Chapter Text
Hanzo opens the new chapter of his life by walking back to the dais and completing the ritual.
Going through the familiar motions helps him refocus, centers him and dampens the whiplash; whether they make sense is a secondary matter. A change of form would help more, but the very thought of doing so in this place fills his throat with a sudden taste of bile and makes him bare his teeth in a silent snarl.
The third time his eyes stray towards the feather laid out in front of him, he suddenly remembers about the other one, the one that not-Genji left behind before disappearing in a cloud of smoke. It couldn't have been Genji, but it must have been Genji, with the exact same penchant for unnecessary dramatics — he had always loved the smoke bomb maneuver, used to laugh at Hanzo's disapproval of circus-worthy stunts. It was as much of a staple in Genji's arsenal of tricks as the sparrowhawk feathers.
Slowly, reluctantly, he rises and goes to look. There it is, resting precariously at the very edge of the lower terrace, ready to be blown away by the slightest breeze. Hanzo stops, leans against the wooden pillar and waits for a gust of wind that would make the events of the night nothing more than a particularly ugly dream.
Nothing. A minute passes, two, in silence broken only by his breathing and an occasional gentle clank of a sōzu in the gardens below. The wind doesn't come.
The quill gleams in his fingers with the smooth perfection of hardlight: a data drive.
He takes it with him leaving Hanamura, and for three days he carries it around, unread but always in his pocket; accessing the contents of the microdrive feels like acknowledging the impossible fact of Genji's return from the dead. On the fourth day, after staring at it over a bottle of sake for the better part of an hour, he gives up.
The quill slots easily into his tablet. The microdrive is password protected. Hanzo closes his eyes against the urge to crush it in his fist, holds his breath, considers.
Password:
> sparrow
Decrypting...
He bites his lip, hard. Of course.
The drive contains a single text document. The security scan finds nothing; Hanzo taps it open. A phone number — an American area code — and a set of coordinates. Nothing more.
Genji's love of dramatics, again.
Hanzo stares at the number, closes his eyes, rubs his forehead, pours another cup of sake. A quick map check proves that the coordinates point to a rural, mountainous area thirty kilometers outside Nagoya.
His flight to Shanghai leaves in four hours.
It's time to pick a side.
Hanzo scoffs harshly, draining the cup. In his line of work there are no sides, only bidders, and those who pay for his services today may very well find themselves unwilling recipients of his attention tomorrow. He pulls the drive out without bothering to close the document and turns it in his fingers: the delicate hardlight vane, an unnecessary decoration, has already begun fraying at the edges. Hanzo rips it off and watches the construct flicker and disappear. He would have to apply a bit more force to destroy the drive itself.
Twice he picks it up with both hands, ready to snap it in half, and twice he puts it down again, tiny and dangerous like a scorpion.
His tablet chimes with a reminder of the upcoming flight. Leave now, it says; expect heavy traffic on parts of the Chuo expressway. The assistant lights up with an alternative route, Tomei through Yokohama. Not much faster.
Hanzo shoves the drive into his pocket and stands. He has a flight to catch and a job to do.
Six weeks later
The newest job is almost too easy. Truthfully, anyone with a pair of functioning eyes could carry out the hit, and the escape shouldn't pose much more of a problem, but Hanzo isn't usually hired just to kill these days. His expensive services are a means to send a message.
One could say that Hanzo is in fashion in certain parts of the society.
He mixes with the partygoers easily. Sano Tatsuki fancies himself a patron of the arts, and a large number of guests are distinctly bohemian in appearance: colorful clothing, colorful hair, gleam and glitter, plastic and metal, hardlight and glass. Compared to some, Hanzo looks positively understated with his undercut, a handful of piercings and clothes that cover most of his body and aren't even the slightest bit see-through. His level of extravagance is a carefully calculated average: he doesn't want to draw attention by being either too flashy or too somber.
He meanders through the crowd slowly, with the benign smile of someone moderately stoned, careful not to take too straight a course towards his destination. There is a considerable chance that he will get affected by all of the secondhand smoke he's inhaling. No matter — it shouldn't slow him down, not unless he indulges in alcohol, too. Hanzo has no plans to indulge. The crowds make his skin crawl, and he prefers to get drunk in the safety of his own hideout, later.
The tables are already besieged. Hanzo knows of two professions that will descend upon any free food like a wake of vultures: artists and engineers. There is a real, albeit small, risk that the table bearing the case with his bow and arrows will get emptied and rolled out before he manages to elbow his way to it. He's lucky; he catches the eye of a steward, a handsome young man, he lets his smile grow suggestive and his eyes roam appreciatively, and one inane conversation and one phone number in his pocket later, he's at the table. All that remains is to wait, drop a napkin at an opportune moment and reach underneath when no one is looking.
Security doesn't pay the slightest bit of attention to yet another musician with an instrument case slung across his back, and the bonbori-lit garden has plenty of dark spaces with a sufficient line of sight to the stage. Hanzo could assemble and string the bow blindfolded; this soft darkness doesn't even slow his movements. With the bow safely hidden in an azalea shrub, he sits under a maple tree and waits, listening to the music that carries throughout the garden.
Sano Tatsuki, the fifth wealthiest individual in Japan, patron of the arts, hobbyist performer, sexual predator and serial blackmailer, dies a truly spectacular death from a neurotoxin-dipped arrow after he steps on the stage to perform his rendition of a famous monodrama "The Fever", the moment after the monologue reaches the phrase "Your love of beauty could actually kill you."
The message has been sent.
Escaping the garden is as trivial as entering it had been. The bow leaves no smoke, makes no noise, and all he needs to do is fold it quickly and join the stampede of a panicked crowd while the grisly noises of Sano's agony rattle through the speakers. The sound engineers clearly haven't thought of disabling his microphone yet. It is a nice touch, Hanzo thinks wryly; his employer should be more than pleased with the final effect.
He drags his feet walking back to the car. The night is warm, stiflingly so, the satisfaction of a task well executed refuses to come, and he has no other jobs lined up, no goal to pursue other than the increasing urge to get drunk and pass out in the tiny flat he rents on the other side of the city. Perhaps he should have indulged in the pleasures of the party instead of just waiting for his cue, should have had a smoke or a drink or maybe even a quick tryst with the bright-eyed steward; he would've had to be blind drunk to miss that shot, and a dose of endorphins could have carried him through to another day.
Too late to regret it now, anyway.
His phone rings with an intrusion alert before he makes it out of Meitō-ku. A long, high-pitched signal of the kitchen window sensor transitions into the frantic beeping of the motion detector in the living room, and by the time he finds a place to stop the car, pulls out the tablet and opens the slow-loading monitoring app, the cameras have already been destroyed. The adrenaline dissipates as fast as it appeared: there is nothing he can do, no point going back now, not when the intruders have the strategic advantage while already outnumbering him, judging by the readings of the motion detector, at least three to one.
He closes his eyes and briefly tips his head back against the headrest. He quite liked that flat: quiet, sunny, minimally furnished, a good place to rest between travels.
At least this time he did not leave anything of personal value behind.
He gives himself a moment to mourn another addition to the long list of places he's been forced to abandon, lets out a slow breath, starts the car and turns towards the Nagoya Station. It's less than a twenty minutes' ride through emptying streets, during which Hanzo lets himself think of nothing at all. The monotony of driving works almost as well as meditation, and by the time he pulls in at a temporary parking spot in front of the twin towers of the station, he is back in the state of numbness that passes for calm these days. The car rolls away as soon as it's dismissed, and Hanzo mixes into the crowd.
Most passengers in need of luggage storage go for the touchscreen-operated lockers near the southern entrance; he walks right past those and further north, towards the old-fashioned ones with physical locks, because he would rather not leave his fingerprints around if he can help it, and a key-operated locker can't be hacked by a random bored teenager waiting for a train. He leaves the area five hundred yen poorer and with a duffel bag over his shoulder. He heads towards the toilets, locks himself in the farthest in a long row of cabins and rummages in the bag for a pink plastic phone adorned with a pachimari charm.
As soon as the 110 picks up, Hanzo cups it close to his face, affects a shaky, hushed voice of a frightened civilian, rattles out that he saw armed people, at least three of them, and there was a sound that might have been a gunshot, then recites the address of his apartment in downtown Nagoya and disconnects before he's asked to identify himself. On a whim, he detaches the pachimari from the phone before he crushes it under his foot, and clips the little charm onto a D-ring on the strap of his backpack.
The shattered remains of the phone land in the trash in the station's nearest Starbucks. Hanzo buys a large, triple-shot latte, glances at the layout of cameras, drops his bags in a pile and sits in a corner, with his back safely to the wall.
Tiredness washes over him in a bitter wave. He could send a confirmation to his current employer, but it would be a waste of another phone; they will know of his success soon enough. He has no reason to go back to the apartment — whoever is waiting for him there will, hopefully, soon be occupied with a visit from an armed response unit — and no pressing need to take another job, his accounts padded enough that even tonight's contract he had accepted more out of appreciation for the concept than anything else. The thought of searching for another decent place to rent nauseates him.
He should probably relocate to another city, anyway. Chances are that property rentals in Nagoya are already being monitored.
The urge to rest his head on crossed arms, just for a moment, is overwhelming, but he absolutely cannot afford the risk of falling asleep in public. The soft music coming from the speakers doesn't help. Hanzo takes a long gulp of the coffee, reaches to rub the bridge of his nose with the other hand and startles a little when his fingers touch metal. He completely forgot about the piercing, already healed thanks to the achievements of modern medicine and judicious application of biotics. He should probably take it out as soon as he can. What was tastefully understated at one of Sano Tatsuki's parties is no longer so on the streets, and the last thing he needs at this moment is to draw attention.
Out of the corner of his eye, he finally notices he is being watched.
At this hour, the cafe is nearly empty except for a few regulars, hunched over their laptops and tablets, and the baristas have nothing to do. One of them, the plump girl with startlingly blue hair who brewed his coffee, has been staring at him openly for who knows how long now. Hanzo tenses in his chair. Surely he hasn't been recognized? He's not officially wanted, not to his knowledge, and even if he was, the haircut and the piercings are a drastic enough departure from his usual style that they should provide a sufficient disguise—
She smiles at him from behind the counter and gives a little wave. Oh.
He's so tired and out of it that it takes him way too long to smile back and raise his fingers in a greeting. The girl clearly doesn't mind, because she picks something out of the fridge and heads straight for his table.
"Hi again," she says and puts a cup of matcha pudding right in front of him. "Long day, huh?"
Hanzo blinks at the little green pot. "I did not—"
"It's on the house." She has dimples and more piercings than his disguise, and the smile looks genuine. "You looked like you could use a little pick-me-up, and sugar makes everything better. I'll bring you a spoon in just a second. Would you like some whipped cream on top?"
"…Yes, please," he says finally. "Thank you."
"No problem. I'll be right back."
He should probably offer her more than just a smile in exchange for the kindness. He should express his appreciation and strike up a meaningless conversation, if only to make himself less of a memorable guest than he has already, and he's in the process of steeling himself for it when he's unexpectedly relieved of the need to do so: the girl sprays a generous dollop of whipped cream onto his pudding, sticks a spoon directly into it, says "Life will look better tomorrow morning, you'll see," and briskly leaves.
It's not likely, but he can at least resist muttering it under his breath, send her a smile of thanks instead and lick the first bittersweet mouthful off the spoon. It’s time to start!, proclaims the English phrase on the side of the cup, and he doesn't know if it's because of the electric green color of the packaging or the words themselves, but it makes him think of the encounter in Hanamura and the cyborg wearing Genji's eyes.
The world is changing once again, Hanzo, and it's time to pick a side.
Genji and his stupid dramatic declarations. What does that even mean? The world is just the same as it was yesterday and it will be the same tomorrow, the rich feeding on the poor, the strong preying on the weak, and in the middle of it Hanzo, stuck in an endless cycle of attempting to regain something that can never be truly recovered once lost.
The data drive still sits in the breast pocket of his jacket, untouched, with its phone number and coordinates of a place that he has not yet visited despite being an hour's drive away. Of all the courses of action available to him at this moment, calling an unknown number left by the ghost of the brother he'd murdered is at least not guaranteed to be unpleasant.
He dips a hand in the pocket. For a brief, adrenaline-filled moment he thinks he lost the drive, but no, it's there, tangled in the lint and dusty, but intact. Despite his expectations, it still works, the password still decrypts, the data is still there. Hanzo saves the number under ???, marks the coordinates on the map as ?????, stares for a moment at his short contact list, then presses the call button.
Silence, then a pleasant, feminine, robotic voice: "We're sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service."
"Genji gave me this number," he interrupts, sticking another spoonful of matcha-flavored sweetness in his mouth.
More silence. "Good evening, Mr. Tanaka. Are you still in possession of the coordinates?"
Hanzo barely contains a snort: it's as if he's suddenly in a spy movie. "Yes."
"Will you be able to appear there tomorrow, at ten P.M. your time?"
It may very well be a trap. The cyborg could have been a Shimada puppet, taught Genji's mannerisms and the basic history of their conflict, but for a puppet, he was unusually skilled, and if it is a trap, it's a really unnecessarily elaborate one. As the events of today have proven, Hanzo doesn't put a whole lot of effort into avoiding the assassins. He doesn't normally have to. Had he been present in the flat at the moment of the break-in, before the intruders had the chance to entrench themselves, he would have likely dispatched them just as the countless others beforehand.
In the end, curiosity and the lack of more appealing options win over caution. "Yes."
"Excellent. We're looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Tanaka."
"Likewise," he mutters and disconnects the call.
We. So the mysterious entity Genji wants him to contact is plural. Some sort of an organization, most likely. The number's country code means nothing and neither does the voice's accent, both easily changeable with a basic grasp on technology, and the whole mysterious shtick reeks of Genji from a mile away. If the second-to-last — or last? — time they saw each other his brother wasn't bleeding out on the floor, he could almost be convinced that he's being set up for an elaborate prank.
He opens the map again and zooms in on the marked location, angling the screen away from the cameras. It's in the middle of nowhere, a perfect location for an ambush; should he walk into one, nobody would come to his aid. Hanzo closes the map decisively: there's nobody who would help him anyway, regardless of the situation, and maybe he owes it to Genji to go there and finally get himself killed.
In the meantime, he has to find a means to spend the night. The easiest and least dangerous option would be to rent another car, program it to make a round or two along the expressways circling the city and sleep inside. A decent capsule hotel would be a reasonably safe and stationary alternative. Both would mean no washing until at least tomorrow night. He immediately abandons both ideas, scraping the last of the matcha sauce out of the container: hygiene is not optional, not in this weather and not when the only clothes he has readily available are the ones on his back. Hotel it is, and if they come after him in the night, so be it. He hasn't had a challenging fight in a while.
The station's Marriott is a two-minute walk and an elevator ride away. Hanzo bows and thanks the barista with a smile on the way out; it's counterproductive to avoiding notice, and she will definitely remember him now if she wasn't going to already, but he finds that he doesn't care anymore. Caffeine, sugar and adrenaline have done their job, he has a new goal to pursue, however vague, and he's itching for a fight. If someone follows him, let them come.
The coordinates point to a place just off route 609, at the foot of the Yōrō Mountains. Hanzo arrives early, partially to scout the area before nightfall and partially propelled by sheer impatience: with his possessions temporarily reduced to the contents of his bags and the clothes on his back, he feels unmoored and aimless, and he knows from long experience that he needs something to focus on before the inertia sets in. The afternoon air, hot and humid, sends sweat trickling down his back. He can already smell himself again; he will reek soon if he doesn't get some shopping done.
According to the map, he'll need to continue on foot and head into the forest, up the gentle slope of the mountain. There is a sign pointing towards a nearby Shinto shrine at the spot where he leaves the car, and the prospect of paying respects to the kami is a whole lot more appealing than climbing the path before the sun comes down a little lower. The sign leads him through the wooden gate and up a narrow flight of stairs shadowed by trees, the surrounding greenery lush after the rainy season. Hanzo closes his eyes for a moment and breathes deeply, inhaling the green, earthy scents, cleansing his nostrils of the acrid smell of the car.
A small stone figurine of a dragon watches him as he purifies himself at the temizuya. It looks so remarkably like one of the guardian spirits of his clan, down to the horns and long flowing whiskers, that Hanzo, usually not given to superstition, decides to treat it as a good omen.
He doesn't linger long at the shrine. Despite his best attempts to quieten himself and absorb the silent stillness of the place, he is still too much on edge to harmonize with its peaceful aura. He can almost feel the ripples of discord caused by his presence. He's better at tamping down his emotions without resorting to the change these days, but the thought of taking a step into a complete unknown, possibly a trap, is clearly too much for his limited capabilities; if he doesn't leave or calm down, he's more likely to offend the kami than he is to appease them. Hanzo gives the kami a last deep bow, casts a regretful look at the little shadowy garden surrounding the shrine, emerges into the unforgiving sunlight and descends back towards the road.
The satellite pictures showed his destination as a simple clearing in the woods, and they did not lie. There is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary in either the sandy road that snakes up the mountain's slope, or the clearing itself. No vehicles, no buildings, not a soul in sight and no trace of recent human activity, just an empty, quiet space in the middle of the forest, trees that used to grow there felled either by a natural event or a human hand. He stashes his gear under one of the oaks and scouts the area anyway in the lengthening shadows of the setting sun, but finds nothing except a couple of thrushes in the trees surrounding the clearing. Whoever he is meant to meet here, they have not arrived yet.
There is nothing left to do but sit in seiza under an oak tree, some distance away from the edge of the clearing, in silence interrupted only by a thrush singing its song somewhere above, and repeatedly fail to clear his mind through meditation.
The plane lands twenty minutes before the agreed time, black, unlit and disconcertingly quiet. Hanzo crouches motionlessly in the underbrush and watches its nearly perfectly vertical, lift-fan-assisted descent onto the clearing. After the engines cut off, it just sits there in the darkness, silent and vaguely menacing, no lights of any kind, not even from the cockpit; it's the stuff conspiracy theorists' worst nightmares are made of, and it has even more of a spy movie feel to it than yesterday's phone call.
Hanzo does not move, a hand on his bow, coiled and ready to draw.
The rear of the plane falls open with an even mechanical hum, revealing an equally dark interior. Hanzo takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and carefully allows the change to ripple trough him, just slightly, enough to reach his eyes and ears and sharpen his senses, and wash him in a wave of cool clarity. He cracks his eyelids open slowly, just in case whoever is in that plane happens to be looking in his direction.
Of all the sights he might have expected, a short, skinny girl in a bomber jacket wasn't one.
She stands at the top of the ramp for a while, squinting, then runs a hand through the shock of dark hair, suddenly crosses her legs and sits down right where she stood, leans back on her arms and looks up with a loud sigh.
Involuntarily, he glances up as well. With the relative lack of light pollution here in the mountains, the stars are easily visible through the tree's wide canopy, even more so with his enhanced vision; it's quite an aesthetically appealing sight, not that he is in the mood to appreciate it at the moment. He looks back to the plane, searching for threats, but there is no movement in the shadows behind the girl, and no sounds other than the forest humming with life around him and the arrhythmic popping of slowly cooling engines.
The presumed pilot sighs again and reaches to unzip and shrug off her jacket. Hanzo's breath momentarily stops because there's a glowing circular device strapped on a harness in the center of her chest, and in that instant he knows why something about her seemed vaguely familiar. He has seen her many times before, in newspapers and on TV.
Just how did Genji manage to get in contact with a member of Overwatch?
He cannot help himself: he stares. It really seems to be her, even though she's not supposed to be still and quiet like this. On TV, she had always fidgeted, giggled, talked a mile a minute, youthful energy impersonated; now, sitting there, unmoving, presumably waiting for him to show up, she looks unsettlingly like a puppet with its strings cut. Is she here to apprehend him? She's alone, not visibly armed, and either relaxed or doing a very good impression of being so. If it is a trap, he cannot see how it's supposed to be sprung.
On the other hand, she is, or has been, Overwatch, which means she's capable of things not achievable to a normal human being.
That thought finally shakes him out of the surprised hesitation, because he is not a normal human being either, and it's shameful that he's sitting here in hiding, as if he should be afraid of a single woman about half his size. He has to wait for a moment for his no-longer-enhanced eyes to get used to the darkness again, but then he stands up slowly, slings the bow case across his back, shoulders the bag, and with the bow not drawn but an arrow nocked, he steps quietly into the clearing.
She doesn't even notice him at first, and only after he purposefully makes his steps loud does she turn her head. The speed with which she jumps to her feet finally fits her presumed identity. "Hi!" she exclaims, wincing at how loudly her voice rings out in the silence. "Sorry about the blackout," she continues at a somewhat lower volume, "but literally nothing about me being here is legal. Hope you had no problems finding the place anyway."
Hanzo stops a few paces away from the ramp, fingers loose on the string of the bow. "You're Tracer. The Overwatch Tracer." It comes out sounding unintentionally accusatory, but she doesn't seem to mind, judging by the wide smile he gets in return.
"Lena Oxton, pleased to make your acquaintance," she says, raising a hand in a jaunty wave. "I'd shake hands, but yours seem to be occupied. I'm not actually armed, so don't shoot me, please. And come inside, I'll turn on the lights so we don't have to stand in the dark."
He does not move from the spot. "Are you here to arrest me?"
Tracer snorts, expressive and very unladylike. "For what? And do I look like a copper? I'm only here to give you a ride, love. Assuming you're the one I was supposed to meet here, that is, because I have to say you look quite different from what I expected."
"Hanzo," he says tersely. "At your service."
"So it is you. I don't mind telling you that you look a lot fitter than the picture." She smiles again, bright and guileless, and if she's hiding any ill intentions, she is doing so exceedingly well. "I wish I had the balls to get my face pierced, I really do. Uh," her face falls just as quickly as the smile appeared, "I didn't just insult you, did I?"
"No," he manages, reeling a little from the unexpected turn of conversation.
"Phew." The smile is back, relieved. "My mouth gets ahead of me, sometimes. Anyway, you don't have to come at all. Even if I could, I'm absolutely not gonna force you. The people I work for just want to have a chat with you. You could call it a job interview, I guess."
It cannot be Overwatch. Overwatch was delegalized years ago, and before that it consisted of heroes, not murderers. "Where would you be taking me?"
"To New York," she says, giggling at the sight of his incredulous expression. "Did not expect that one, eh? Of course I'm gonna fly you right back here if you don't want to make a deal."
Hanzo balks. "You want to fly me across half the globe to just talk? What is it that they want to talk about that can't be discussed on the phone?"
"Sorry, love," she chirps, "I'm not allowed to talk business. I'm just a glorified cabbie, really. And I don't wanna push you or anything, but make up your mind quickly, because I'm fairly sure I got here under the radar, but someone might have heard the engines. I don't want to get shot at on my way out — I mean, nobody's going to shoot this baby down while I'm piloting, but if I cause an international incident they'll skin me alive."
Tracer sticks her hands in the pockets of her leggings and bounces on the balls of her feet impatiently, and Hanzo hesitates. She could be lying and it could still be a trap which he's about to willingly step into, but… what does he have to lose?
"Very well," he sighs. "Lead the way."
Every instinct warns him against following her inside the aircraft, especially when the ramp jolts and starts closing behind them, threatening to lock him in a claustrophobic darkness, but there's a sound of switches being flipped, the lights come on, painfully bright, and he breathes easier and loosens the grip on the bow.
"You can drop your stuff here, if you want," she says, pointing at an empty rack crisscrossed with securing tapes. "Or not, if it makes you feel better, but the bow won't fit in the cockpit, I'm afraid."
Wordlessly, he shrugs off the bags and starts disassembling the bow.
"Brill. Come to the cockpit when you're ready. Drinks are in the fridge and the loo is that way, and," she raises her jacket demonstratively before putting it on, "if you have anything warmer to wear, I recommend you do it. It's bloody hot in here, but it's going to get cold really quickly when we're in the air, and the heating doesn't always keep up."
The plane comes to life around him with more of a loud growl than a roar of engines. He secures his gear in the rack, pulls the jacket on and decides to carry the backpack to the cockpit: the plane might be high-tech, but unless it can teleport, this is going to be a long journey. He might as well have his tablet at hand.
"Strap in," Tracer says cheerfully, pointing at the copilot's seat with her chin. "We're about to take off."
Hanzo raises his eyebrows and sits in the chair, so unexpectedly comfortable that he almost forgets to voice his surprise. "You're not afraid I might try to hijack the controls?"
To her credit, she doesn't seem surprised by the question. "Biometrically locked," she replies with a grin. "And the copilot is an expert system. And I may not look like it, but I can knock you out before you even figure out which way is up, mate."
After he recovers from a startled chuckle, the first time he's genuinely laughed in weeks, if not months, he decides he quite likes her.
Once the novelty of the stealthy hybrid jet wears off, the exhaustion comes back, and the plush memory foam chair only makes it worse. No matter how badly his mind and body clamor for rest, Hanzo can't sleep in the vicinity of a stranger, or on a plane that carries him to a meeting with an unknown entity half the world away. Tracer obviously does not share his compunction, because once they're above the ocean and at the desired altitude, she simply hands the controls over to the autopilot, announces that she needs a short kip, dims the lights and tilts the chair back, and she's asleep a minute later.
Just like that. Next to a man she met an hour earlier. A man who makes a living by killing people.
Hanzo stares at her for a while, two parts disapproving and one part jealous, wondering if she's really this foolish, or simply this certain of her ability to disable him before he can cause harm. She didn't even make him relinquish his weapons. Were he to reach for the razor-sharp knife he carries in his pocket, would she even wake up in the second it would take him to slice her throat? The biometrically locked controls must be the reason of her confidence. She probably assumes he is not homicidal — or suicidal — enough to try and harm her when she's the only thing keeping him from plummeting into the ocean. Hanzo huffs quietly and extracts himself from the warm confines of the chair: he might not be, but if she knows anything about him, she should also know that the assumption is entirely unwarranted.
It was already noticeable from the outside, even in the darkness, but it's even more obvious now that this is not a standard aircraft. It is not only private, but it's nothing like any of the multitude of planes he has flown before. The interior is just one big, open space, with nothing but the back seats separating the cockpit from the rest — perhaps because apart from the vast cockpit window there aren't any other, not even portholes in the walls packed tightly with equipment, displays and seats.
Hanzo drops to one knee and runs a finger along the vibrating, worn-smooth edge of a groove in the floor. Looks like there's more equipment hiding underneath, ready to emerge at a press of a button somewhere.
The whole craft is clearly well maintained, decently clean, and often used judging by the small signs of continued exploitation. From where he's crouched, he can see moderate wear on the personnel seats under each wall and the protective mats on the floor, numerous scuff marks on the equipment racks, even chipped paint on the handle of the minifridge. He stands up, opens the fridge, contemplates its many and varied contents and pulls out a neon-orange can of an energy drink; since he's not planning to sleep tonight, he might as well give himself a boost to be able to at least think clearly.
Tracer doesn't stir when he returns to his chair, even though he makes no attempt to stay silent as he opens the can. Her arms are folded tightly over the bulky bomber jacket hiding the device on her chest, making her look even younger and more fragile than before. She can't be as young as she looks, because it's been years since Overwatch was forced to disband, and yet it feels so viscerally wrong to watch her like this, peaceful and innocent in the presence of a killer, that Hanzo has to look away.
Perhaps those mysterious individuals who are so eager to talk to him hadn't seen fit to inform their pilot exactly whom she would be transporting.
Are they fools, then, or simply ruthless?
He settles on 'fools' — ruthless or not, risking the life of a highly qualified and famous pilot, not to mention the integrity of the state-of-the-art aircraft, is stupid beyond imagination — and not at all reassured by that fact, he reaches for his tablet to while away the sleepless hours between him and his destination.
The cockpit is quiet bar the sound of engines and lit only by the multitude of controls, and the ocean glitters down below, its waves like tiny ripples in the light of the waxing gibbous moon. Hanzo glances through the window and pauses: it's been a long while since he saw so many stars, dwelling in large, light-polluted cities due to the necessities of his particular craft. He is not used to seeing more than the few brightest constellations anymore. In his skies, there's usually the Orion's belt, the Big Bear, the Swan, maybe Cassiopeia when the air is clear, but now he can't even find any of them among the millions of bright dots, and when he realizes he's looking at the clearly visible arm of the Milky Way, he lets his hand with the tablet fall slowly back into his lap and simply watches for a while, absorbing the unexpected beauty.
It's… peaceful. Too peaceful, and soon it becomes clear that he is actually at a risk of nodding off if he doesn't occupy his mind properly. Hanzo opens a thriller novel he bought months ago and hasn't had an inclination to read since, pushes deeper into the comfortable embrace of the chair and forgets about stars in favor of a grisly murder.
Tracer wakes up the same way she fell asleep — as if someone threw a switch: opens her eyes, sits up straight, returns the chair to an upright position in one sudden jolt.
"You're not sleeping?" she asks, frowning at two empty energy drink cans next to Hanzo's seat.
"Too excited." It's the first excuse he comes up with, but his voice is hoarse from the plane's recycled air and flat from exhaustion, and the effect is so unintentionally hilarious that even he can recognize it, and Tracer snorts with laughter.
"I was told you'd be a riot," she says, shaking her head. "Now I see why."
She busies herself with pilot things for some time, while Hanzo considers going for a third drink. Combined with the lack of sleep, it's guaranteed to upset his stomach and it would be foolish to put himself at such a disadvantage from the start, but the monotonous hum of engines is starting to lull him again, and the words in the book he's attempting to read are beginning to blur.
"Perfect. No one spotted us and the weather's brilliant, it should be a smooth ride until California." Tracer finishes whatever she was doing, pulls her legs up, hugs her knees and turns towards him in a slow spin of the chair. "We'll have to refuel once we hit the west coast, but until then it's looking to be a boring flight. You really should try to get some rest. Jetlag's going to be murder even without the sleep deprivation on top."
Admittedly, he's almost tempted. If only he could shift, dampen the unease and enhance his senses to have a guarantee of waking up in time if she tried to get near him — but it's not an option, not when she clearly doesn't know much about him, and most likely has no idea about his abilities. Best case, he would unnecessarily lose an advantage; worst case, she could react with fear or aggression, superhuman or not.
"I'll pass," he says instead, as briskly as he can manage to stop further suggestions.
"Well, suit yourself. Wanna play a game instead?" Before he can form a coherent response, she pulls a fold-out tray out of a compartment to the right of her seat and opens it to form a table between them. "We've got a bunch of boardgames in the back, 'cause long flights suck and pilot's life is not as exciting as it looks when you've got an a— an expert system for a copilot. Do you play scrabble?"
It's late. It's dark. He has lost most of his less consequential possessions, and a couple of important ones, in the last forty-eight hours. He's on a strange aircraft in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, with a woman who for all intents and purposes can be classified as a superhero and considers him harmless enough to sleep in his presence, and now he's being offered a game that he used to enjoy long ago, in a different life. The feeling of having fallen down the rabbit hole intensifies and crests, and Hanzo abruptly gives up.
"I do," he says, tossing the tablet onto the seat behind him. "I don't suppose you have any coffee?"
"As a matter of fact, I do." She smiles brightly and jumps out of her chair with the kind of excessive energy that reminds him of a child. "It's instant and utter shite but it's still caffeine, right? I'll make you some on the way."
"No need to trouble yourself, I can do it."
That gets him an exasperated glance over her shoulder. "I'm not going to poison you, but be my guest."
Technically, the coffee could already have been poisoned before he came on board, but he decides against pointing that out as he follows her to the back of the plane. The water heater and boxes of instant beverages are in a little nook next to the minifridge, and he flips the switch on the heater and empties a sachet of dubious brown granules into a paper cup while Tracer digs in a storage locker under the equipment rack. The box she produces bears as much evidence of frequent use as everything else on this plane; it's definitely a piece of the puzzle that is the identity of his would-be interlocutors, although Hanzo is at a loss as to what to make of it.
The coffee is so bad he shudders after the first gulp. "This is disgusting," he says, unable to completely purge the indignation out of his voice, and Tracer only laughs, sets up the worn game board on the table between their seats, and lets him make the first move on account of being the guest.
Hanzo is no stranger to games, but they are always part of a disguise these days. He plays cards and dice, bets at races and fights, sometimes participates in a game of chess or go, and on one memorable occasion he has even gone golfing, but he doesn't remember the last time he played a game for his own satisfaction and in the company of someone who was neither his mark nor his employer. Now, as he sips the horrible, acidic beverage that has the gall to call itself coffee and attempts to wrangle random letters into meaningful words, he discovers all of a sudden that he is actually enjoying himself.
Tracer is amusingly passionate about the game, and she argues incessantly over two-letter words in particular. Having successfully defended his 'gi', he objects to her 'ta' mostly out of spite, doesn't even notice when he slips into a comfortable rhythm of bickering like he would with an old friend, and when he finally does realize, he just doesn't have the energy anymore to summon an appropriate level of gravitas.
"You're not what I expected from a hitman," she says suddenly, and he freezes for a moment with a tile between his fingers before forcibly relaxing his muscles and raising his head to look her in the eye — but she's not looking at him at all, she's shuffling the letters on her rack. "Always imagined that if I met one, it would be this dark and grim dude in a pressed suit, with sunglasses glued to his face and no sense of humor."
He smirks before he can stop himself. "I have repeatedly been told that I have no sense of humor. And I do own a suit. Several, in fact." Technically he doesn't, not at the moment, but that's a detail she doesn't need to know.
Now she looks up at him, grinning. "And sunglasses?"
Hanzo inclines his head towards the backpack on the chair behind him. "In there."
"And I certainly didn't expect the bow. Well, I mean, I was told you're an archer, but you know, for the actual job, I would have thought something more along the lines of a… silenced pistol, maybe?"
"I am a specialist," he says pointedly and decides to prevent further questions about his choice of weapon. "So you do know who I am. I did wonder, after you fell asleep in my presence."
"Well, you weren't hired to off me," she replies cheekily, "and you can't be dumb enough to try and kill the pilot of a plane you're on, or you wouldn't have survived long in this line of work. And I didn't bluff, I'm pretty sure I can knock you out before you manage to hurt me." She taps the knuckles of her right hand against the device hidden under her jacket. "I've got technology on my side."
"I have a few tricks up my sleeve myself," he says mildly, laying out a new word. "You shouldn't trust in your abilities so blindly."
Tracer huffs, watches him update the score, and looks back at her letters with a half-smile. "You're also not the first killer I know, not by a long shot, and I'd say I can judge people well enough by now to see that you don't plan to cut my throat."
Not the first killer. An interesting detail. "I thought Overwatch consisted of heroes, not killers."
She shrugs. "Overwatch has been gone for years. And you of all people should know that one man's hero is another man's villain."
Hanzo scowls at his tiles, fails to find a lighthearted retort, and for a moment considers asking just how much she knows — does she know about Genji? Does she know Genji? — but asking would mean giving her free information if she doesn't, and potentially compromising himself if she does, and he really would rather continue this moment of unexpected enjoyment, instead.
"Sorry, love," she adds after a while in a somewhat subdued tone, "I didn't mean to poke at old wounds."
"It's fine," he says curtly and focuses on winning the game.
He does win in the end, partially through luck, partially through hoarding his 'S'. Tracer gripes about it in a way that clearly invites some gloating, so he indulges, jokingly and only a little, and he's so distracted that he completely forgets to hide his yawn while she gathers the tiles.
"Now that we've had a heart to heart," she asks wryly, "are you finally going to sleep or should I turn on the music?"
It's so late that 'late' has turned into 'early', and the sky in the east is already brightening with the reds and yellows of an impending sunrise. The caffeine has lost any effect long ago. Hanzo feels exhausted by the constant tension and strangely comforted by the game and the refreshing honesty of their talk, and his scrambled brain refuses to even remember why he thought he wouldn't be able to sleep in the first place.
"Please do not touch me to wake me up," he mutters, tilting the chair back and barely restraining a groan at the sudden and glorious horizontality.
Tracer snickers. "You bet I won't. I told you, I know killers. I'll give you a shout from a safe distance when we get to Cali."
He falls asleep thinking that even if this ends the way he's anticipating, even if he gets ambushed or detained or just simply killed, the unexpected comfort of this night will make it a lot more worthwhile — and if he survives, he will be honored to have Tracer as an enemy.
Apparently, the illegality of the plane and its mission doesn't extend to the territory of the United States, because when he wakes up, subconsciously alerted by the change of altitude, he finds that they are descending towards Los Angeles International in broad daylight.
Refueling takes perhaps twenty minutes, but between the queue to land, Tracer's trip to the terminal to buy food, and the queue to take off again, they spend almost an hour on the ground. Hanzo stays put, a very illegal passenger that he is, and he spends the time examining and discarding various theories about this mysterious group that Genji wants him to talk to. It could be one of the mafia families looking to recruit him, but Genji had never treated his yakuza allegiance as anything more than a means to afford his pleasures, and it's hard to imagine him willingly joining another criminal organization. It could be that he is flying into a trap, and Genji will have his revenge by handing him over to one of his multiple enemies. It could be simply that someone in New York has need of a specialist assassin, but then why would Genji talk about picking sides?
By the time Tracer comes back bearing the biggest coffee the airport cafe could produce and a bento that is actually quite edible by American standards, Hanzo is still none the wiser, and his attempts to pull some more information out of her are as fruitless as they were before.
"You'll know in about five hours, love," she says as they're about to take off, putting on her headset with an air of finality, and for lack of better options, Hanzo dozes off again.
The next time he wakes up, it's to "Ride of the Valkyries" blaring from the cockpit speakers.
"Rise and shine, Mr. Shimada!" Tracer shouts over the thunderous music, grinning when he responds with a scowl and a wince. "Sorry about the wakeup call," she adds, lowering the volume to a bearable level and not sounding even a little bit sorry. "Thought you might want to be awake for the descent."
Ahead of them, New York is a sea of lights in the rapidly falling night. He shouldn't have slept so much, jetlag is going to be a problem, even more so without any of his usual medicines at hand — but it's too late to think about it now.
"You may call me Hanzo," he says instead, getting out of the chair to flex.
She lowers the volume even more. "Cheers. I'd return the favor, but honestly, everyone but my girlfriend calls me Tracer. Enjoy the sights, I have to chat with the ATC for a bit."
He's seen enough cities from this altitude that there is no novelty in it anymore, and the sprawl of civilization has nothing on the moonlit ocean and the starry sky anyway, so he opts to walk to the back and do a few exercises instead, to get his blood flowing and his body ready for the possibility of an upcoming fight. By the time he feels a bit more prepared for whatever awaits him, they are nearly above Manhattan, and coming in so low that he can see the holographic flame flickering around Lady Liberty's torch.
The jet engines cut off, leaving a startling, although relative, silence in their wake. Hanzo watches in growing disbelief as they close in on one of the taller skyscrapers, decides to skip the pointless question — it's obvious that they're going for the brightly lit landing area right on top of it — and focuses instead on the glowing logo on the side of the building. He recognizes that logo, even though he cannot place it. It takes an infuriatingly long moment before his brain finally comes up with an answer: Song Industries, weapon manufacturers, leaders in the trade, especially when it comes to unmanned and remotely piloted military vehicles.
Why would an arms manufacturer who specializes in mechanized weaponry want to talk to an archer?
He draws an absolute blank on that one and gives up on theorizing entirely, since none of it makes any sense, and the plane is touching down anyway: he'll have the answers soon enough.
"Well, that's that." Tracer flips several switches on the instrument panel, stretches in her chair, groaning, and looks at him with a smile that looks tired, but genuine. "I have to say, this was a whole lot less awkward than I imagined. It was nice meeting you, Hanzo." Unexpectedly, she extends a hand, and he hesitates only out of pure surprise before shaking it. Her grip is firm and warm. "I hope you accept the offer you're going to get, because I still need to beat you at scrabble."
He stands up and bows. "I can make no promises while not knowing the offer, but I am honored to have met you."
"Charmer," she grins, punching a final switch before getting up as well. In the back, he hears the mechanical whine of the the ramp opening. "Grab your stuff, I'll escort you."
Walking out onto the roof is viscerally unpleasant. Proper lighting of a landing area is one thing, but this is something else, a near-painful flood of light clearly meant to blind and disorient him, so he grits his teeth and tightens the grip on the strap of the bow case, reminding himself he had no reason to expect a friendly welcome. Tracer must share his feelings, because she shields her eyes with a forearm and mutters something unintelligible under her breath, and only lowers her hand when they're past the floodlights that have been pointed at the plane.
There are no less than six armed guards waiting for them, weapons not leveled at him but definitely at the ready, and another one that steps forward to exchange a few murmured words with Tracer.
"We'll have to confiscate your stuff for the time being," she says apologetically and lowers her voice, theatrically conspiratorial. "On account of the whole assassin thing."
Pointing out that he is perfectly able to kill without weapons would be counterproductive, and yet he is strangely tempted as he allows the unarmed guard to relieve him of the bow case, duffel and backpack. He even voluntarily relinquishes the knife in his pocket in a gesture of goodwill. He gets a pat-down anyway, detailed and professional but still pointless — even if they made him walk through a metal detector, they would not find the tiny ceramic blades in the soles of his shoes — and then he freezes, adrenaline spiking, because a voice suddenly rings out behind him, even though he could have sworn he did not walk past anyone on his way off the plane.
"I'll take him from here," says the voice, a pleasantly rich baritone with a strong Southern accent. The man it belongs to must have stood directly behind the left floodlight to avoid his notice, and now he's behind Hanzo's back. Hanzo can't reposition, can't even turn to look at him, since sudden movements might not be well received by the guard performing the search; all he can do is scold himself for not paying enough attention, unclench his teeth and wait.
"Nah, I'll do it," Tracer replies briskly, with no sign of earlier tiredness. "We totally bonded on the way and I'm invested now."
"Did you now." It's delivered in a flat tone, every word dripping with scepticism. Tracer smirks, looking at the man behind him, and as soon as the guard is finally done with the search, Hanzo turns — slowly — to look as well.
The first things he notices are the prosthesis and the hat. It's America, and Americans' strange habits in regard to headwear are not something he's unfamiliar with, but still, a wide-brimmed stetson is not what he would have expected to see at the top of a skyscraper in the heart of the city, at night. Most likely it's another strategic move, because all that Hanzo can see of the man's face is a beard. The metal arm begins just above the elbow, bulky, gaudy and primitive. Can Song Industries not afford better quality prostheses for its people?
"We did indeed." There is a new tone in Tracer's voice — a challenge? "We had a nice chat about moral relativism and all that."
The man transfers his weight to one leg and hooks his thumbs behind his belt. Plaid shirt tucked into jeans, gaudy golden belt buckle, a revolver holstered low on his hip: a stereotypical American. Add chaps and spurs and he would look like a cowboy. Hanzo would immediately disregard him as harmless, if it wasn't for the fact that the same man has already managed to surprise him, and as much as he wishes he could blame it on the tiredness and discomfort, he knows when he's been outplayed.
"Well then." The man doesn't bother introducing himself, just sweeps out the metal arm in a mocking gesture. "After you."
"Don't need a bodyguard either." There's a definite tightness to Tracer's voice now.
"I ain't gonna wait on the roof 'til you're gone, darlin'." The drawl is easy and without even a hint of aggression, yet something about it sets Hanzo's teeth on edge, and he emphatically does not want this man behind his back again. He has no say in the matter, though, because Tracer sighs exaggeratedly, rolls her eyes and motions at him to follow.
He half expects to be blindfolded, but nobody makes any attempts to do so, and he ends up marching alongside Tracer down a nondescript corridor, with their unasked-for escort walking quietly behind them. The elevator is already waiting, doors open, and despite entering last, the American somehow manages to position himself at Hanzo's side and to the back, just far enough to be out of his field of view. Combined with the noticeable height advantage, it's an obvious tactic meant to intimidate and to throw him off, and annoyingly, even though he's aware of it, it still puts him on edge.
This man knows what he's doing, despite looking anything but, and as the elevator doors slide shut, Hanzo indulges briefly in a mental image of kicking his legs from under him and crushing his windpipe before he hits the floor.
No one tries to attack him, not even the American hovering at his back. The lack of blindfolding does not bode well for Hanzo's chances of getting out of here alive, but he forcibly relaxes the muscles tensed in anticipation of an assault, anyway. It seems that they do genuinely want something from him here, the mystery of Genji's involvement notwithstanding, and he is no stranger to negotiations, with or without the advantages of his other form.
The door closes behind him to the distant sound of Tracer's "good luck!", and he allows himself a moment to scan the environment.
Transmitting equipment in the middle of a smoothly polished wooden table. A carafe with water and a few glasses, and a slim black tablet next to it. Ergonomic, expensive-looking chairs. Three walls in a soothing shade of mint, fourth made of squares of frosted glass. Cameras: two visible. It's all neat, clean and utterly devoid of personality, perfect for a conference room because there is absolutely nothing to distract oneself with, no art, not even a potted plant to catch one's eye.
Speaking of eye-catching: the man standing next to the table with his arms folded is far removed from a high-ranking corporate exec he half-expected to meet. Tall, heavily muscled, posture straight, cropped hair, visible facial scarring, dark skin, piercing eyes. Khaki t-shirt, cargo pants. Military or ex-military. Chief of security, perhaps? Definitely not a white collar type.
The man watches him back, equally assessing. "You weren't in a hurry to call, were you."
No unnecessary pleasantries, then. "No," he replies calmly.
For some reason, that gets him a snort. "Fair. Glad you finally decided to take up the invitation. Name's Reyes. You don't have to introduce yourself." The man named Reyes reaches for the carafe, pours two glasses of water, slides one across the table in Hanzo's direction. "Sit down, then, and let's talk."
He sits and waits for Reyes to drink first, more out of habit than a conscious decision: if they wanted to harm him, they had countless other means to do it already.
There's a glint of amusement in the man's dark eyes that says he is aware of Hanzo's thought process. He drains the glass demonstratively and puts it back on the table with a decisive thunk. "What do you know about Overwatch?"
Hanzo is glad he's had years of practice in controlling his expression. "A pseudo-military group of individuals gifted with extraordinary abilities, dedicated to protecting the world from extraordinary threats. Delegalized and disbanded after repeated accusations of instability of some of its members, systemic abuse of power and excessive collateral damage."
Reyes nods, stone-faced, leans back in the chair and folds his arms again. "And your personal opinion?"
"There was a time when I considered Overwatch my enemy," he says evenly.
"Yes, the Demon of Hanamura. The problem that solved itself — well, for us, anyway."
The obviously deliberate choice of a pronoun does not escape Hanzo's notice, and he narrows his eyes. "Afterwards, I can't say I cared much about Overwatch or superheroes in general."
"Also fair." Reyes nods again, still expressionless. "Hypothetically, if such a group of talented individuals were to be assembled again, would you be interested in joining?"
Hanzo snorts. "You know I was the Demon of the Shimada-gumi. I am not, have never been and will never be a hero."
"No one said anything about heroes. I'm looking for people who can do more than an average human, and are willing to use their skills for the good of humanity. And yes, I am aware of your current occupation," he raises a hand as if to stave off Hanzo's objections, "and I don't give a shit about what you do for a living right now. I care about what you could do in the future."
"You want a killer for hire in your merry band of superheroes?" He can feel his emotions getting the better of him and the demon form itches at the edges his consciousness, demanding to be released, but this man could be riling him up for the sole purpose of dragging the shift out of him, and Hanzo refuses to give him the satisfaction. "If you know who I am and what I've done, what on earth makes you think I give a damn about the good of humanity?"
Reyes actually smirks at him, mildly condescending and entirely unfazed. "I know a good deal more than you think, Shimada. For example, I can't help but notice a pattern in the jobs you've accepted over the years, and truth be told, I find it hard to blame you for any of those. In fact, I have to applaud the amount of pure human filth you dispatched while never making a single hit on an innocent person."
"No one who has a contract on their head is ever innocent," he sneers.
Reyes waves a hand, unperturbed. "Yeah, yeah, Tracer already informed me that you're fond of philosophical debates, but my point stands. You never take contracts on people who aren't festering sores on humanity's collective ass. And by the way, your latest job was a fucking work of art. Was that your idea, or your client's?"
Hanzo can recognize an obvious bluff even as far out of his comfort zone as he is right now. "Sorry. Professional secrecy," he says calmly.
"I mean, of course, the timing and the microphone," Reyes adds with a knowing, shit-eating grin.
The only people aware of his involvement in Sano Tatsuki's death should be his agent and his employer. Hanzo remains silent and impassive, doing his best to cover the sudden unease at the depth of information apparently at Reyes's disposal.
"Anyway." Reyes leans forward, elbows on the table. "Take my offer, and you'll be doing pretty much what you've already been doing, just safer, with less hassle, in better company and for an arguably better cause. And, last but not least, with job benefits."
"What exactly is the offer," Hanzo bites out, "and who are you to make it? Because I remember the leader of Overwatch, and it definitely wasn't you."
"About that." The man nods and reaches out to tap a button on the transmission set. "You can come in, Jack."
Fifteen seconds later, the door opens, and Hanzo instantly recognizes the man that walks through. The iconic blonde hair has begun greying at the temples and there are more than a few lines on the handsome, blue-eyed face, but it's definitely him, Hanzo has seen him on TV often enough to recognize his features.
"Good evening," says Jack Morrison, the former leader and poster boy of Overwatch, pulling out a chair next to Reyes. "Do I have to do the good cop routine or are we all set?"
"I've been asked for credentials." Reyes is evidently enjoying himself now. "Mind introducing me, Jack?"
Morrison turns towards him, absolutely serious. "I'm glad you decided to give us a chance, Mr. Shimada. I'm Jack Morrison, previously the commander of Overwatch, and this is Gabriel Reyes, previously and currently my second-in-command."
The next question is obvious. "And what are you in command of now?"
Both men exchange glances that look moderately approving, before Morrison leans back in his chair and folds his arms behind his head. "Officially? The security division of Song Industries. Unofficially? I expect Reyes has given you enough information to put two and two together."
"You're rebuilding Overwatch," he says slowly, giving up on concealing the disbelief. "And for some unknowable reason you decided that you needed a killer on your roster."
"You wouldn't be the first killer on the roster," Reyes smirks at him again, "and neither would you be the first Shimada."
Genji is a member of Overwatch? Genji the eternal hedonist, Genji the individualist, Genji who never gave a fuck about anyone else, Genji cut by the sword and devoured by the dragons and left for dead — in Overwatch?
Morrison eventually takes mercy on him, breaking the heavy silence. "Your brother had been a valued member for some time before we were forced to disband, and now that he's returned after resolving some… personal difficulties, he recommended that we recruit you, as well."
Hanzo discovers that his throat has closed up and refuses to work, and he tightens his hands on the arms of the chair and fights the shift that threatens to overtake him against his will.
"He's had many good things to say about you," Morrison continues without any indication of noticing his struggle. "We've been given a unique opportunity to rebuild the team, but there's only a few of us so far, and we're in constant need of reliable, skilled individuals. Especially if they come with a personal recommendation from one of the members."
Reyes nods and takes over smoothly. "The offer is simple: join us. Not officially, of course, because Overwatch is long dead—"
"Why would I?" Hanzo interrupts after getting his throat to work with a long gulp of water and several calming breaths. "I already told you I have no interest in heroics. Why would I want to join your — crusade to help people who don't want you to help them? What do I gain out of it?"
"I'm so glad you asked," Reyes says sarcastically. "The contract you sign is with the security subdivision of Song Industries. It's a genuine contract, by the way. You get regular wages, free accommodations and meals, insurance, paid holidays, hell, even dental. On paper you report to me, and in reality, you're part of a team of equals — well, some of us might be a little more equal than others, but the spirit is there. We give it a month or three, and if you don't gel, we thank you and send you wherever you want to go. If you do — welcome to the team." He leans back again and regards Hanzo through half-lidded eyes. "Of course, if you'd rather go back to risking your life on a regular basis to kill human shitstains for other human shitstains, then we won't hold you. You spend the night, wait for Tracer to rest after that little trip around the world, and she ships you right back home."
Hanzo stares back at him, unable to come up with an answer and heart inexplicably racing.
"This is the part where I should do the good cop thing," Morrison adds with a half-smile, "but I think Reyes covered everything that needed to be said. You already have a second recommendation, by the way. Tracer's made it very clear that she thinks you should be given an offer. Genji may be biased, but she has no reason to, so clearly you've made an impression."
Tomorrow, he could be back in Nagoya, or perhaps somewhere further west, Fukuoka or maybe even Korea, to throw the assassins off his trail for a while. He could rent another small flat with basic furnishings or maybe none at all, maybe he'd just buy a simple futon and a good mattress and something to store his clothes in, to avoid getting attached and reduce the losses when he's inevitably forced to abandon it again. He could message one of his contacts and indicate potential interest in another job, then browse through the dossiers they send him and make another judgment on who is reprehensible enough to unquestionably deserve to die.
"I will need to retrieve some of my possessions from Japan," he says hoarsely, "and it will take me some time to deal with the immigration process."
Reyes waves his concerns away with a smirk. "We'll sort out the immigration for you, legal entry and visas and everything. Through less than legal, but tried and efficient means. As for your stuff, we can pick it up the next time we're in the area, but if you want to get it shipped earlier, go for it. We don't exactly work on the clock here, anyway."
"And I will organize my own accommodations if there is no option of a private room."
Morrison's face is professionally devoid of any signs of satisfaction, at least. "You'll get a private room with a bathroom. Kitchen's shared, but we have our own decent catering — although," he cuts a look at Reyes, "I've been told that opinions vary on that one. There's a gym, a pool, a gun range, a library, and probably a bunch of other things that I don't know about yet, courtesy of our sponsor. Of course you're free to look for your own place to live, but you'll change your mind when you see the property prices around Manhattan."
Hanzo's mind latches onto the last unanswered question. "Who is the sponsor?"
"Song Industries, of course." Morrison makes a wide gesture with both hands. "Namely, Hana Song, the new CEO. You'll meet her tomorrow if you sign the contract. She's a very… interesting person."
Reyes stands up, walks over to Hanzo and places the black tablet in front of him. "Here's your contract. It's the usual boring bullshit and we told you all the important bits, but if you want to read it, then by all means, knock yourself out. Morrison can answer any questions. I'll go get your room sorted."
He reads the whole thing, twenty-six pages of text, tightly packed and just as boring as he's been warned. He fills in the email address to get a copy, and after a minute of hesitation presses a thumb to the reader.
"Congratulations, Mr. Shimada." Morrison stands up and extends a hand with a smile. "Welcome to Overwatch."
Art by @steel_peach!