like, basically a test run for this story. i like how this reads so far so when i post the rest of this chapter i'll post it to my ao3. enjoy.
Hanzo peered along the shaft of his nocked arrow, surveying the less than pleasant scene slowly playing out in the cobbled streets below him. Warm light from old-fashioned lamps placed along the street threw their light onto the slick courtyard, slicing through the heavy night. Fletching from his arrow tickled his fingertips, his cheek, as he followed his target with the tip, marking the back of a security lackey's head; the man stepped over the bodies of his unconscious and fallen comrades as he edged closer to a crumpled form pressed up against the building across the street. He held his gun with both hands before him, aimed downwards at a helpless-looking man draped in red and leaking more of the rusty color into the slick streets.
McCree didn't presently appear to be a danger warranting the fear in the guard's eyes, his anxious footfalls. His broad shoulders were backed up to the ruddy brick of the hotel's wall, heaving at a slow pace; his dark hair was darker yet with blood and the brackish water of the puddles in every crevice of the road he lay collapsed in. The metal fingers on his left hand were unnaturally still against the ground beneath him. Hanzo's breath hitched at the glint of McCree's eyes from beneath the brim of his hat, a glance upwards to acknowledge his presence above. The guard was oblivious, still creeping forwards with his handgun barely a meter away from the agent's forehead, smeared with blood from a particularly nasty blow to the face that Hanzo had witnessed earlier in the brawl.
His current vulnerable position was entirely Hanzo's fault, he knew, a lapse in vigilance that had allowed the small security force to overwhelm his partner on the ground, risking their mission entirely. He cursed his mistakes as he held his bowstring taught: the guard below was at point-blank range now. If Hanzo were to miss his mark, make another error, McCree's life would be practically forfeit, and his loss was not something the organization could afford. If Hanzo were even to hit a non-lethal shot, the open door to the hotel across the street sat immediately to the guard's left. He could duck inside and out of the archer's sight before he could ready another arrow. He had only one chance to right his wrong.
A tiny glint of metal flashed to the side of his target, accompanied by the sound of metal scraping against stone. The guard had spotted his enemy's revolver, Peacekeeper, lying near, kicked it away. McCree grimaced at the sight of his beloved gun scratched against the filthy street. He looked back up at Hanzo, furrowing his brows, encouraging him. The time to loathe the past few minutes had passed- he had to shoot. Hanzo released his leather-clad fingers from the string of his bow, letting the arrow fly at the back of the guard's head. It whistled past his cheek, arcing towards its target. It fell slightly below the intended mark, but not far enough to save the guard's life- archery wasn't an exact science, but Shimada Hanzo was no amateur. The silver tip pierced through the back of the man's neck, blood spraying from the exit wound as the arrow's momentum carried it, and its target, forward. Hanzo was about to release the breath he had been holding, as well, but shock did so for him as he heard a shout from the street below. It was loud, almost animalistic, but he knew it was McCree. The archer leapt from his perch on the roof of the building and landed with a small grunt on the road, dashing towards the two bodies piled against the far wall.
"Get it out!" McCree snarled, clutching one arm with the other. Hanzo's arrow had flown too far.
"My apologies," Hanzo muttered coolly and bowed his head slightly as he kneeled to retrieve it. The arrowhead was embedded deep in McCree's arm, the shaft slick and hot with the still-spilling blood of the unfortunate guard. Brushing the sharpshooter's red cape aside, Hanzo braced his arm to yank the arrow free. His skin felt feverish below his sleeve, and McCree gave another pained bellow as the silver tip broke free. He groaned and shoved Hanzo's adept fingers away, clutching the wound on his shoulder with no regard to the injuries that had downed him in the first place. He kicked angrily at the unmoving body of the guard that had threatened him and it rolled off towards bodies in similar shape, slumped all along the ground.
"Where else are you hurt?" Hanzo prompted, surveying the water-color blossoms of blood decorating McCree's thigh and stomach, as well as the state of his face: smeared red and cheeks coated with grime. It would not do to have McCree bleed out in the streets now.
"Don' matter," McCree's teeth ground against each other as he chewed through the fresh pain, and Hanzo agreed silently. "Radio for pickup. Can't stay here long," he nodded towards the downed men that they had fought earlier, cringing as the motion pulled at his shoulder where the arrow had hit. Hanzo did as the senior agent instructed, and Lena's chirpy voice greeted him with good news.
"Be there in a few minutes, love! Stay nearby!"
"McCree has sustained multiple injuries," Hanzo warned across the comm, "He will require medical attention."
"Not a problem, Miss Mercy is with us! Jesse, just do your best to hold out 'til we get there, yeah?"
"Can do," McCree seethed into his own radio, huffing out a relieved breath, and the comm line went silent. From what Hanzo had seen, his reaction to his other wounds hadn't been nearly as violent or vocal, he supposed the shock was finally wearing off. McCree noticed Hanzo staring at the blood seeping out from between his fingers on his arm. "Don' you worry 'bout me, Angela'll fix this right up," he reassured the archer with a goofy grin full of slightly crooked teeth- the expression reminded Hanzo of a child pumped full of painkillers. He nodded his understanding and retrieved Peacekeeper from its puddle on the cobbled streets. With a swipe of the sleeve tucked at his hip, he wiped away some of the rainwater before offering the weapon back to McCree; as the gunslinger reached to accept it, a shot struck Hanzo's shoulder.
Once again, the ornate weapon clattered to the ground and out of its owner's reach. He heard the tiny clicks as it rattled against the stone, echoes of the shouting men bouncing from the street, coming towards him. Too many.
Hanzo felt a sickening pain in his gut, as well as the burn from the slug of lead in his shoulder. Foggily, he again recognized a sense of failure, knowing he should have heard the oncoming ambush from a mile away, or at least had some sense to move he and his comrade under cover. He whipped his gaze in the direction of the shot's origin as he ducked out of the follow-up fire, caught a glimpse of the second wave of guards approaching rapidly. They were all armed to the teeth and, as skilled a shot he knew both he and his partner were, there was no way to take them all out. He would be pumped full of bullets in half a second if he tried to call for his spirit dragons- usually a last resort, it was already too late. Hanzo reached to his lap for his bow anyway, prepared to take as many of the grunts down with him as possible, a look of resolve masking his features as he stared down the enemies before him.
His fingers shook as he nocked an arrow, slightly slower than usual: the shot had penetrated his drawing arm. An inhuman growl sounded from his partner behind. He drew back the string and a slash of pain ripped through the muscle of his shoulder, he gritted his teeth and watched his arrow fly, anyway. As his eyes tracked its rapid path, cutting through the chilled air and gliding towards the head of an unsuspecting frontman, a flash of scruffy red and brown caught his attention. A deafening cry, familiar of only a few minutes, forced his bow to rest in awe as he watched the rusty creature attack, bounding on the same track as his shot. McCree's previous place on the ground was empty, save for the bloody smudges on the cobbles and his carefully discarded stetson.
The world seemed to slow as Hanzo watched the massive creature tear through the unexpecting men, iron jaws ripping through flesh and fabric alike, spilling blood to the misty air. He found himself stepping backwards as he watched the arcs of the liquid in motion, raining down upon the writhing bodies from whence they came. They shot at it, helplessly, screaming and firing unintelligibly into the fray in a desperate attempt to slow the beast. The tables had turned.
Bullets struck feet, ate at the road as the gunmen aimed for the thick hide diving through their numbers, tossing bodies aside with ease as it picked off victims left and right. Its wide paws grabbed a man down, its teeth finished the job, though Hanzo couldn't help but notice that its front left limb ended in something remarkably human; and, of course, that it was made entirely of metal. He held his breath, backing away from the commotion with his bow lowered to his thigh. His eyes were trained to the beast's broad back, wrapped in a shredded red blanket, its thick fur tinged red from the spill all around. The messy, perpetually squirming brawl began to slow as few men remained standing. Hanzo could tell most of the bodies on the ground were lifeless, fading fast, or the few missing limbs, fleshy chunks: they probably wished they were dead.
As the last man went down, the creature turned on its heel and glared up at Hanzo. Golden eyes, molten like liquid amber trained on him, heavy, labored breaths making their motion unsteady. The beast's scruffy brown fur had become ginger in the fight, soaked with blood and rainwater, sticking to its flank like it had been pasted down. It shook its mane as it stalked forwards, the blood that seemingly could not rest spraying back into the air.
"Jesse-" The name that bubbled to Hanzo's lips was not one he uttered often. The beast making its way nearer was not simply his mission partner, McCree, not anymore. The wild in its eyes spoke more to the young man, the outlaw, vigilante, the fiery boy that the pre-Recall members sometimes spoke of. They were the ones to call him Jesse. It fit.
The wolf-like beast grew nearer yet. Hanzo could feel its hot, stinking breath on his chest, its wickedly curved claws scrabbling up onto his thighs, pressing him back into the stone wall behind. He squeezed his eyes shut, gasping quietly for air as his heart threatened to beat out of his chest. True fear was not something he experienced often. Calm in a battle of two versus fifty, but the massacre he had witnessed rubbed him in all the wrong ways.
Red-stained teeth bared to his neck, flesh-specked claws at his chest, he closed his eyes and only hoped that his end would be quick.
"You don't tell a soul," Jesse growled. The claws became lighter, duller. Hot, stinking breath remained at his throat, but the threat it carried was less. McCree's voice wasn't venomous. He was tired. "Got it, doll?" His human teeth clenched, still stained red and peppered with bits of flesh. The pet name was spit out as an afterthought, something inside McCree trying to upkeep his usual nonchalance. For the sake of chivalry, Hanzo supposed. He opened his eyes silently, observing McCree's broad hands. His short-cropped nails were in a similar state to his mouth, morphed from the keratin daggers responsible for several dozen corpses piled barely a meter away.
"As you wish." Hanzo let out the breath he had been holding, slacking against the wall behind him, sliding down to rest on the ground. McCree followed suit, flexing his jaw and hocking a red mouthful of saliva at the ground before practically collapsing into Hanzo's lap. The archer glanced down to see the man's cheek pressed to his leg. His warm, wet breath brushed Hanzo's skin through his hakama pants and the hairs on the back of his neck bristled, unsure whether he should see the closeness as a threat or a measure of peace.
"Yer arrows are silver, huh?" McCree murmured, sounding to be on the edge of sleep. His arms and fingers curled into each other, shrinking his form.
"Sterling. It is sanitary."
"Stings like a bitch."
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