Chapter Text
I can remember my Gran telling me when I was a kid about the words on my wrist, right along that bit where you can see the vein through thin skin. Gran was one of those ladies with an iron spine, never did put up with jack shit.
A second generation Irish immigrant my Gran was there when Momma usually wasn’t. We looked alike, Gran and I. Only difference was the skin I can only assume I got from my Pa.
“You might hate em.” She said, heavy smoke from the cigarillos she smoked regularly escaping from her nostrils. I loved that smell, heady and powerful. Another slow drag. “God does things we don’t understand. You might not even be good for the other, but you get thrown together all scattered. You’ll have to figure out how everythin’ fits all together on your own.”
I looked down at the writing on my arm. I could barely make out the letters of my name, Jesse. Gran saw me looking and she smiled “Let's just hope they get better at writing eh? Because I’ll be damned if that’s not the worst fucking chicken scratch i’ve ever seen.”
Gran was a bounty hunter. Or at least she was, before she got saddled with her young grandson after her daughter went to prison for manufacturing illegal substances, murder and neglecting her son. So no, never did find out who my dad was. Probably some poor hispanic man snared in her traps.
Anne Collins had only one thing in common with her mother, and that was her handiness with firearms. The real difference between Anne and his Gram was that Anne didn’t much know the concept of mercy. She also is rather awful at decision making. Thus the prison time, maximum lockup with no possibility of parole due to the body count following her.
Due to the well, nature of Gran’s former job we skipped around a lot, mainly in the southwest because it still held that potential of wildness that we both came to prefer.
Sometimes a child was born with a black scuff on the inner wrist. Most weren’t, which was probably a blessing considering what the mark entailed. They would be linked with that person who had their handwriting on their wrist for the rest of their lives. Often, it led to love, sometimes it didn’t. Occasionally they never meet at all. The shock of one death would often strike down the other as well.
So really, when Hanzo was born with such a mark his family wasn’t pleased. It turned into more of a curse the more they chewed on it- too identifiable, like a port wine stain. Plus the... Other aspects. In any case, a soulmate for the heir of the Shimada Clan was the last thing they wanted. The child was there to further their goals, he would marry towards them.
They couldn’t afford the potential of love coming into the picture if they were to meet. It could, no was a huge liability that could topple their empire to the ground.
So a bandage was carefully wound around the tiny wrist, an understanding between everyone who had seen it came into being. No one was to ever know of this, and the child was to never know what such a thing entailed.
As a toddler, Genji was constantly hanging on Hanzo’s sleeve. Always pestering to play, babbling in one of the languages they were exposed to (English, Spanish and Mandarin along with Japanese. Even with odd phrasing and an accent the ability to speak them without hesitation was an invaluable skill)
Hanzo had already started the beginnings of his training, or at least what a five year old could actually do without harm. Genji would imitate him, because that’s generally what toddlers and younger siblings did.
When a wooden practice blade was placed in Hanzo’s hand it was placed in Genji’s too soon after. The boys would go through their routines together, often making a game out of it.
More and more was tacked on as they got older, the goal probably to make the brothers into living weapons. Assassination came with the clan, even their father took jobs.
They were close, Genji sneaking out and watching when Hanzo would try to teach himself the bow. He had looked up the basics on the internet, and luckily the equipment in the armory was in good repair, despite never really being used much.
Hanzo guesses that his father was planning on teaching him, eventually. But his fingers itched and the he knew, he knew he would be better at the bow with enough practice than he ever was at the katana.
Oh, he was good enough, good enough to make his father proud. But his fingers never itched towards it like Genji’s, nor did the strategy behind wielding ever become as natural as breathing like his teachers always told him it would.
So he watched videos, memorizing the look of the archers, he listened to the men saying how the bow ought to fit in the hand. He went about it all methodically, as was his nature. And when he was 11 he chose his mitsugake, the special three fingered glove and a recurve bow.
Gran stuck a gun in my hand within the first year I lived with her. “Better learn it now so you don’t shoot someone.” She had muttered to herself. As much as I loved her Gran was an almost distant figure. Didn’t know much about her, couldn’t ever tell if she was pissed or not.
Gunslinging was the family business, barring my mother. A tiny revolver, small enough for a child. “Revolvers got a style you won’t see nowhere else boy.” And really, watching her shoot her Peacekeeper I couldn’t help but agree. It looked right. She never told me where she got the gun, I never asked. That was a common theme.
I took it with me when she was layin there in her grave. Lung cancer at 67, didn’t know till she got too sick to function, then of course it was too late to do anything. 16 didn’t provide many choices. Joined a gang for the thrill of it all, damn stupid decision right there. Honestly, can’t much imagine the impression I made, kid with a revolver and too big cowboy boots smokin’ a cigarillo. Reckon I looked like a lost puppy till I showed them I could shoot.
Gran, she introduced a way of thinking that gets rid of any feeling of real safety. Knew I’d follow in her footsteps. So really, first instinct when I walk into a room is exits, cover and weapons. Never show your cards, keep the persona neutral and calm. You didn’t think good when angry.
So when I clunked along into that diner on route 66 they laughed, sure. But they also saw that lil flicker of the eyes that gives that sort of thinking away. The leader, a lady by the name of Eliza took one look and clucked her tongue.
“Now. We’ll take you if you’re any good with that gun there.” She’d drawled out, sipping on a cup of what I could only assume was coffee. Red lips, black hair. The day I realized I didn’t much like women that way.
Lord, I aimed at that target set up, some poor bastard’s face printed out on paper. And I hit that target straight in the eye. Three, four, six times. Then I reloaded Peacekeeper with a practiced ease that would only get quicker as I got older.
Eliza looked me up and down. “You’re in. Don’t go round trying to run. Because we’ll find you.”
Really, I didn’t quite know what I got myself mixed up till I was well and tangled. The Deadlocks were damn good at what they did, and I slowly became the best. Could never shake the feeling that Gran was there somewhere glaring at me, and Momma up there in prison laughing at what her son became.
I puked the first time I killed someone. Stashed the feeling in my mind and swore I’d never forget that bastard’s face. What are you supposed to do when you can’t even identify the self loathing in your chest. My gaze would linger over the other men surrounding me, I could only hope that person with the God awful handwriting printed on my wrist was a man.
Yeah. That’d make things easier. Sure damn would.
Sixteen came and passed, Genji spent less time home by the year. Preferring to spend the hours outside of school (Yes, he actually went to school instead of the viscous tutoring that Hanzo endured and thrived under) in the arcade. As it was, Hanzo was still close to his brother. Perhaps only he could feel the threatening rift between them. His family told the story of two dragon brothers, he couldn’t help but feel this would end in tragedy.
In any case, it was his father’s job to monitor his younger offspring. There was too much on his plate to add that bit on. The secretive archery sessions had been found out as soon as he started them, but he didn’t know as much until a teacher was brought in nearly a year later.
Hanzo felt the stirrings of… Something. Underneath the skin, angry and hungry coiling. Honestly, keeping a rein on his temper was hard, it wanted to devour and if it started Hanzo wasn’t sure what would happen. Sleepless nights spent curled in on himself, breathing deeply and trying to calm the ever growing rage.
One night, pacing the compound grounds his father finally confronted him. “So you feel the stirring?”
Hanzo nods hesitantly. So it wasn’t a defect of character? A break in the discipline he so prided himself on maintaining?
His father just sighs, “Then the dragon will need to be bound.”
The process of tebori is an old one. Far older than the modern tattoo guns, different in styles as well. Dread was forming at the possibility that the Horishi would decide on the traditional full bodied tattoo, Hanzo wasn’t quite sure whether that was something he’d like or not. As it was he wasn’t much expecting the quiet home in the quiet neighborhood nor the ordinary man who answered the door.
He can distinctly remember the look of faint disapproval and reluctance on the craftsman’s face as he gestured to Hanzo’s covered wrist. “ Are you sure you want it obscured?” He asked.
“Yes.” His father replied, stony faced.
Hanzo still wondered why exactly it was such a touchy subject. Having to keep that wrist always covered. All it said was Hanzo, in a lazy beautiful scrawl. So different from the handwriting he could never get to improve. He’d given up, simply typing things out whenever possible. Luckily, after attempting to read his work and him not being able to produce better work his teachers allowed it.
It was painful. Sitting or laying there for the hours necessary every week as ink was injected into his skin by hand. For nearly 6 months. But throughout the rustling beneath his skin quieted, then became manageable. No one but the artist had any say in the design. He simply inked out what he saw swirling beneath the skin. Luckily it wasn’t the full body tattoo, simply a sleeve and half chest piece. Possibly the most painful part was when he tattooed Hanzo’s armpit. It had him questioning his sanity and strict inner discipline.
The results were both beautiful and freeing. The scrawl on his inner wrist wasn’t gone, rather incorporated into the design and given a miniscule amount of room to grow. In other words he finally had the okay to wear his clothing as he wished.
Sleeves were too constricting for archery. Or at least the furious type the newest teacher brought in from across the world was teaching him. The woman spoke English, no Japanese and was someone of the like that Hanzo had never seen. Free movements, nothing contained but she moved in such a way that you knew she was dangerous.
“Now Hanzo, since you’ve very kindly learned the basics- which I don’t find much fault in- I’m gonna teach you something a little different from what those stuffy old folk keep telling you. What if I told you you could shoot a bow and maintain near perfect accuracy in the middle of battle? Because this is what you’re gonna get taught. Unconventional combat technique.”
“Is that even practical?” Hanzo asks, he so wants it to be. Then he could be as much use fighting with his prefered weapon as he was with a blade.
“Oh yes it surely is. You have the discipline for it, that’s plain. Nah, this is leagues ahead of the pretty shooting you do on the regular.”
The training was like nothing Hanzo had ever experienced. Tactics and straight out brawling all in one they trained in a fully set up course that Sophia had ordered constructed. Frankly it was more enlightening than all the years he had spent in the dojo training with his teachers and sparring against Genji and winning. Winning against Genji wasn’t hard. For all the training he had he never really got around to practicing. So the skills were there, just not as firmly embedded as they could be.
But now, now he was fighting, real fighting. The first time he was cornered by the drones Sophia controlled from the comfort of the sidelines and felt well and truly trapped words leapt to his lips, the force underneath his skin stirring and ready, “Ryuu ga waga teki wo kurau!” And the arrow flew. Suddenly he understood why such a thing needed to be bound.
He can’t describe it, the feeling of the spirits flowing through the tattoo, down his arm and away. He actually dropped his bow in shock. His father and Sophia had stood there, both smiling broadly and his father had looked at him with such pride as Hanzo had ever seen.
“Only one other in the family has ever had two dragons, well over four-hundred years ago. You’ve done well my son.” His father had told him later, after he had collapsed from the sheer energy expended.
Everything got harder from then out, till he left most everyone but Sophia in the dust. His 18th birthday brought his own bow, called Storm. It was fitting, a sleek modern thing. Heavy, but behind the weight there was a vicious power. Recurved, as he prefered and the limbs could be snapped out for storage.
Sophia grinned at the look on his face. “This one is a mite stronger draw than you’re used to. Go give it a try kid.”
It was one of those days that would stick with you, a month after I turned 18 the job went wrong. Yeah, the objective was mostly completed, bridge blown to bits. Oh but I saw the anxiety on Eliza’s face, the lines worn into her forehead loud and prominent.
Then they hit. Overwatch. Shot into my armor, how they actually got a hit on me I couldn’t understand. I could usually avoid actually getting shot at by staying out of the way. But then everyone was layin’ down their guns or being shot down dead.
They were better than me. They were better than us in this surprised state, but by damn I’d go down dead. So my Gran’s gun was lovingly laid down flat on the dusty ground, internally through the haze surrounding everything I can remember wincing. That’d be a bitch to clean out again.
Everything would have to be taken apart, wiped down. Oh damn. Then bullets actually hit the flesh of my arm. Three times. That's all I could remember before loosing consciousness. The blood loss and laying down on the dirt trying to keep from screaming,
The pain was sudden, Hanzo dropped to the ground, clutching at his wrist and gritting his teeth as it burned badly enough he could feel tears leaking down his cheek. Then again, and again. The final time he couldn’t really take the pain and passed out, hitting his head on the table on the way down.