a/n: an indulgent angstfic set immediately after genji is found by mercy & overwatch. will be a two-shot, most likely.

WARNINGS: suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts, some gore and blood, pretty nasty shit. just a heads up!

on a side note, i recently migrated to this new account after years of not using my older account (sorry). i'm hoping to improve my writing a lot so i'd really appreciate critiques and reviews! thanks

Genji doesn't wake up so much as forcefully drag his dazed mind to consciousness. It rushes into him all at once, needing to go, needing to run— He feels cold steel, smooth against rough skin. It's wrong. There's something wrong. Why is it so quiet?

A sharp stab tears through his mind and his tenuous train of thought is ripped to shreds, a bed sheet stretched thin before a barreling train. He flinches, pulling his body closer and opening his mouth to scream, yell. (Where's my brother?) What is that sound? A pitched, mechanical buzz rises like a soaring plane while Genji squirms in pain, and culminates in a shriek—

"Fuck- He's coming up-"

"He shouldn't be awake yet!"

The buzz in his ears wobbles and resolves into voices, tinny and crackling with static. Genji tries to pinpoint where they are, pulling his head away from the— pillow? bed?— before his neck starts hurting, too, from the strain. He can't see. Why can't I see anything? His mind throbs quietly, and Genji bites back a groan. Something's wrong, a voice whispers, and it reminds Genji of the council elders' thin tones—

A flash of silver. Brother? There's roaring and it's loud loud loud-

Genji listens quietly to Dr. Ziegler's voice, clutching desperately to her melodic tone. (Hanzo should be here. Where is he?) She speaks softly but firmly, as if she's had a lot of practice delivering bad news to nervous patients. He sits, still in his bed (too weak to sit up yet), as the doctor tells him how he was found, bleeding and barely alive— his body broken and shredded, a fine red mist in the air— and how Overwatch agents had found him in the field— bloodied agents yelling, trying to ignore Genji's pained sobs as they lifted him— and transported him to the Watchpoint.

Dr. Ziegler explains how she, with her recent prize-winning research, brought him back from the brink of death (at the expense of his own humanity). She runs her hands, rough and steady with the experience of a battlefield medic, across Genji's arms, pointing out synthetic muscle and artificial sensors. Genji listens in silence. He's not sure what he would say.

"There is much more to know about your armor and cybernetic enhancements, of course, but I don't want to wear you out so soon after waking from such a big operation. How are you feeling right now?" Dr. Ziegler asks. Genji can't tell if the question is out of medical necessity or genuine concern. Among the churning of his mind, he thinks absently that Ziegler is a good actor.

"I don't know." Genji, however, is not. He flinches at the sound of his voice, harsh and raspy. The doctor had promised to install a prosthetic sound box later, after Genji had recovered more.

"Hm," Dr. Ziegler tuts, her body unmoving as she examines Genji's expression, "Well, there's no need to worry right now. You'll be fine in a week or two."

Genji wonders idly if he wants to be fine, thinking of what got him here in the first place. His memories are still blurry— swirling and dipping in and out of focus— but he doesn't think that anything that could've left him in the state Dr. Ziegler described could be "fine". All he can see are snippets of dark grass and Hanzo's face, lit by fire and and blue light. Dread pools in his stomach (or whatever's left of it).

Dr. Ziegler stands to leave, but Genji speaks out, asking where his brother is. She wears a look of polite confusion as she turns to face him.

"Your brother, Hanzo Shimada?"

Genji nods.

"He is likely still in Japan. We have elected to not contact him concerning your condition until you decide to do so yourself."

Genji makes a sound of acknowledgement, still not quite satisfied. There's something important about his brother that he is forgetting. His thoughts come, unbeckoned, whispering conspiratorially.

Dr. Ziegler is a good actor.

It is in the death of sleep that Genji remembers.

Hanzo twirls in the light of the moon, as graceful and prodigious with the sword as he's always been. It matters not if he's cutting into straw, wood, or flesh. Genji has never poured that many hours into his technique or his footwork, and a quiet voice at the back of his mind berates him now for that (the voice sounds suspiciously like the council elders).

"Brother, stop! What are you doing?" Genji exclaims as he scrambles to block Hanzo's strikes.

Hanzo does not stop. His weapon arcs, steel flashing, towards Genji's delicate neck. The latter is only barely able to deflect the falling sword, using the momentum to push away from Hanzo clumsily. Hanzo darts after him, oddly steady in his steps as he lands heavy, solid blows.

"Please, brother," Genji's pleas fall on unhearing ears.

Deep inside, Genji knows why. It is his own fault. He has brought this upon himself, and now he will pay the price for it. He falters in his steps and feels pain blossom in his shoulder. The elders warned you, he thinks to himself. He can't fight through the pain and the numbing shock of seeing his brother—

Genji turns on his heel and sprints desperately towards the estate exit. He stumbles across the courtyard, breath ragged and short, barely sidestepping Hanzo's blows. He makes it all the way to the main gates before he looks back just once to see his brother's face stiffen with resolve, and two massive maws twisting towards Genji, painting his horrified face blue with light.

"The dragon devours my enemy!"

The moon shines cruelly above them.

Dr. Ziegler is checking up on Genji's vitals when he shoots awake with a heavy gasp. There's a cold terror on his face— a nightmare. His eyes focus on something unseen, and he slumps back into his pillow, face relaxing but body curling in on itself. Dr. Ziegler can see his anxiety in the lines of his mouth, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides.

The doctor clears her throat to make herself known. Genji jumps, whipping his head around to look at her seated at his bedside. His eyes shine with unshed tears, and Dr. Ziegler feels her heart twist.

Before she can say anything, Genji starts, "My brother. He killed me." His voice jumps, almost as if he's asking a question.

Dr. Ziegler says nothing. It's an answer enough.

Genji makes a muffled sound, hands going up to his scarred mouth. He suddenly feels nauseated, sick to his stomach as he remembers the blood- wet and sticky and oh god- pooling around his limp form, limbs practically severed and guts torn apart. He remembers pleading quietly for help, bleeding out and gasping for breath in his own front yard. The dragons were not clean eaters. (Though, he thinks dryly, if they had been I would be dead.)

There is no sound in the medical wing as Genji sobs silently to himself, trying to push down the bile in the back of his throat. (Why? Why would you do this to me? I loved you. You loved me.) His body curls in completely in itself now, and he tries to ignore the sharp edges of his cybernetic enhancements, only another reminder of what his brother has done.

A hand is placed on Genji's shoulder, pulling him slowly into Dr. Ziegler's embrace. His arms instinctively curl around the edges of her coat (Remember when you used to hold me after my nightmares?), his shoulders shaking uncontrollably as the doctor places her chin on his head. It's such a motherly motion, so fundamentally maternal, that Genji almost smiles.

Leaning against Dr. Ziegler, her arms around him, is how he falls asleep that night. His dreams are empty.

Genji doesn't feel better the next morning. Dr. Ziegler had left in the middle of the night, and Genji doesn't blame her (he assures himself that she has other patients and duties), but the feeling of her coat against his cheek feels all the more bitter now that it's gone.

He would feel embarrassed about sobbing pathetically into his doctor's arms if he were still young and in one piece. But with his fingers digging into the synthetic muscles of his shoulders and the edges of his brother's betrayal still fresh in his mind, Genji honestly couldn't be bothered. (Hanzo's betrayal? You mean mine. I betrayed him, I betrayed father and the council and Mother-)

Genji's heart constricts and his breath catches as he feels the dragons tearing into his skin—

"Genji?"

It's not the doctor. This voice is lighter, less grounded. Genji's vision quivers with tears before solidifying into a tall figure, with messy hair and a bright freckled face. He squints, arms relaxing from where they protectively wrapped around his torso. "Are you... Tracer?" Even sheltered and as aloof as Genji is, he still knows the face of the world's most famous Overwatch agent.

"That's me, love. And you're our live-in patient!"

Genji frowns. "Does everyone here know about me?" (He had known, at least vaguely, that he was being held at an important Overwatch base. Just how important it was, he had not realized until now.)

"Most of the agents do, sorry. News travels fast." Tracer looks apologetic for a moment, but the expression melts quickly. Her default face seems to be one of excitement. "They're all dying to meet you; we've been waiting for Angela's all-clear."

Genji squirms, uncomfortable in the idea that a whole facility of talented agents might be gossiping about him. He's always been a bit of a drama queen, but now the feeling of eyes on his skin sits wrong with him. He pushes away his discomfort and smiles and answers Tracer's mundane inquiries with as much energy as he can muster. Tracer's smart though, and she notices his mood slipping soon enough. With a cheery farewell and 'feel better', she shows herself out.

Genji releases a breath he didn't know he'd been holding until Tracer left. He almost feels better left with the haunting memories of his own death than having to make small talk with the agent. There's irony somewhere in that statement, but Genji's too exhausted to find it.

His eyes feel heavy and he prepares to sleep, shifting his pillows to lay more comfortably. But the moment his eyes close, he sees the flashing of a sword, the cold resolve in Hanzo's eyes—

Genji gives up on sleep and stares blankly at the wall of his room, trying to ignore the gnawing in his stomach and the prickle of his skin, artificial sensors feeling not-quite-right against the stiff infirmary bed sheets. Thoughts of Hanzo threaten to flood his mind. His heart beats a little faster than what is comfortable, and he realizes vacantly that he wants to die. Even if just so he can feel his own skin again.

Throughout the course of the next week, Genji is visited by more agents. Tracer comes back every other day at the exact same hour, like clockwork, exchanging idle chatter with Genji. He finds that he enjoys her conversations more over time, her trivial questions occupying his overworked mind.

The second agent he meets is Winston, and even with previous knowledge of the individual's unique appearance, he's a bit astounded when faced with Winston's towering form. According to the gorilla-turned-scientist, Genji is welcome to remain at the Watchpoint for as long as he wishes, even after his discharge from the medical quarters. Genji accepts Overwatch's hospitality with as much gratitude as he can muster. Which, to be frank, is not much. Winston is not nearly as fluent with words as Tracer, and their conversation is halting and awkward. Genji tries to appreciate it, but he practically flat-out requests Winston to leave after a few minutes, feeling self-disgust settling into his scars.

Later in the week, Agents Reinhardt and Lacroix exchange names and pleasantries briefly with him before departing on a week-long operation. Genji thought they seemed like nice individuals, though he could see in the squareness of Reinhardt's shoulders and the way Lacroix's hand never left his hip that they were front line agents, through and through. His thoughts strayed to Hanzo, who received his own bow at age twelve and never put it down. Who kept a shortsword under his pillow, by their father's request and, eventually, Hanzo's own habit.

Rehabilitation is tough. Not only because Genji still doesn't know the way around his own mind— the squeak of the medical wing's chairs remind him of a dragon's too loud roar— but also because the novelty of Genji's cyborg prostheses. Each part of his new synthetic body is designed with care and a master's eye, but it still doesn't compare to the real thing. Genji spends days and weeks with training exercises that Dr. Ziegler seemed to making up on the spot. He doesn't mind the busywork though, appreciating the doctor's understanding of his delicate mental state. It's nice to have something distracting his mind from dwelling on... anything, so Genji throws himself headfirst into physical therapy and relearning basic movement.

It's weeks before Genji is able to stand and walk on his own. He's not keeping track of time very well, but from occasional glances at Dr. Ziegler's tablet Genji surmises that it's been at least a month or two since he woke up, sobbing and shivering on the operation table. He still hasn't been able to leave his in-patient room. The white walls and scratchy sheets have been grinding on Genji's thoughts, and he begins to spend hours staring out the one window of his room, which faces a set of rock bluffs. When he finally manages a few steps on his own, Genji feels something in his chest release, a knot melting off his troubled heart. The doctor smiles and promises Genji that he will be allowed to leave the medical wing by the end of the week.

More agents have been visiting him as well, some just to catch a glimpse of the boy brought back from death, others to inquire about his past life (questions which Genji either shakily deflects or soundly ignores). Mostly he pretends to sleep when people arrive, too exhausted from rehab and nightmares to make small talk. He doesn't receive any gifts; Genji finds this reassuring, that none of the Overwatch agents have invested too much time or thought onto him. He feels transient and out of place, a trespasser in a high-profile military base. The one exception to this is Tracer, who begins to bring him junk food squirreled from the agents' communal pantry, much to Dr. Ziegler's chagrin.

Sometimes, during bouts of startling lucidity, Genji blinks past the events of the last few months and remembers, pleasantly, the days before his slaughter. When everything was still normal, still okay. Practicing his aim in the garden. The soft breaths of his latest romantic interest against his neck, their legs tangled in his. Quiet afternoons in the courtyard (soon to be splattered with his blood) admiring the sunset. Feeding birds with his brother when Genji was barely ten, making chirrup noises and laughing—

Genji chokes back a laugh. When did it go wrong? We were so innocent, brother. His breath catches and before he knows it, tears are rolling down his cheeks and he curls up the best he can on the hard infirmary mattress.

It's dark. Blindlingly so.

Genji is standing on stage, lights shining dazzlingly upon him as he squints into the audience. It's no use, the stage is too bright and the gallery too dark. His lips pull into something that could be described as a smile, his body turning to face his brother.

Hanzo's eyes are cold; his face much older than it had been when Genji had last seen him. His eyes are shrouded in a quiet shadow, wisps of facial hair framing his chin. He is not smiling.

Without warning, Hanzo's mouth opens, and keeps opening. It grows into an expansive maw and Genji watches on in horror and detached concern as fire erupts, swirling into hundreds of dragons, each with a set of razor-sharp teeth and slitted eyes. Genji wants to scream, but he finds that he is utterly apathetic, body and mind weighed down as if carrying mountains. He observes passively as the dragons tumble and twirl, reaching towards him with claws that gleam silver and green-

Genji wakes with a gasp, cold sweat beading his face. His room is empty and silent.

He pulls himself into a sitting position and leans his forehead against the bars of his bed frame, relishing in the cold press of metal on what remains of his skin. It is night, the window dark and shades partially drawn. He kicks the blanket onto the floor—technically, Genji doesn't need any covering at night, since his systems had built-in heating cores— and feels disgust rise in his throat. He's flooded with a sudden wave of self-hatred, the sudden need to leave.

He was a burden. A bird. Didn't need to be held down. He knocks his arm against the bedside table as he stands, the clang of metal on metal startling him. Not truly human. He needed to get out, to move. To stretch his muscles and feel the wind on his skin—

Genji almost slips when he clambers out the window and descends the outside wall of the medical wing, dropping messily onto the ground. His reflexes aren't calibrated yet, aren't (will never be) at the level they were before the accident. The night is refreshing and horrifying to Genji's artificial senses. He is motionless on the grass lawn, feeling an overwhelming sensation of loss. The grass. I can't feel the grass under my feet.

There are crickets crying in the underbrush, and Genji tries to focus on walking and not the pain of unused, untrained (unfeeling) muscles tearing from his steps, which are too big and too fast. He makes his way to the cliff face, which he has watched distantly from his room for weeks. The rocks are much rougher up close; Genji cuts nicks into his synthetic flesh on the rugged terrain when he picks his way up the cliff.

Genji almost falls more than a few times on his way up. He's unsurprised to find that he is fine with that. His latent suicidal notions have become quite habitual during his stay in the medical wing, a steady base beat to his own meltdown.

From the top of the cliff, he can see out towards the sea, shaky rock bluffs plummeting into the blackness of the shore. The Watchpoint sprawls across the valley behind him, tucked between mountains that carve out the ocean.

Genji crumples to the ground, suddenly exhausted. There's soreness sitting behind his eyes but he can't close them, has to keep looking. The salty wind burns his throat and his nose. Surrounded by the distant rush of waves crashing, Genji curls in on himself, vaguely noticing the tears on his face. He grits his teeth, revulsion of his own body (no it's not) prickling on his skin. Resolve settling into his bones. (Just like your older brother.)

Dr. Ziegler had not bothered to replicate nails on Genji's fingers, leaving them round, blunt, and altogether very inefficient at disassembling things. He digs his fingers into his arms, prying at his shoulder panels. There's a spark and a satisfying sting as they finally come loose, landing silently in the sparse vegetation of the cliff side. The collar-pieces to his cyborg enhancements are much more difficult to remove.

Though he feels absolutely hysterical inside, Genji's movements are oddly steady. He almost laughs with relief when the majority of his upper chest is dismantled and he can see the sparking wires below, a soft green light (no longer blocked by strategic metal coverings) spilling onto the ground.

You're disgusting, he thinks to himself, reaching into his chest and ripping out a handful of wires.

As Genji blacks out (Why does it hurt so much?), he thinks he can hear his brother yelling.

Oh Hanzo, what have I become?

a/n: don't worry, chapter two (epilogue) is already about halfway done. see u then!