[ROME, ITALY - CIAMPINO PRIVATE AIRPORT - PRESENT DAY 07:03]

The VTOL's tires touchdown and Widowmaker begrudgingly admits that the landing is as smooth as silk just as Tracer promised.

Widowmaker stows her visor in her Louis Vuitton bag alongside her compacted rifle. She pulls out her disguise, a nano-fiber mask built to hide her unique condition, and places it on her face. It bonds to her skin instantly. The plastic blends into her hairline, covers her neck, and tugs ever so slightly at her ears. Even after all this time she still hasn't gotten used to how it feels; it's like a layer of latex painted over her flesh. A fitted overcoat and gloves cover the rest of her blue complexion. Her outfit might draw a little attention, Rome is warm even before sunrise, but it's a tourist destination. Her coat won't be the most outlandish thing seen today.

Tracer pulls on a large leather jacket, no doubt normally used to hide her Chronal Accelerator; now it just hangs awkwardly on her slight frame. She also slips on a ball cap and a pair of aviators to hide her face. The pilot is already "decked out in her civvies", a pair of cargo pants and running shoes. As they disembark, Tracer slings a worn duffle bag over her shoulder; it most likely holds said Accelerator and other illegal weapons.

Widowmaker hangs back, remaining under the VTOL, the only good cover on the empty runway. Tracer is speaking to the ground crew. She says something with great flourish and the men in reflective vest her laugh. There are backslaps and handshakes all around. A woman in a business suit struts across the tarmac towards them. She motions for Tracer and Widowmaker to come over to her. Tracer gives the ground crew one last remark and then leaves the circle. Widowmaker pushes off the VTOL and walks over. As she pass the ground crew she spies the leader of the group thumbing through a wad of cash.

"Captain Oscar," the businesswoman says, "and company. Your arrival has been cleared with my superiors. Please follow me."

Widowmaker gets the feeling that their clearance has nothing to do with the plane's landing. They follow the woman through the small but clean airport and around the security checkpoint. The terminals are empty except for the odd traveler or an outdated AIs. The businesswoman stops at the entrance lobby and nods goodbye. Then as if she had forgotten a formality, spits out "Buongiorno" before spinning on her heel and strutting off to more important matters.

"Well she was just a regular ray of sunshine, wasn't she?" Tracer asks rhetorically.

Widowmaker is tempted to run after the woman and beg her to hire her on as private security. It would be heavenly to work with someone professional for once.

Instead, she follows the Overwatch Agent over to a row of self-driving taxis outside the airport. Tracer inserts her credit card into one of the cabs. The door eats her card and unlocks with a pop. Tracer slides into the passenger's seat and Widowmaker joins her on the wheel-less driver's side. Tracer punches in their destination on the taxi's screen and the engine roars to life. Widowmaker memories the address a split second before it vanishes from the screen. Such information is not given to her for security reasons. She assumes Soldier 76 knows she can obtain any critical information on her own.

The taxi's antigravs create a smooth ride despite the cobblestone streets. The sun peeks over the horizon, red and orange light flashes between the stone buildings. Inside the cab Widowmaker notes that Tracer has copied her position; bag in her lap- ready to be snatched up at a moment's notice- eyes flickering from window to mirror to window, posture relaxed but alert in case she has to fight or run. One does not survive in their line of work for long without developing some particular habits even if they do have the ability to reverse time.

They arrive at their hotel, a seven-story structure far enough away from tourist sites to avoid the crowds. The building is lavish with marble stairs and gold trim but the rugs are worn thin and the tiny elevator is out of service. Widowmaker suspects that hot water will not be guaranteed and the "free" Wi-Fi will be spotty.

She and Tracer go to check in. A young black man with a robotic index finger runs the front desk. His eyes flicker to her only once and then remain locked on Tracer's much friendlier face. Tracer takes the keys with a smile. They climb the steep, curving stairs lugging their belongings behind them. Widowmaker muses that if someone were to fall down the steps they could suffer a concussion and broken bones, possibly even a broken neck if they were angled correctly.

After reaching their door Widowmaker voices her concern.

"Only one room?" she asks.

Tracer shrugs and unlocks the door. Widowmaker notes the deadbolt is of high quality and the apartment is one of the more spacious rooms. Thank God.

Unfortunately, the carpet is a tacky red that clashes with the drapes, the light fixtures are mismatched, and there is a suspicious blood-like stain on the wall. A second glance reveals that the walls and front door are too thick. They have been lined with sound and bullet stopping material. A well placed precaution.

The entrance leads into a kitchenette with an island a small table against the wall, past it a small entertainment area. The entertainment side has an old couch and a TV. To the right and through another doorway she can see the other half of the apartment; another room with four single beds and a bathroom.

The two balconies create a total of three exits, not nearly enough if you asked her. The apartment is dismally lacking in good spots to stash weapons or use in an ambush but the room is built like a bunker. All things considered, it will do, for a few hours at least.

"Safe rooms are expensive. Besides, splitting up the party is a strategic disadvantage. Yeah?" Tracer says, answering her question.

"Isn't that awkward?"

Not even Tracer can deny that the motley crew pretending to be Overwatch doesn't have its fair share of issues with each other.

"Everyone acts like adults out in the field. If you can't, then you don't belong in Overwatch, now do you? Besides if you're about to die besides someone it's a kinda pointless to be upset about seeing them in their skivvies."

She wouldn't know. The ex-Talon agent mostly worked alone, sometimes with Reaper, sometimes with a Special Ops unit but she never roomed with anyone.

"First dibs on the bunks!" Tracer shouts, racing into the other room.

Widowmaker hears one of the beds strain under a sudden increase in weight. This is followed by a string of curses and the girl rambling about bloody thin mattresses with no springs.

She strolls over to the outdated TV, the model can't even display in 3D without special glasses. Pathetic.

"Show weather predictions for my location," Widowmaker commands.

The screen blinks to life and displays a dizzying amount of information: humidity, cloud cover, wind speeds, sun intensity, and air quality just to name a few. A smile tugs at her lips. Perhaps Overwatch does have some of its priorities straight.

"Oh, that's much better," Tracer says throwing herself on the couch. She has changed into pink leggings and a t-shirt. "You gonna take off the mask, luv? Full offense intended, you look really weird with it on."

Most people would say it was the other way around. That Widowmaker's blue skin was disturbing, not the flesh mimicking mask. But Tracer had never met her back Before, had she? Widowmaker tilts her head, shifting through her memories. Ah, that's right. They never met in person but Amélie did know her. Or rather, Amélie Lacroix had known about Lena "Tracer" Oxton. Then just a hotshot pilot, Tracer was something between an Air Force legend and a drinking game, "take a shot every time the whizkid did something outrageously stupid". Gérard was very happy she was Morrison's problem and not his.

"That depends on what the plan of attack is," Widowmaker replies.

"That's right! I'm in charge, aren't I?" Tracer says with glee.

All the ways the mission could fail horribly flash through Widowmaker's mind.

"Well, we're here to collect some Intel from an informant. They're real paranoid like since they defected from the baddies which makes sense. Insisted on speaking only to core Overwatch members in person and such. So I was thinking I'd meet them at a tourist location, one with metal detectors and stonewalls. You'd follow on the rooftops and watch for danger. If something goes wrong you cover us, I'll escort them to safety, and we'll meet back at the hotel."

It's not the best plan she's ever heard, but not the worst, either.

"It all seems rather... straightforward," she remarks.

"The best plans are the simple ones, less to go wrong."

"I just hope you haven't confused simplicity with elegance. Also, it will be difficult to cover you if you are inside a building."

"Cap could do it and she wouldn't be sitting here whining about it. Aren't you supposed to be Talon's best?"

"I am the best. But that does not mean I do not have my limitations. If something goes wrong it will be on your head, ma chére."

"We better make sure nothing goes wrong then!"

This girl will be the death of her.

Translations

Buongiorno - Good Morning

Dieu merci - Thank God

Ma Chére - My Dear

/Widowmaker and Amélie are the same person. Not only does it make things more interesting (read sadder) but in the Alive clip Widowmaker says "when I was a girl..." Not "when Amélie was a girl."

I'll be trying to keep things as canon compliant as possible unless I forget something or I think it's stupid.

*confetti* Overwatch's time line is garbage so I will continue to be vague about dates *confetti* /

2/23/19 Edited, Betaed by Dot