the beautiful Widowmaker in the dark. They were confident that their programming would keep Widowmaker in the closet, like a broom.

They were wrong, and Widowmaker found herself on the same side of Overwatch. They saved the world. The PETRAS Act was revoked, and suddenly Overwatch was back. Blanket pardons all around. Government funding.

Widowmaker was formally recruited into the team. The core Overwatch members, Winston, Mercy, Soldier: 76, even Reaper, were all weary of her. She had, after all, murdered several Overwatch agents. And Gerard.

They all called her Widowmaker or Widow. No one called her Amélie, which was wonderful since she didn't know if she could be Amélie anymore.

As time marched on, she grew to re-appreciate simple pleasures.

One day, she decided to make a cake.

The Overwatch Gibraltar headquarters was one of the larger Overwatch facilities. Widowmaker's quarters was a box sized room with a bathroom, facing the gardens, which were maintained by a Bastion-class omnic that somehow managed to join the team. The wardrobe was a decent size.

The galley kitchen has massive double ovens, and more than enough room to spread out her tools.

She turned on the food processor, spinning the sugar until it became super fine. Then she sifted half the sugar with the salt and the cake flour, setting the remaining sugar aside.

While the memories were distant and hazy, she could remember cooking with Gerard. His personal favorite had been macarons, though since they didn't have a convection oven in their apartment, the macarons never dried evenly. He always ate them, regardless of how they turned out.

Amélie, meanwhile, specialized in cakes. She was universally hated at the ballet studio she worked at, because she brought in the most decadent recipes for them to sample.

Sometimes Amélie and Gerard used to dance in the kitchen while the cakes would bake, a sinuous shuffle or a jovial waltz.

They were happy memories. The Widowmaker remembered learning how to bake at the knee of her mother, who thankfully hadn't been alive to see her daughter become a monster.

The further back she thought, the more disjoined and dreamlike the memories became. She usually tried to focus on the present.

She whisked the liquids and egg whites together, switched to a hand mixer, then she folded in flour gently with a spatula.

She lost herself in the pleasant process, before carefully spooning the mixture into a tube pan and baking it off.

Spooning the mixture into an ungreased pan, she set a timer and placed the cake into the oven. She sank into a seat at the bar with a glass of some strong alcohol she found in one of the cabinets.

The burn was pleasant, much like the smell of cake that wafted from the oven.

In the morning, all presence of the Widowmaker had been erased, save for the unfrosted cake sitting elegantly under glass.