[TRAIN LINE FA 8504 - ROMA TO BOLOGNA - PRESENT – 10:45]

"Now keep in mind that this is a terrible analogy. I'm not a-" Tanaka stops his explanation and waves his hand in a circle, "-language professor or something."

Tracer cups her face in her hands and nods attempting to give Ken Tanaka her full attention. The man had refused to speak to her beyond what etiquette required the entire trip to and through the train station. She couldn't blame him at this point.

Once at the station they'd almost missed their train. Technically, that had missed the train, but Tracer had forced her legs to move and ran ahead. She'd stopped the door from locking by letting it close on her arm. The bullet train had been actually pulling away by the time Mr. Tanaka reached it. And Winston calling her because Widowmaker was complaining about having a cold bum hadn't helped.

Now safely on board, Mr. Tanaka was explaining why Tracer should abandon Widowmaker at the nearest corner and get the hell out of Dodge. Actually, he kept not so subtly implying she should just off her. But there was no way Tracer was doing that. She didn't have the authority. Besides, that would ruin the only part of this little venture that hadn't turned into complete rubbish.

"A normal person's mind is like clay, soft and moldable but still maintains certain core properties. It may be reshaped by certain experiences or dry out but add a little water, and it becomes malleable again."

Tracer nods keeping her eyes on Mr. Tanaka's face.

"The victims' brains that went through the neural rewriting program are like clay that has been shaped and fired. But the new form is brittle and may be unevenly baked. Cracks in the conditioning appear. The agent is brought in for "treatment." The clay is re-shaped and re-fired becoming more brittle, and the process repeats. Potters know to limit the number of times a piece is re-fired. Psychotic terror organizations do not. After a while..."

Tanaka pauses dramatically.

"Failure."

Tracer hums. It was a good presentation. The information was clearly presented and it kept her attention. Four out of five stars. He'll make a great informant. Hit all the right notes to make his case. It was almost good enough to make her forget this is what he did for a living. Persuaded people.

"So why hasn't she 'ploded yet?" Tracer makes some explosion hand gestures complete with sound effects. "You know, with the shooting and stabbing and murdering everything. She's several months overdue isn't she?"

"That's unclear," Mr. Tanaka says with a frown. "It's possibly the result of more precise tune-ups. It might be interference from her body modifications. It could just be dumb luck. The point remains she is a danger that needs to be..."

Tanaka trails off; his eyes focus on something behind Tracer.

"Speaking of danger," he mutters and then says louder, "Ms. Tracer you have proven Overwatch is exceptionally good at creating chaos. Please attempt to do that in my favor this time."

Tracer frowns. Mr. Tanaka gets out of his seat and pats his gun holster as he stands. He points over her shoulder.

"Stop them," he orders and then walks briskly down the aisle.

While Tanaka locks himself in the bathroom Tracer examines the train car. An omnic is tending to their child. A couple is reviewing their vacation vids and pics. A group of three is checking tickets. A man is stretched out across several chairs sleeping.

After a moment she sees it. The way the group of three moves, the perfection of their haircuts, how they hold themselves. They're military. And considering how they're systematically checking everyone's face not their ticket, she'd say they're looking for someone. So probably Talon.

She supposes it was too much to ask that her brilliant plan of Get Mr. Tanaka as far Away From Widowmaker as Humanly Possible that she conceived in .0035 seconds would go off without a hitch. Or a multitude of hitches. She's still praying Athena can find a capable agent to meet them in time on the other end. Not that she's bitter or anything.

Tracer stands, pushing down the fatigue creeping into her posture. She's only got four hours of sleep (256 minu-) Four Hours. And is really looking forward to being able to take a nap somewhere without having to make Widowmaker bugger off first so she can have her nightmares in peace.

Tracer rolls her shoulders limbering up. There is a very small chance she can talk them out of this. But that's still better than none.

She takes a moment to get a better look at the gents. Two of the three are male and are wearing suits. The shorter one has red hair and is aggressively leading the check, snatching off people's hats, shouting, and such. A Napoleon complex then. The taller one has a bit of a gut on him and apologizes to the passengers while checking their tickets. A woman fully decked out in Roma gear sullenly trails behind them. She's wearing an SPQR T-shirt, numerous key chains dangle from her hip, the hand of a statue is sticking out of her backpack, and a plastic gladiator helmet over her pompom like hair.

Tracer throws her aviators and jacket into her seat. No sense in trying to blend in now. The best thing she can do is draw attention away from the man hiding in the bathroom.

"You know, if it takes all three of you to operate the scanner you're probably doing something wrong there," she calls out.

Heads whip around at the sound of her voice. The trio takes in Tracer and her Accelerator in all its reflective lustrous glory.

"I was on vacation," whines Pompom.

"This is squad one, we uh," Chubby swallows hard, "We've haven't found the target but we have run into Tracer. The one from Overwatch. Please advise, over."

Tracer hears faint laughter from the man's comm.

"What are you doing?" asks Napoleon.

"It's protocol!" protests Chubby.

"Protocol isn't going to help us now," Pompom says.

"So what are the chances we can solve our differences in a calm and orderly discussion?" Tracer asks.

"None," Pompom says flatly.

"That's against regulations," says Chubby.

"A snowball's chance in hell!" says Napoleon.

The redhead pulls out a pair of knuckle-dusters that crackle with electricity and slaps an adhesive his neck. Tracer sees his eyes dilate. Combat drugs. Well, that's just wonderful. She'll have to keep him away from the normies.

Napoleon yells and charges.

Tracer dodges his opening jab and backhand. She flirts around the tight aisle using the Accelerator to maximize her maneuverability. She lashes out with a few punches. Napoleon easily knocks them aside. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Chubby digging around in his suit jacket. He pulls out a gun. It's too chunky to be a normal pistol. She slips to the side of another jab. A stun gun. She does not want the Accelerator to get hit by that.

Napoleon shifts his weight on to his back foot and launches a kick towards her face. Tracer speeds herself up, ducking under his leg and blinks away. His foot slams down on the train car floor. Napoleon pitches forward due to the lack of resistance. Tracer reappears right in front of him. In the microseconds, it takes for his eyes to widen in surprise Tracer sees Chubby taking aim.

Tracer slams her elbow into Napoleon's nose. There's a crunch, and he reels back. Chubby pulls the trigger. Tracer blinks away again. The prongs of the stun gun bury themselves in Napoleon's side. He locks up but grits out something that sounds accusatory.

Tracer steps up onto a table between two seats, jumps off it, and kicks Chubby square in the head. Napoleon and Chubby collapse to the floor. Tracer lands in front of Pompom.

Between being physically drained and Widowmaker deciding today was a great day to flip out she's done dealing with extra complications.

Pompom looks at the two disabled men, one still twitching, the other sprawled across a row of seats whimpering, and back to Tracer who isn't even out of breath. Pompom raises her hands in surrender.

"Nuh-uh," she says, "This isn't worth paid over time."

/Very short transition chapter.

This will be the last update for this month and you guys are going to be happier if you only expect one update next month.

We are now 60 pages in and over 30,000 words into this story and I've burned through half my buffer... Hoo boy.

The results are in and... Tracer was rambling about grammar and raccoon hands on purpose!

But no one placed any bets so no one wins./

Edited 3/2/18