Chapter Text
They told him it wouldn’t hurt. Insisted on it, but the thundering in his chest betrays his belief.
Tiny footsteps tap down the thin hallway, choked of air. Hanzo’s hand has stopped stinging, but he still feels the strike.
“You will walk with your hands held in front of you. Left over right. You will walk toe to heel in silence.”
Father had gone over the instructions once a night for the past two weeks, each time while Genji was gently tucked into bed down the hall. Always completed with a soft reassurance that it wouldn’t hurt. That it will all be over in the blink of an eye. That the dragon will be worth it.
Not once had anyone told Hanzo what was not going to hurt, and that uncertainty had already wrecked his stomach in the privacy of his ensuite.
Candles light the walls. Hanzo glances at them, only looking forward when a stern hand taps his head. Raven hair hangs long behind his shoulders, but he wishes he could sweep it forward. Hide within it like a blanket and never be forced to do this.
Suddenly, he’s standing in a dark room — it looks like a cellar, and feels just as cold. Blue flame lights the edges of the stone floor, crawling upward toward the ceiling like scrambling claws. Hanzo’s hand is grabbed and pulled toward what looks like a dentist’s chair. With black leather instead of clinical white, it matches the masked figure hunching beside it.
Dark blue latex gloves cover their hands and black tattoo sleeves stretch all the way up beneath the fabric of their shirt. A chunky black object is held in their hand like a pen.
Cold fear makes Hanzo gasp and he pulls back, unaware that he’s crying until the salt hits his tongue. One hand turns to two, then four. Grabbing his biceps and shins, stripping his torso and pulling him onto the chair despite his yelping screams. One little boy against two huge men. A certain answer, but Hanzo struggles against the leather straps regardless. Another pair pins down his left arm.
Hanzo stretches his neck away. White teeth smile beneath a black executioner mask. Hanzo whimpers. Shameful. Unnaturally low voices murmur through the room and his head whips around for the source, finding dozens of ravenous, ancient eyes staring down from the endless cosmos ceiling above.
Stinging. Then burning. Then white hot agony that threatens to drag Hanzo’s stomach out of his throat. Forcing his eyes to focus he sees the stranger’s instrument, sees his reflection glint in a motorised blade. Serrated and buzzing like an electric razor. Hanzo’s stomach violently evacuates through his nose and mouth when he watches a lacerated flap of skin peel back uselessly while his nervous system seizes.
His eyes roll back. The world turns white, then black, then melts between reds and stormy blues.
He wakes. Excruciating lightning travels through his body in quick shocks. He doesn’t need to look left. Feeling the hot blood pooling over his entire arm is enough. The sting of air is enough. Blinking rapidly, unsynched, Hanzo’s head swings to the right — it is how he realises those hands are not holding him anymore. He does not struggle.
Sojiro’s stare is dark, disappointed, and entirely empty all at once. He does not blink. He stands tall, chin high, staring down at his son with a frown. Hanzo’s mother is bowed over at the waist. Light reflects in droplets beneath her face. She shakes almost as hard as her son.
Two pairs of eyes begin to approach from the ceiling. Bright blue like the hottest part of a flame and burning with a hunger that only eons of fathomless limbo can provide. Hunger for blood, for flesh, for violence as easy as breathing. They descend upon Hanzo’s seizuring body and snap their ginormous jaws in his face. Lap up his suffering like starving dogs. Gorge themselves on the hatred burning deep in his veins for the years that have led him here.
Hanzo thinks he’s going to die. He hopes he does.
Twin roars ignite like exorcising fire in his skull and the world goes black.
Hanzo bolts upward in bed with a shout. Panting so hard he grunts high-pitched with every breath. Phantom pain fades from his arm the moment he roams his right palm across the stained expanse. Unharmed, but forever changed.
Hanzo wipes his hand slowly down his face and lets it rest over his mouth, smoothing his goatee. Forcing air through his nose.
The door hisses open.
Hanzo bolts and grabs Stormbow from its dutiful watch beneath his bed, landing hard on his knees with an arrow nooked and aimed for the door. Lungs burning to pull breaths through flared nostrils.
The doorway is empty. A blue glow slowly retreats down the hall, to the left. Hanzo’s hand stops the door before it can close and he ducks his head out, eyes huge and wild.
“You want one?”
Hanzo blinks, somehow only noticing Hana once she speaks. They stand in tense silence for a long second until Hana dips her head, cocking an eyebrow. Hanzo blinks again, but concludes nothing.
“What?” He croaks.
“Wagon Wheels. Thought you might have smelled them through the door or something.” Hana whispers, monotone. Hanzo glances down to see a generous pile of Wagon Wheel chocolate biscuits stacked dangerously in her folded arms. His eyebrow flinches up and his eyes find Hana’s again. Completely unimpressed.
“No.” Hanzo mutters. Then, a bit quieter; “Thank you.” His face heats up, suddenly aware of his own ridiculousness. Hana only shrugs and waddles along her way as if nothing happened.
Suddenly alone, Hanzo's feet stay glued to the floor for only a moment before he shakes the feeling from his skin and slips back into privacy.
All hopes of regaining sleep are dashed when he taps his holopad: 3:57AM. Even Hanzo’s terrors dare not stray from his routine.
Mint toothpaste and a cold shower rinse the fatigue from his muscles. Hanzo’s hair sits silky as it dries, falling elegantly this way and that as he contorts himself for his meditations. Holding precise tension in every curving, outstretched limb. Engaging each muscle only as much as is necessary. Carved by decades of merciless discipline.
One of the few habits he held onto voluntarily; meditation. Though, recently, he’s chosen to combine it with his stretches. More efficient that way. And, the pain helps him focus.
Darkness still heavy through the base, Hanzo locks his door behind him and adjusts the drawstrings of his hoodie. Sleeveless, of course, and tastefully loose. Being around others has taught him at least a little leisure, and the absence of seams on his skin is a small comfort. Tapping his wristwatch he begins a light jog through the halls and to the outermost cliffs of the Watchpoint, keeping each breath timed and meticulous to optimise oxygen intake. Always starting off on his left foot. Counting a steady ‘1, 2, 1, 2’ in his mind.
Only once does he come to a stop. Along the concrete track, a duck all but springs from within a bush. Ruffling its feathers, it side eyes the intruding human. Hanzo takes a polite step back and taps his watch, taking stock of the time. The horizon has just begun to turn pale blue.
The shelduck preens its wing for a moment and stares around with a plucked feather in its beak, then looks back from where it came. If Hanzo’s memory is to be believed, it’s a female, with a pale red beak and a white ring around each eye. Even in the dim morning, the white of her chest and belly are stunning.
Hanzo realises he’s interrogating the intricacies of a duck and almost makes to start jogging, but is stopped yet again when a white ball of fluff pops out from beneath the bush, followed closely by five more. Each coloured like they’ve been messily wrapped in black ribbon. Finishing the troupe, a male parts the leaves and shakes himself off, red beak bright against the black of his face.
With her family successfully gathered, the mother duck gives a laugh-like call and waddles her way across the path. Tiny slaps of webbed feet are all that can be heard, and Hanzo shakes his head when he finds it swivelling to watch them go.
Another tap to his watch and he continues as planned, pocket heavier by the weight of a single feather.
Hot steam fills Hanzo’s lungs and the coarse loofa glides over his shoulders, pulling away the dead skin and sweat of the morning. Red flush blooms over his whole body. Hanzo practically boils himself every morning in the pursuit of cleanliness and it shows; it is not without great effort that he constantly smells of pear and vanilla. That his skin is as flawless as his accuracy. What others may see as emasculating, Hanzo knows, is the result of immense precision and discipline.
Washing his face with the same products, in the same order, every morning and night. Refusing to use anything but the best. Meticulous care of his teeth, hair, and nails. Clipped short and shiny. Avoiding the horrific feeling of his nails catching on the fabric of his clothes.
Hanzo’s silk tie slips slowly through his fingers before he pulls it upward, tying the long strands up away from his nape.
He does it all without thought, without any feeling besides quiet satisfaction. He re-enters himself only when he meets his own eyes in the mirror, suddenly aware of the air in his lungs and the ache in his arm. An ache that sinks low in his stomach, threatening to fester.
Brown eyes trace along fading lines of blue and black. Following down each cloud and scale, roaming down his forearm. Hanzo’s head flicks up before he finds the beast’s eyes, and he grips the sink with white knuckles.
Hanzo turns his head and quickly grabs his awaiting turtleneck, pressing it to his nose and breathing in deeply. Soft floral wash soothes over the roiling in his gut and settles his mind, allowing him a calm breath out. He pulls it on quickly and smoothes it over his skin, picking off little dust particles until it’s spotless.
“Agent Shimada.” Hanzo jolts at Athena’s voice, glowering upward. “You have been nominated for wellness inquiries; if you do not retrieve a meal, I must-”
“-Alert Commander Winston.”
“-Alert Commander Winston.”
“I am aware.” Hanzo sighs. Truthfully, he hadn’t any intention of skipping breakfast. But, now that he knows he is expected to attend, a nagging irritation crawls beneath his skin.
Regardless, he is above his own immature urges. Quiet clicks follow as he opens the slat windows of his dorm, breathing the saline breeze for a single moment before turning on his heel and leaving the room.
Angela and Genji have already found their spot on the old blue couch, sequestered off in their own personal corner. Genji waves. Hanzo nods back. Scents of butter and burnt toast lingers in the air and Hanzo crinkles a nostril. Walking on autopilot, searching silently through the cabinets until he finds the dinky box of assam tea. Unlabelled and made from thin cardboard, bought from a humble local business down in Gibraltar proper. There’s a small solace to be found in that.
While Hanzo sits and drinks, reading idly over his holopad, agents drift through at various points of wakefulness; Lucio and Hana emerge together on polar opposite sides of the spectrum, one clinging to her MEKA brand licensed bunny cushion while the other practically vibrates out of his own skin. Mei appears in a unique blend of pajama pants and an Overwatch v-neck, and Echo gathers seemingly just for socialisation.
Hyper-awareness has always been a skill Hanzo covets. Given the opportunity, he’d keep his head on a 360 swivel at all times, but metal legs are more than enough cybernetic hardware for one lifetime. Always on high-alert, always distinctly awake. Never has he known an hour of true rest. Not since the dragons.
Hence the tension in his shoulders when he notices Mei sneaking glances at him while the kettle boils. Fear adorns her like a permanent cling film. Exposes itself in the crease of her brow and the constant wringing of her hands. Hanzo follows the movements in tiny glimpses up from his task, calculating any and all possible motivations she may have for choosing him to place her focus on.
Has he worn the wrong shirt? Ridiculous. His hair does not feel loose either. He checks if he used one of her mugs by mistake and finds a bland white mug staring back, the same he chose with conscious purpose. Centipedes crawl up Hanzo’s spine and his expression pinches, but he refuses to adjust himself under her scrutiny. Mei is not actually looking at him anymore. No matter, Hanzo knows better than to drop his guard.
Hanzo scrolls through another news story but he isn’t reading the words. At least, he’s trying to, but they refuse to stick into the creases of his brain. Much too focused on the slight humidity change of the room and the way it makes his shirt cling to him just that bit tighter. The balminess of his palms and how desperately he wants to wipe them off on his pants. He doesn’t. Bitterness from a stray bit of tea leaf stuck to his
“Zǎo shang hǎo.” Mei sits in the seat next to Hanzo with a soft smile, a warm pink mug set on a little tray in front of her. Hanzo blinks at her. She caught him off guard. Her smile falters, “Genji mentioned you both learned Chinese?”
“We did.” He replies, blunt but fluent. This seems to soothe her for a moment, then confuse her slightly.
“Um. I noticed you reading, are you preparing for a mission?”
“No.”
Mei’s brows furrow a little more and Hanzo instantly knows he’s doing something wrong, but he cannot pinpoint what. He’s answering her questions, his tone is clear. Where has he slipped?
Ice water fills his stomach and cotton clogs his throat. Frustration is mounting at his own apparent incompetence and it’s clearly showing on his face, if the sudden widening of Mei’s eyes is anything to go by. Sweat is gathering in the creases of Hanzo’s palms again and he wants to cut them off at the wrist. Before he can try again, a voice interrupts with.
“Mei! I’ve been telling Genji all about your schematics for that new intravascular coolant system.” Angela beckons her over with a waving hand and Mei looks desperately between the doctor and Hanzo, who already knows the inevitable outcome.
“Excuse me, Hanzo, I, um. Thank you.” Mei awkwardly stands and gathers her tea, stalling for a second only to bow her head and squeak out a quick goodbye. Rushing over to Genji and Angela as if fleeing the cage of a starving tiger. Hanzo stares after her for a moment, until he notices Genji staring at him in-turn.
Humiliation is all he can feel. That, and perhaps failure. Failure at the very thing humans are taught from birth to do. Dishonouring the decades of education he was forced through beneath gargantuan Shimada talons.
Sunken deep beneath his skin, leaving their gaping wounds behind. Hanzo happens to flick his eyes in the other direction and sees Hana and Lucio leaning against each other, huddled like spies and glancing between Hanzo and his titanium-fleshed brother. Wounds ripping open all over again, bleeding directly down his heaving chest.
It’s impossible to know how quickly it happened or when he even stood up, but Hanzo finds himself suddenly back in his room. Spine flush to the door, knees stinging, hand shaking where it clutches painfully into the meat of his chest. All he remembers is a flash of blue and a snap of electricity rocketing through the bones of his left arm. Black prickles sputter in his vision and his throat feels tight, inflamed. It stings from how quickly he’s breathing. The air is more humid than it was before; more humid than it should be.
Hot air bellows over his face and he snaps his head up.
“Ah!” Two giant pairs of eyes tower over him. Glowing over gigantic maws and flowing whiskers. Bright blue engulfs the room. Drowns it. Drowns him. Scales and claws and manes come in and out of focus dizzyingly fast and Hanzo whimpers. Slides down to the floor like a terrified child, hands up and trembling to guard his face.
私たちに話しかけて
Pressure like the bottom of the ocean presses in on Hanzo’s ears. Wet heat pours down the sides of his face. Soaks into his beard. Nickel and petrichor invade his nose.
彼らは君を侮辱している
Rage like a thousand suns surges through his veins and burns Hanzo from the inside out. Writhing, he claws at his chest and throat. Desperate to breathe under the tears pouring from his eyes. He feels like that little boy again. Rain pours over him.
彼らの血は我々の手にかかるだろう
Thunder screams and lightning nearly blinds Hanzo as his burning body squirms on the damp carpet, rubbing his skin raw while his nails try to tear open his throat like a fox gnawing its own ankle. Pins and needles spread over his scalp in waves, then migrate down to his lips, his jaw, his ears. Crawling up his cramping thighs until moving even an inch becomes nerve shredding agony.
Footsteps pitter outside the door. Someone knocks. Hanzo cannot respond.
“Brother?” Genji’s modulated voice is muffled through the door.
“Leave.” Hanzo does not respond in their native tongue. Instead, his words come harsh through gritted teeth. Squeezed through the shreds of his fading consciousness.
“Are you alright? Athena, check on-“
“Leave!” Hanzo hears the dragons roar from his throat and their bodies curl in on themselves like vipers. Far too ready to strike. Hanzo gargles on rainwater and sputters, gasping down droplets that set spasms through his ribs. Footsteps retreat, but not far enough. Voices, muffled and concerned, whisper through the suffocating walls.
On the edge of consciousness, comes
“You doin’ alright in there..?”
Footsteps that are silent only when he wants them to be.
Hanzo’s face is dry. When his eyes refocus, he sees the eggshell ceiling of his room, lit softly by the early morning sunlight streaming in through the little slat window. Gasping for breath, he pulls himself upright and feels for the blood at his ears, but his fingers come back clean.
Just as he’d been when he woke up, Hanzo is alone again.
“Hanzo?”
Except, he isn’t.
“… Leave, Cassidy.” Hanzo croaks. There’s a moment of silence, and he feels his heart sink just the slightest bit.
“No-can-do, darlin’. Your dipstick brother woke me up n’ now I’m makin’ it your problem.” Hanzo can hear the sheepish smirk in Cole’s voice. Wary of saying the wrong thing. It is what lifts him to his feet.
There’s a hiss as the door slides open and there stands agent Cassidy, hair a mess and still dressed in his cow skull sleeping pants. Hanzo’s appearance murders his smirk in cold blood.
“Woah.” Cole flinches when the word leaves his mouth but Hanzo only blinks at the man, refusing to acknowledge the bit of amusement that squirms in his chest. “You-… You’re lookin’ a little roughed up.” Hanzo sees Genji tense from the corner of his eye and sighs. Despite his lack of people skills, Hanzo has at least learned the tone of a concerned cowboy.
“I am fine. I am sorry my brother woke you for such a trivial reason.”
“Trivial? You ran off like a-“
“Ain’t no bother, partner, really. Jus’ means I got an excuse for a nap later.” Cole smiles like it’s as easy as breathing and it brings a lightness to Hanzo’s feet that almost has him swaying. “M’ already awake. Care for some day-drinkin’?” And there it is. Hanzo’s lip curls just enough to expose himself, and the glint that lights up Cole’s eye shows he caught it.
Cole Cassidy is… easy.
Not in skill, or mind, or trust. Hanzo once thought of the freedom fight’s favourite cowboy that way, but the clan made him a quick learner.
Cole is easy to work with. This meant a quick death for Hanzo’s usual lone-wolf routine, no matter how vehemently he tried to fight it. Hanzo’s precise reflexes and tactical skill are incredible, but he eventually had to admit to being far too stuck in his own head when the situation called for an improvisational mind — a mind like Cole’s. Adversely, Cole Cassidy’s prowess for espionage and sheer physical power are impossible to overestimate, but his impulse control was sloppy. Bring in a former Yakuza king with an eye for detail, and their weaknesses quickly became the other’s strength.
More importantly, — and far harder to admit — Cole Cassidy is easy to be around. Supremely easy. So much so, that even when their interactions teetered on violence during Hanzo’s initial days, one was never seen at the training range without the other. Once only a chance to threaten each other, the respect that broke through was undeniable.
“Then — and I shit ‘chu not, Han — he pressed the barrel right up the fella’s ass and-“
Despite it all, Hanzo can still confidently say that Cole is utterly insufferable.
“You are disgusting.” Hanzo frowns, but he bursts into laughter when they make eye contact. A collection of novelty shot glasses are splayed around on the ground between them, all in various western shapes; cow skulls, cacti. Cole drinks from a cowboy boot, and Hanzo’s is the matching hat.
“Naw, I’m charming.” Cole argues, smiling over his glass. Throwing back another shot, Cole looks into his glass for a moment. “You wanna talk about what happened?”
“No.”
Cole doesn’t react in the slightest. “A’right.” And he fills their glasses again, smiling just as he had been before. Smiling like he does when he knows he’ll get what he wants.
When Hanzo sighs, Cole’s smile widens.
“I am still unwanted here.” And that wipes the smile away in an instant.
“Huh?”
“It is my own fault.” Hanzo says, staring into his glass. “Mei tried to speak with me this morning. I spoke back. I looked her in the eyes. Yet, still, I was clearly… inadequate.” Another shot of whiskey, burning his throat on the way down. Cole’s whole body reads disappointment, and it threatens to drown Hanzo.
“Well. Y’know, Mei, she’s…” Cole swirls his glass as he thinks, grimacing at the lack of flattering words. “She’s shy. Stunnin’ mind, don’t gemme wrong, but her heart’s a little too big for her body sometimes.”
Brown eyes find Cole again for a moment, but the belief quickly dissipates. “It was not only her.”
With Cole, silence is never uncomfortable. Even in moments of awkwardness, or anger, Hanzo would choose it over the silence of his own dorm — or, God forbid, the silence when he enters a room.
“Genji has forgiven me.” Hanzo’s fingers idly trace the rim of his glass. Watching gravity drag an auburn droplet in lazy arcs. His brows scrunch. “I am trying to forgive myself. To believe the platitudes he offers me. Yet, I am stuck.”
“He sees in me something I cannot. I owe him my effort in trying. I owe him an end to this ‘pity party’ I keep finding myself in. But again and again I find myself asking if he is biased; if these outside eyes — these people I am expected to call my friends — have a far clearer image of who I truly am. Who I am, stripped of honour, of pride. Stripped of whatever good will my brother has somehow fabricated for me.”
Tension comes off of Cole in waves. His hand closest to Hanzo is tense.
“They do not like what they see.” Hanzo finishes.
Quiet reigns over them for a long moment, until something in Cole changes.
“Nah.” He starts, then his frown deepens and he straightens up. “Nah, fuck that.”
Hanzo snaps his head to the side, “What?”
“You’re talkin’ bullshit.” Cole stares Hanzo right in the eyes and turns to half-face him, which almost sets Hanzo off.
“What are you-“
“You got it all backwards, Han.” Cole’s brows upturn and Hanzo jerks back slightly. “All we ever knew about you was what you did to Genji. That, n’ all the crazy gang shit you got on your file.”
“And that is part of-“
“And. That ain’t all you are.” Cole corrects. He stares Hanzo down. Hanzo lets him. “Genji was with you through aaall’at bullshit, and he followed you right on through to the other side. He’s seen all the pain we didn’ get to see. All the training n’ badgerin’ n’ scary shit a little kid ain’t ever supposed to go through.” For a moment, Hanzo thinks he sees regret in Cole's eyes. “If anyone’s got bias, it’s them; Genji’s the only one with the whole story.”
“Rest of ‘em,” Cole settles, waving a dismissive hand. “They’re jus’ runnin’ on ghost stories.”
Hanzo stares at Cole for a long moment. Studying the slope of his badly healed nose and the sharp scar under his eye. Then, he mirrors Cole’s gaze over the sea.
“But not you?” Hanzo asks, softly.
Cole’s eyes shift once, then he throws back another shot. For courage, perhaps. “Not anymore.”
Something in Hanzo wilts, though he isn’t surprised. It must show, as Cole sighs through his nose.
“I was so ready to hate you.” He starts, voice low and bitter. “After seein’ that boy ripped apart n’ put back together again, I told myself; one wrong move, n’ your brain was gonna paint the walls.” Cole looks at Hanzo, then, and for a split second his blood runs cold. Only in battle has he seen Cole look like that. Then a blink, and it’s gone. “But when I saw you on that tarmac, you looked so…”
Pathetic. Egregious. Unworthy.
“Tired.” Cole says it softly, like he’s worried about being insulting. Hanzo looks up and it must give Cole some kind of permission. “You looked exhausted, Hanzo. Here I was, expecting some macho killer with his spiky head stuck up his own ass. Then out walks you.” Cole chuckles and it smooths over every ounce of offence.
Hanzo smirks slightly and swirls his glass, “You’re saying I looked too pitiful to hate.” But Cole shakes his head. Smiling like he knows too much.
“I’m sayin’ you looked like me.”
Cole has the infuriating ability to pull a story out of anyone. Hanzo thinks that may simply be the nature of story tellers; they share their tales of joy and sadness, they tear themselves asunder as if it affects them as weakly as a spring breeze. Then, when they’re done, the silence leaves such a vacuum that one cannot help but fill the space. It is the only reason Cole finds out that, among the many stories Genji has told of their time at Rikimaru, Hanzo was the one who reigned supreme in their petty competitions. It is how Cole gets the privilege of laughing along when Hanzo reveals where his sweet tooth originated; a single, rebellious night out to a local street vendor.
It is how Cole manages to pull forth the story of Hanzo’s nightmare.
“… I can’t blame ya for bein’ in a bad mood.” It clearly takes effort for Cole to pull his eyes from Hanzo’s arm.
“It is not new. It was just.” Hanzo’s left hand trembles. “More vivid than usual.”
Cole’s glass clinks on the concrete and he leans forward, wiping a palm over his face. He looks almost exasperated when he asks, “Hanzo, are you-“ he second guesses himself, then decides to shimmy closer and look Hanzo in the eye. “Are you okay?”
Hanzo stares into his glass, and refuses to drink.
“I have no reason to be anything else.” He replies dryly. More blunt than he intended. Cole sits back, but he doesn’t seem offended. He deflates a little; a stress reliever he does often, like a dog shaking off stress.
“Well, for what it’s worth, which I know prolly ain’t much,” Cole grins, but the charm softens like butter. “I reckon this team is a hell-of-a lot better with you on it.”
No amount of discipline can stop Hanzo’s eyes from finding Cole in that moment. Deep in his soul, something purrs.
Three weeks and two days pass. Hanzo still cannot sleep.
All he sees behind his eyelids is Sojiro’s face; abstract or impressionistic most times. Made of shadows and blood and rage. Other times, he seems too detailed. As if Hanzo is focusing on every pore, every hair, every drop of sweat entirely all at once. With the dragons also demanding his attention in nearly every waking moment, Hanzo has been waking up more exhausted than he went to sleep for several days. Others are starting to notice.
“I cannot, in good conscience, send an agent into the field with their health so clearly at risk." Winston’s glasses are set on his desk while he rubs his eyes. They’ve had this conversation three times already and his gentle demeanour is starting to crack. “Not only for your own safety, but the rest of the team’s too.”
“I am not ill.” Hanzo insists with heavy bags under his eyes.
Winston sighs through his nose. “Agent Shimada, I understand that your…” Winston purses his lips. “… Former training was far more intense than what is expected here. While we do need our agents to be in peak physical condition, that should never come at the cost of their well-being.” Winston smiles, then, like he’s doing Hanzo a favour. Hanzo fails to resist scowling. “Healthy agents make a healthy team, and a healthy team means successful missions!”
Hanzo’s eyes fall and he seems to genuinely consider Winston’s words, until the scientist says “I know I’ve had you sidelined for a little while, but I simply wanted to-“
Hanzo’s head snaps up. “You have been excluding me from missions?” Instantly, Winston knows he’s doomed himself.
A mission brief waits in Hanzo’s inbox the next morning.
By the time the team boards the Orca, Hanzo is running on two hours of sleep per night — at best.
Asa-sensei calls his name. Poor form, leaving his chest open to attack. Snapping his name between her teeth. Hanzo. Hanzo. Hanzo.
“Hanzo!”
Vivian’s voice barks through the comm and Hanzo’s eyes shoot open.
“Area clear.” He mutters, trying to blink away his own exhaustion.
“I prefer my agents awake and alert during missions, Shimada.” Vivian’s back is pressed to a wall multiple flights below Hanzo’s vantage point. Wuyang waits at her flank, with Echo hovering just outside of Hanzo’s sight. As much as the critique is warranted, the embarrassment makes Hanzo’s lip curl. He decides not to respond.
Talon’s new directives have laid waste to more towns and villages than even Overwatch has been able to count; Hana, Hawaii was flattened when the locals refused to evacuate after warnings of a ‘tsunami’. Elders in the community disproved the claims made by Talon’s planted ‘weather reporters’, but it was far too late. Iruya, Argentina was targeted within a day, with several houses pummelled by rock slides after plain-clothes ‘safety officers’ led residents from their homes. Days later, it was discovered by local sleuths that explosives had been planted into the surrounding mountain ranges. An unknown business — suspected of association with Maximilian — bought the newly demolished land within a week of the evacuation.
Scobey, Montana. Kalpa, India. Hallstatt, Austria. All small communities, largely disconnected from their surrounding cities. Each and every town has been evacuated due to unprecedented natural disasters, with their residents largely left uncared for and destitute.
Winston tracked Talon’s movements to Rothenburg ob der Tauber, Germany. Hanzo is laid on his belly within one of the towering city walls, staring across the skyline. Watching red-capped shadows dart through alleyways.
A black warehouse sticks out like a sore thumb among the aged architecture.
Wuyang takes a visibly deep breath. “You’ve got our backs, right? Hanzo?” Hanzo rolls his eyes and, again, refuses to answer. He spots Vivian glaring at him from below, and taps his comm.
“My alertness is not of concern.” He warns, then blinks a few times. His vision clears for a second. “… Route clear. Move.” Wuyang and Vivian share a glance, then Vivian sighs and jerks her head toward the street. The trio hug the wall as they close in on the warehouse and Hanzo follows them with the tip of his arrow.
Five Talon grunts meet quick deaths when they emerge from an alley, and their uniforms are taken and donned by Vivian, Wuyang, and Echo. The three disappear through great black doors and out of Hanzo’s sight, leaving him to do nothing but sit and wait.
Hanzo only realises he’s fallen asleep when his eyes spring open, barely catching a flash of blue to his left. Adrenaline spikes in his blood and he flips over, aiming his bow between his knees. Cold air heaves through his lungs but he sees nothing. Only feels the lingering ache of power in his left arm.
Just as he relaxes the string, his comm comes alive. “We got the intel. Heading your way, Shimada.” Hanzo flips back over and watches his teammates bolt back down the street and scatter through alleys, weaving in and out of his view. Several enemy operatives follow behind and he nails most of them with an arrow through the neck. Smirking at their glaring tactical weakness.
Running down flights of stairs, Hanzo is feet from the entrance when the slip of a shoe squeaks behind him. Spinning around, he stares into the darkness. Glaring, eyes blurry.
“… Enough.” Snarling at himself, Hanzo shakes his head and runs. Refusing to let weakness shatter his mind.
Reuniting in the street, Vivian watches Hanzo like a hawk. He stares right back, but she does not flinch.
“We’re not being followed?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
Hanzo’s brows scrunch and he stays silent, looking ahead as they flee. As if she has any right to question his judgement — he has been through harsher trials than she could ever understand. Than anyone in Overwatch’s naive collective could understand. Beaten until he bled to hone his concentration. Forced to balance, silent, for hours on end. Testing his constitution.
She had been right to question him.
It was swift — perhaps the only mercy. Only an hour after returning to their safehouse, Talon descended upon them like a bird of prey, violent and hungry. Hanzo’s senses had failed them all, and he’d led an agent right to them. No footsteps, no voices. Only a quiet ticking before the first explosion erupted. Fog had flooded the house and obscured the exits, followed fast by a rabid, merciless blaze. Wuyang had been their only saving grace, and even he hadn’t been spared the worst of the burns.
“We lost it all, Winston.” Vivian groans, hunched over in her seat. “The fire- the USB melted. I don’t think even you can make this anything more than a tiny paperweight.” Her eyes dart to Hanzo and her nose wrinkles. He looks away.
Wuyang is holding himself with his eyes closed tightly, suppressing cries of pain as he desperately tries to soothe the warped and red skin on his arms. Hanzo tries not to think about the smell of the boy’s hair burning.
In the surrounding silence, he can gather snippets of Winston’s anguish; Talon will surely relocate. All traces of their presence in the town will be wiped and all of Overwatch’s efforts will be for naught. All because of one mistake — Hanzo’s mistake.
It’s barely 2am when the battered team lands at Gibraltar, coming home to the worried and disappointed faces of Winston and Angela. Vivian shoulders past him to get out and he watches Wuyang and Echo follow behind, their faces weighed down by anger, pain and exhaustion. Were she not already so modified, Vivian likely would have lost her legs to the fire.
Despite it all, Hanzo feels numb.
Time slows as he watches the world around him. Staring down as Angela runs to her beloved teammates and rounds them up for treatment, touching their faces and shoulders with more care than her sleepless mind should be capable of.
With feet made of lead, Hanzo steps slowly to the doors. Feeling nothing at the harsh stare of his commander, swirling with an equal mix of anger and guilt. Barely reacting at all when Angela brushes him off in favour of the others, giving him a cold press and a small nano-pack before sending him on his way.
It’s almost peaceful, seeing the base so late. Each light he walks beneath switches on, then switches back off as he passes. A rhythmic pulse of soft light that hypnotises his brain even further, turning him to nothing more than a walking fog.
A turn and he’s in his hallway. His door only a few feet away.
In front of it, Cole stands with his arms crossed. Hat shadowing his face even in the low light.
Hanzo can suddenly feel again and he wishes he couldn’t.
Cole moves and Hanzo’s heart rockets into his throat so fast he fears he may throw it up. Frozen to the floor. Staring helplessly as Cole marches closer with his hat tipped low.
This was a long time coming, Hanzo tells himself, trying to soothe the agonising sickness climbing up his windpipe. Cowering back into the comfort of self-hatred.
It was inevitable.
Hanzo never belonged with heroes.
“Cassidy.” Yet he tries to reason. “I will do whatever you-“
Hanzo’s breath freezes.
Warmth overtakes his thoughts as Cole’s arms wrap around him, so tight it’s almost painful. Hanzo’s chin has to lift to fit the man’s thick shoulder and his back has to bow inward with the force of Cole’s embrace.
Only now, Hanzo feels Cole shaking.
“… I thought you were gone.” So close to a whimper. Wetness seeps onto Hanzo’s shoulder and the dam finally breaks.
Hanzo wraps his arms around Cole’s middle. Both knowing their tears will be their secret.