Chapter Text
“Breathe deep. Ignore the meaningless distractions of the world without, and turn your attention to the world within. The mind has no limit. Expand your consciousness...and gaze into the iris.”
Even if Zenyatta was not a guru, Genji could listen to his voice for days. Everything the monk says is poetry. That his words unfurl from a synthetic vocal emulator gives him hope. One day his own story could bring comfort, a parable of enlightenment.
It’s a dream of his, and pursue it he will, but for now, he is content to sit by his master. Tracer and Reinhardt have joined them. While the pilot smiles serenely -- Her view of the iris is from ten thousand feet, Genji muses -- the German seems to be dozing off, head lolling onto his shoulder. The cyborg tries not to chuckle. Meditation is not for everyone.
He’s halfway to a trance state when his auditory system catches a steady, infrasonic frequency. Dampened footsteps.
The man who cautiously treads into the doorway turns what remains of his guts into ice.
Hanzo watches them for a moment. He knows Genji’s staring right back despite his face plate. He just knows. Before he can lose his nerve, he keeps going, slinking down the hallway.
Genji waits for his heart rate to settle, then gently touches Zenyatta’s knee. “Excuse me.”
The omnic doesn’t ask why, and lets him leave without commenting.
- - -
Watchpoint: North Shore is a small complex nestled in the mountains outside of Vancouver, sheltered from prying eyes by dense forest cover and harsh weather. The chilly gloom is torn by the wings of a passing flock of birds. It reminds Hanzo of a war-torn banner fluttering in a desolate breeze. Opening the window on the observation deck, he kneels before the gray clouds, hands on his thighs. There are wasps in his stomach. He refuses to let it show.
“You could have warned me you were coming.”
Genji’s voice carves a fissure in his confidence. As his brother sits next to him, yet keeping a respectful (and safe, Hanzo notes) distance away, the archer reaches for his resolve. It’s better to get this over with. “Foresight was never your strong suit either.”
“So you were in the neighborhood, thought you would climb a mountain and visit me?” Genji glances at Hanzo. The archer ignores him, so he looks back out to the horizon. “You chose a good time to do it. The trails are treacherous in the winter, even for experienced hikers like yourself.”
Everything Genji says sounds like an accusation. How much does he know? How much data has Overwatch gathered? There are cameras everywhere; how many have they tapped, scanned with facial recognition software, tracked him from the streets of New York City to the dunes outside Dubai to the Great Wall of China? And then there are satellites, surveillance drones, a phone in every pocket -- how much of his private struggle have they torn open?
All at once, Hanzo feels very small, like a bug under a microscope.
Genji doesn’t need pheromone sniffers or infrared vision to tell his sibling hurts. “Hey.” Hesitating, he rests a hand on Hanzo’s shoulder. Not because he is afraid, but because comforting his brother is like catching mist in a bottle -- it’s all too easy to push him away. “I am glad you are with us. Overwatch is not perfect, but it is just. How long have you been a member?”
“Three weeks,” Hanzo says. Genji’s palm is cool to the touch, part of why his skin is crawling.
“Have you met everyone yet?”
“No.”
“You will. And you will like them, Hanzo, if you give them a chance.”
Have you been talking to the cowboy? The question comes so far out of left field Hanzo is surprised he thought it. In the two weeks since Jesse McCree saved him from being crushed by an airplane, the outlaw has been lurking in the back of his mind. Shredding through the database for information didn’t help. Former Deadlock Gang member turned Overwatch starling, atoning for his sins by protecting the weak and upholding the law. For hours Hanzo had read his biography, hunting for ulterior motives, but there seemed to be none. Just a simple man turning his life around.
It made Hanzo want to slam his tablet into the trash. McCree knew nothing about redemption.
“Hanzo?” Genji’s grip tightens slightly. A gentle reminder.
The archer shakes the fog out of his mind. He came to North Shore for a reason. Like tearing off a bandage, he thinks. He stumbles over sincerity, trips up on syntax, and lands in the toothy maw of good old self-loathing. Feeling what’s left of his nerve grinding into powder, he finds his tongue, fingernails biting crescent moons into his hands-- “Genji, I am--”
“Sorry,” Zenyatta says.
The brothers turn to face the omnic, hovering behind them. When he speaks, his voice has none of its usual tranquility. “Genji, it is urgent. We are required.”
The cyborg pats Hanzo’s shoulder before standing. As he retreats with Zenyatta down the hallway, the archer pinches his brow, sighing. It was there -- it was almost there. Now it feels like there’s an anchor lodged in his throat. It’s not even noon, but he takes a slug from his flask anyway just to force the weight down. The harsh sake burn is welcome. When the world has regained its sense of sanity, he gets to his feet and follows the cyborg and the omnic.
Whatever interrupted him better be goddamn important.
- - -
The communications room consists of a single circular table ringed with chairs. Genji prefers to stand and Zenyatta floats, as always, watching the three holograms projected from the furniture, depicting Winston, Bastion, and McCree from their various locations around the world.
Hanzo hangs back, listening outside the door.
“They’re moving ahead of our estimated schedule,” Winston says. Visible behind him is a display of a pill-shaped object. “I apologize for the abrupt nature of this mission, but it is of the utmost importance we go, and we go now.” He turns away and blows up the image, revealing in greater detail its insides: an organized chaos of wires and gadgetry nestled around a central package.
The atmosphere in the room becomes much colder. McCree folds his hands together, rests his chin on his knuckles, brow furrowed.
“This is a cobalt bomb,” Winston explains, “A nuclear payload surrounded by cobalt metal. When detonated, the explosion transmutes it into a radioactive isotope, which rains back to earth as dust and debris settles. Anyone caught in the fallout would receive a lethal dose of radiation poisoning within five minutes. Given a half-life of five-point-two-seven years, a bomb of this magnitude would render hundreds of miles uninhabitable for decades, reduced to a glowing wasteland.” Winston faces the camera again. “Gentlemen -- and Bastion -- by this time tomorrow, the bomb will be on a train bound for Los Angeles, protected by Talon’s finest agents. We must intercept it.”
Winston gives them a moment to let this sink in, then continues, “I will lead this mission as chief engineer. I know how to defuse the bomb, but given the nature of the weapon, I cannot do it manually. That is where Bastion comes in. Its systems are unaffected by radiation, and thus will remotely deactivate the bomb, following my instructions.”
Bastion beep-boops affirmatively, waving. It sounds almost cheerful about the situation.
“McCree,” Winston says, “You’re tactical advisor. I hear you have experience robbing trains.”
“That I do,” Jesse drawls. With eyes on him, he quickly reverts back to his usual demeanor, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll show you boys why they make movies ‘bout this sorta thing.”
He has a cigar lifted to his lips when he catches movement out the corner of his eye.
“Genji,” Winston says, “This calls for a great deal of close-quarters combat. Your agility is required.”
The cyborg bows. “My blade is ready.”
“Zenyatta. Keep us alive.”
The omnic nods slightly, fingers folded in the chin mudra. “As always, I am by your side.”
Winston grunts acknowledgement, but looks troubled. “I have carefully assembled this team...yet the omission of a sixth member doesn’t sit well with me. I shouldn’t let tradition get in the way of balance, not on a mission as critical as this, but--”
“Let Hanzo go,” McCree says.
The archer flinches as if he’s been shot, eyes blown wide. How did -- he -- when did he come closer, when did he expose himself in the doorway-- Genji and Zenyatta stare at him with equal shock and confusion. It feels like all the air has been sucked from the room.
“I know he’s new,” Jesse continues, unfazed, “But all he’s been on so far are training sessions and little spats. If he’s serious about bein’ a productive, dependable member of Overwatch, he’s gotta step up his game. Besides, this’ll be fun. Who doesn’t like trains?”
Hanzo wishes he had his bow. It would do nothing to a hologram. He wants it for something to hold, for something to stop his hands from shaking.
Genji notices this and immediately turns to the pictures, raising his palms. “No! You do not want Hanzo for this! I--” He tries to think of an excuse. If a train leaves the station at sixty miles an hour, comes the thought, And an arrow is fired in the direction it is moving at three hundred feet per second, why did I ignore math in school? “He is not suited for the mission--” Genji could kick himself. “Too inexperienced--” Wrong. “There is, ah--”
“I will go.”
No one moves. Genji slowly drops his arms, looking over his shoulder. Hanzo strides past him, staring at the holograms like they could burst into flames with only his gaze. He’s as pale as a sheet. “I agree to your mission,” the archer barks, scowling, “I will be your sixth. I will rendezvous with Genji and Zenyatta at the drop point at the designated time, and I will stop your cobalt bomb.”
McCree blows smoke at the camera, grinning. Hanzo imagines every time he’s broken his neck and wants to do it again.
Dumbfounded, Winston takes a second to recover. Coughing, he says, “Yes. Well. I’m glad to see you’re enthusiastic. But there is one matter all of you need to know.” He takes a deep breath. “This is a high-speed procedure on winding railroad track through mountainous terrain. There is no respawn. If you die, to borrow an idiom from Miss Song, game over.”
It’s heavy news. Hanzo finally breaks the silence. “I do not fear death.” With that, he shoots one last caustic glare at McCree, turns his wrath to Genji, and storms out of the room.
“I’m sending coordinates to your shuttles,” Winston says, typing on an unseen keyboard, “Pack your belongings, gentlemen -- and Bastion. Get your affairs in order, if you must. We meet at 1800 hours.”
One by one, the holograms blink off. Genji all but collapses into a chair, pries his face plate off, and rubs his eyes, sighing. Idiot, he thinks, How could you succumb to fear like that?
Zenyatta reaches for him. “Genji--”
“Do not talk to him,” the cyborg says, “Do not look at him. Do not breathe at him. I have made a grave mistake, my mind is clouded with the shadows of the past, I--”
“Genji.” Zenyatta descends into a chair of his own, legs unfolding to touch his feet to the floor. He takes his student’s hand in his, feeling their systems network together. It’s a calm, holy sensation, one he knows his pupil shares. “It is different this time.”
Genji slowly calms down, meeting Zenyatta’s gaze. His face, warped and scarred, is further twisted by pain. “Master, I pray that is true.”
- - -
They make base in a closed campground in the San Gabriel Mountains. Surveillance equipment is scattered about, radio dishes and antennae and towers camouflaged as trees. Winston confirms with headquarters the mission is go and wishes everyone good night. They will need all the rest they can get.
Hanzo commandeers a cabin far away from the rest. As the sun fades, McCree goes to check on him. He finds the archer taking potshots at pine cones. Shirtless. The cowboy would admire how every arrow finds dead center -- and how sweat contours to his muscles, that’s also important -- if not for one subtle aspect. He’s shooting fast.
“Howdy.”
Hanzo turns on him in an instant, bow aimed at his face. Jesse lifts his hands, stopping in his tracks. “Whoa there! We’re on the same side this time, partner!”
The archer lowers his weapon but his knuckles still squeeze white. “Begone,” he hisses.
“Just want to see what’s eatin’ you, partner. It’s normal to be nervous before a big heist, y’know. ‘Specially yer first. You always git half-naked when yer mad? More than usual, I mean--”
Hanzo’s strung his bow onto his back and is halfway to the cabin before Jesse can blink. He runs to keep up. “Hey now! No disrespect! It’s a piece a’ cake, really. Just gonna drop down on ‘em when they least expect it, swing in through a window--”
No no no no no this is going all wrong. McCree isn’t entirely sure why he thrusts his arm into the doorway when Hanzo slams the door. All he’s aware of is a large chunk of old wood smashing off on his steel and a pair of pretty browns staring large with horror through the resulting hole. That’ll leave a dent. He’ll deal with it later.
“Y’know, your brother takes a pill when he gets like this,” Jesse says, “You have anything like that? You need it? Just tell me, I kin find it. I won’t tell a soul.”
Hanzo feels like he’s stepped into the eye of the storm in his head. The rain will come back, and the life preserver McCree’s offering won’t hold up against its wrath, but for now it’s too tempting not to cling to. Mindful of splinters, Hanzo slowly cracks the ruined door wider. “Does he?”
The change in demeanor is so quick Jesse gets whiplash. “Uh...yeah. I dunno what it is exactly, but he’s had ‘em fer as long as I’ve known ‘im.”
This man is a complete idiot, Hanzo realizes. Far too trusting, even of his own teammates. No regard to how Genji would react to having this secret spilled. And because of him, he’s caught in the middle of nowhere being eaten alive by mosquitoes and the ghosts of yesteryear.
He needs to be punished.
Hanzo lets him in. “Sit.”
McCree does, settling on the edge of the meager bed. He looks wary. Good.
The archer shuts and leans against the ruined door, arms folded. “How did you lose your arm?”
Jesse knows he’s being led down a dangerous path. He’s been there before. He’s grateful to have Peacekeeper at his side -- then remembers the five million people living in the city below, counting on his team to act as one. “This here?” He raises the limb in question, lets light catch on its edges. “Blown to smithereens. Juarez, 2037. Unexploded ordnance. Kid not six years old found a goddamn mine on a battlefield we were clearin’. Took it from ‘im, tried to lob it away--” McCree shrugs. “Wasn’t fast enough.”
“Hn.” Very heroic. Hanzo doesn’t believe him for a second. He steps over to McCree, raises a foot onto the bed. The cowboy’s paying attention to his body language, eyeing his prosthetics, the faintly glowing stripe in his heel.
“I was hit by a train.”
The way Jesse’s brows knit gives Hanzo a rush of hideous glee. Before he can make his own mental images, the archer continues:
“I was twenty-five. My men and I were negotiating a deal with Cambodian insurgents. The train was bound for Tobata on the eastern coast of Honshu. If they agreed to our terms, they would receive our shipment of weapons and sail away to fight their wars. If not, they would leave with nothing. Trains were mobile, discreet -- easy to disguise guns and missiles as boxes of parts.
“My brother was supposed to join me. To see how it was done. He did not attend.
“The deal turned sour. They could not pay in money, so they sought to pay in blood. They pulled their weapons. We pulled ours. You have been in combat in small spaces -- you know what is is like to feel bullets carve your breath, to see slugs strike inches from your head. I ordered the retreat. They fired wildly, and we were all surrounded by live ammunition.
“I made it to the roof three cars away when something detonated. The entire train shook -- I saw the fireball rise -- the shock wave overwhelmed me and I fell. Do not worry. The train caught me, but it too demanded a price.
“I do not remember how long I lay beside the tracks, bleeding out, surrounded by wreckage and the corpses of my men, but I recall awakening in a hospital. Genji was there. So was my father. I thought of him as a stoic man, with a will to outlast the mountains...he saw my stumps, and, for the first time, I saw his fear.”
Hanzo drops his leg back to the floor. “Two months of recovery. Three years to relearn everything: how to walk, how to climb, how to fight. Father would watch me. He--” The archer hesitates, forces down the hot lump that clings to his throat, tries again: “He pitied me. Like a broken doll. So he turned his attention to my brother, let him play his games and fuck whores and stumble home drunk, wired on drugs...
“Father died suddenly. The clan elders ordered me to curb Genji’s behavior. He refused to listen. Then it occurred to me: he has numbed himself to life. He would rather exist in a digital world than reality, cowardly avoiding pain and drinking as much pleasure as he could stand. He was effectively dead already. I planned to give him an honorable end, but all those years of pain, of rage...you said it yourself. Slaughter is the best therapy.”
McCree wears a brave face, but his skin is white. Something squirms in Hanzo’s heart. The dragon hungers, he thinks. “That is why I do not like trains,” he says, leaning close, “So thank you, Jesse McCree, for allowing me to relive my worst nightmare.”
There is nothing he can say. The cowboy leaves without a word, departing into the cool darkness of oncoming night. He tries to forget Hanzo’s speech, to focus instead on the mission, but the archer’s reptile grin sticks with him for hours.