Author's Notes:
Quotes from the Lone Ranger's creed are not mine, and are credited to Fran Striker, the original writer, circa 1933
(X-posted at AO3 under pseud Chopsticks.)
I've never met a man who holds his gun with the effect of holding a bow. Not before I met Ryuu at least. Half-standing on the shotgun side of the roofless truck, he braces too much weight on his heel, knees bent as if to make up for a phantom weight lacking in the unbalanced barrel. He aims with his full body, snaps the trigger far too quickly, and holds the rifle too steadily against the recoil as if he only loosed an arrow.
The throwaway shell arcs out to the side of the road. It doesn't land far from a plastic bottle shot into the dust and broken dead centre from a .36 calibre puncture.
I whistle twice, the second note curling with appreciation. "Five for five. Until you give me reason to reprimand your bad posture, I reckon I got nothin' to say. It's only a matter of time, though, mark my words."
Ryuu is reloading with his back to me and I'm turning to focus again on the road. I don't see his face, but the smirk is crystal clear in his voice.
"I look forward to learning from you if that day comes, McCree."
Ryuu, I am starting to learn, can be a regular smartass. I urge the gas pedal more generously and Ryuu's final target approaches quicker than it should. Acceleration is not enough to take him by surprise. A bang rips through the air and the bottle, shot through the heart, flies off the passing fence post lickety-split.
Groaning, I steer the vehicle into a screeching one-eighty and then reach over to reclaim my gun.
"That's it. Time to switch. I've had enough of you twirling my baby around like you're in a marching band dance line."
His truck continues to roll forward, driverless, as I climb over to crowd the passenger seat. I know we're the only vehicle on this arrow-straight country highway for miles and miles. So with a bit of manoeuvring, I'm standing, almost straddling, over the man in a way that should make even him uncomfortable given my history of attempted propositioning. At length, he relinquishes the rifle, ammo and all.
I sit down after Ryuu has jostled past me to fully take the wheel. Then, with perfect form, I snipe the bottles along the north side of the road, six for six, out of obligation to my ego.
"Not bad," he comments.
Sitting back, I scoff. Truthfully speaking, I know full well he's just being to the point, and not unkindly. That's how he is. Myself excluded, only Ryuu has the qualification in these boondocks to be blithe about another's talent. This I figured out a year ago, on the day I was chatting up Mary-Ann at the diner and a foreign stranger walked in, looking for all the world as if he didn't have a Mach 3 hoverplane parked out front and wasn't wearing indications of another life, and he asked her, cool as you please, for a black coffee.
Looking at Ryuu now, I see a run-of-the-mill rancher despite the shape of his face or the color of his hair. The Japanese newcomer may be the talk of the xenophobic majority of town, but to me he's a stranger no longer. He's breeding livestock, getting first degree sunburns and putting the pedal to scrap metal like the best of us. On mornings he smells like fresh hay and on Saturday nights he tastes like smooth sake.
I asked him once why he stayed. He said, "I am looking for a different life."
I asked him the same thing one evening when the two of us were nursing empty flasks and equally empty consciences. He said, "I have to save him."
Terrible reasons. Granted, Ryuu is tight-lipped to everything save spit swapping when he's drunk. There's doubt in my mind that remembers confessing the latter, which is just as well.
The vehicle lurches over a bump, reining my attention back to our drive. I squint and tilt my hat against the afternoon sun. Ryuu has turned off the highway and his ranch is coming up half a mile straight ahead. I can see my own truck tucked in the shade of the old barn. Beyond the man-made structures, horses and cattle dot the postcard-perfect pasture.
I lean back, stretching, and lace my fingers behind my neck. "Your little darlings are looking better today."
Ryuu, however, is suddenly grim. "I have left the worst of them in indoors. The disease does not seem to spread, but the sick ones react poorly to light."
"Not a disease," I tell him, shaking my head. "A curse, I tell ya. Deadlock's ghost is livid that an alien bought his land and found his secret cellar of half-century vintage."
He gives a snort. "I found no such thing."
"Of course you wouldn't be telling me if you did."
"Nonsense," he mutters. His foreign accent bleeds heavily through the word, and I can't help but grin. Then, a breath later, his cowboy airs are back and he asks, "By the way, will you stay for supper?"
The rare invitation takes me by surprise. My visits to the ranch have been limited to work and occasional daytime calls, whereas evenings saw the two of us several miles east, across the gorge, at the town saloon or on my porch behind the sheriff's office. Thinking, I wipe my rifle's barrel on a shirt sleeve. The metal doesn't gleam; a thick cloud has shifted over the sun. Emerging thunderheads, by the looks of it.
"Glad to. I'd be a fool to turn down your exotic cooking. That is, unless you're more of a bachelor than I thought."
The overheating junker creaks and pops to a stop in front of the barn. Ryuu cuts the gas and elbows open the door on his side. "I wouldn't say exotic," he says. He exits the vehicle and then looks back at me over his shoulder, dark eyes humorless. "I plan to put one of the calves out of its misery tonight. It's too young to cope with another day. Might as well share the excess."
I sober up in sympathy. "So it's come to this."
"Yes. I've given up."
Well, there has to be a first time for everything.
What exactly he has given up on, I don't think I know for sure. But I learn today that Ryuu is nothing if not decisive. In the gloom of the slaughterhouse, he holds an axe like a practiced executioner. His stance is just as unconventional as his marksmanship, but it takes only one bullet-quick motion to cut the creature's neck clean through.
Dead, the calf's eyes are no more soulless than those of the half-dozen animals still wasting away without cause, awaiting their turn.
Ryuu calls it konmei. I call it wraith's touch. There's no science to this condition as far as any doctor can tell, which leaves only the intangible to blame.
We have a saying in these parts that an animal is only as good as its breeder. There's no science to this saying either, but the archaic has a way of appealing to superstition when nothing else makes sense.
That isn't to say I haven't tried to make sense of things. On this rancher's living room mantelpiece I came across the only visible evidence of his past: a framed photograph of two men – Ryuu, looking much younger clean-shaven, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with another handsome Japanese youth – both robed in matching, traditional uniforms and carrying combat gear.
A few months ago, feeling brave, I told him the story about how I lost a part of myself on the day I lost my left arm in a deadly shootout.
Ryuu must have found a friend in me by that time, because he looked to the photograph, eyes hollow, and confirmed, "I understand that kind of loss."
Sunset descends as a thin margin of red under a blanket of gunmetal clouds. Storms kick up fast across the valley. Already, the scent on the wind is sharp and electric. My left shoulder aches keenly against the cold prosthetic. It's hardly harmonica weather, but I find myself obligated to stay in my seat by the remains of supper and the dying fire, where smoke is still licking oil off the spit and Ryuu's two Akita mutts are vying in earnest for my open-handed attentions.
"Oh, no you don't," I say to the particularly eager one who has his front paws on my knee. "Back of the line for you, convict. You wait your turn like your brother, or it's cuffs and jail time until you learn your place in the social order."
Apparently understanding some part of the human gibberish, Suzume, the mottled brown rascal, drops off me to whine in the vicinity of my boot, though his tail wagging is as animated as ever. Not missing a beat, his snow-white brother, Okami, jumps forward and takes his place pawing my knee expectantly. The greedy devils. Between two men, cleaning and cooking the calf takes up much of our afternoon, and yet a good portion of the meat goes to Ryuu's hounds in the end.
Feeling somewhat exploited, I continue to toss scraps to the voracious pair while throwing dark looks to the man who shimmied his way out of doing this. Ryuu, however, is too busy and too far out of range to see my expression.
A long whistle sounds, carried on the wind. Around my feet, the dogs perk up their ears. Well-chewed bones drop to the ground as they turn their heads in the direction of their owner. From this distance, I can just make out Ryuu seated on a horse, his ponytail whipping in the wind, fingers poised at his lips the moment before another crisp whistle rings across the expanse. Triggered by training, Suzume and Okami bolt off in unison into the tall grass to where their owner is directing them to herd in the livestock.
I watch them, the lone rancher and his drove of more animals than an amateur should be capable of handling at one time, all silhouetted in crimson. In a practiced arcs, the dogs carve a path for their quarry towards the barn and stables. The more nimble posse of horses arrive first, while the cattle trail behind at a slower pace with Ryuu bringing up the rear.
I stand up from my seat and kick gravel into the embers. A brisk gust of air swirls the dust and smoke into the sky. Even the livestock are starting to make nervous noises, impatient to seek shelter. I rub my aching shoulder through my shirt and I find myself wishing I brought a serape as I make my way over to where Ryuu is pulling open stable doors to let in the horses. Although I know he's perfectly capable without me, by unspoken agreement I help him tie up half of the horses in their stalls so we can both get inside the house that much quicker.
Ryuu is more quiet than usual since we butchered the calf. Lord knows what he's thinking about, but I have been leaving him alone so far. I observe him tethering the last horse. He looks tired, his brows half-furrowed, his mind a world away.
"Hey," I say, breaking the silence and finally drawing his attention. "How 'bout I go make some coffee. You look like you need it."
He looks away and busies himself with the rope. "I'm fine. You can make some for yourself if you want."
"Come on. I have a bottle of whiskey to give it class. You ain't gonna make me drink on my own are ya, partner? Besides…" I catch him glancing over again and I shoot him a grin he won't miss. "The night's still young and I don't want you falling asleep on me before we're done."
"McCree," Ryuu says, his tone somewhere between admonishing and amused.
"Yea?"
The Japanese cowboy turns his back to me and heads towards the corralled cattle outside. "Go make the coffee," he calls over his shoulder, waving a tattooed arm towards the house.
Triumphant, I follow him out and close the stable doors behind me, appreciating the view until Ryuu disappears into the barn with his cattle and two dogs. With any luck, I may coax a few secrets from him after the alcohol hits. Maybe his full name. Maybe who he's trying to save. Maybe how many more tattoos he's hiding under all the linen and leather.
The thought spurs my pace, and I take a brief detour to grab the bottle of whiskey from my truck before going into the ranch house. The sunset fades rapidly into the arrival of the storm. Just as I am hanging up my hat and kicking off my boots in the hallway, the first rain hits the windows, followed by a loud drum of thunder. Kindled by the gale, the old house comes alive with sounds of creaking beams and beating shutters.
I hurry to the kitchen start up the pot of coffee, wishing that Ryuu won't take too long. There's good reason why the townsfolk feared this abandoned property for decades and believed it haunted. Nobody would call Jesse McCree a coward, but who am I to disprove the supernatural on a night like this?
They say that, thirty years ago, the long-standing Deadlock family met a brutal and bloody end in their own home. At the time, the Deadlocks were rich, successful ranchers in appearance, carrying on the tradition of their ancestors who built the first settlements around the gorge. But everyone along the grapevine knew they also headed one of the largest underground criminal organizations in the southwest, trafficking omnics, weapons and other illicit tech. Rumours tell of how the Deadlocks were murdered one day by their own gang and then strung up among corpses of animals in the slaughterhouse. Nowadays, the ghosts of the Deadlock family are said to haunt the ranch, shackled to this world by vengeance.
Ryuu, however, never grew up listening to local American legends. Clearly he didn't give a damn about stories of haunted houses when he walked into town hall and bought the deed to the property in cash. Even I was skeptic when I heard about the purchase, but Ryuu single-handedly fixed up the decrepit ranch into something liveable again.
That was the moment I became the first person interested in knowing Ryuu as a friend. But even a year later, I'm not sure I really understand this man much at all. I reckon that he and I both have too many skeletons in our closets. Too many sorry memories locked away amid the mountains of bones. He's never once asked me the important questions either, and I don't mind keeping it that way.
It doesn't mean I'm not still curious about him, though.
The familiar aroma of coffee fills the kitchen as fresh brew trickles into an old-fashioned glass carafe. I find two large mugs and give each a generous dollop of amber. I take a swig before adding anything else, and the liquid instantly warms my insides.
Feeling my jitters melt away, I go to the washroom to wash the day's grime from my face and check my reflection in the mirror. The unruly brown hair that frames my jaw could use a trim again. Ryuu wears his beard much shorter and neater. Hopefully he doesn't mind it tonight.
My pant pocket vibrates. I dry my hands on a towel and pull out my phone to read the new message:
G. Reyes (Friday, 20:19) – I have the intel you want. Call me when you're free.
I hesitate for a minute, and then quickly type back: Thanks. I'll call you tmr morning when I'm alone.
Seconds later, my reply displays as "Read" in the message log. I shut off the screen and put my phone away the same moment as the front door crashes opens loudly at the other end of the house.
"McCree!"
I dash double-time into the dark hallway, heart pounding, not remembering ever hearing Ryuu's voice crack with panic like that before. Turning the corner, I find the man kneeling on the ground in the open doorway, enveloped in a whirlwind of rain and hunched over something as pale as a ghost.
A flash of lightning fills the hallway for a split second, and then I know. Ryuu chokes on a dry sob as he clutches Okami's wet fur closer, but the dog only stares into nothingness, still breathing but not truly alive.
"Konmei," he rasps, voice breaking. "No warning. Why…?"
I drop down in front of them and check for the dog's heartbeat to make sure. "It's okay, it's okay. He's alive." I put my good hand on Ryuu's shoulder, willing him to not give up already. "Ryuu. I'm here to help you, partner. Let's get dried him off and move him somewhere comfortable."
Before I shut the door to the storm, I think I hear Okami's brother howl distantly like a lone wolf into the night.
Ryuu is a man of few words, but he loves his Akitas, and he doesn't mind talking about them. One warm evening this past summer, he brought the inseparable pair into town with him for a change of scenery. They chased each other in circles around my yard, kicking up dust and turning their coats into gradients of copper while we watched from the bench on my porch.
"Okami means 'wolf' in Japanese." Ryuu explained, uncommonly unprompted. "Suzume means 'sparrow.' I have been taking care of them since they were born." He took a drag from our shared cigar. With a light sigh, he breathed a plume into the still air, and then pointed the cigar back towards me.
I reclaimed the stick and touched it to my lips. The end of the wrapper was still deliciously damp from Ryuu's mouth. "Su-zu-may? Now, I can understand the 'wolf' thing, for a dog. But 'sparrow' just sounds downright girly."
Ryuu quirked a rare smile. "You are correct. It is typically a girl's name. However, I did not get to name both of them myself."
He didn't offer an explanation that time. I acquiesced and moved on.
"Your people sure are literal with your names. Wolf. Sparrow. What about Ryuu?" I knew I always said it wrong: Ree-yoo. The man himself always pronounced it better, smoother than my American staccato, and made the syllable flow like water. "Didya also get named after some sort of wild animal?"
"You could say that…" He stretched out his hand, requesting the cigar again. I tapped off the dead ashes and obliged. "I can give you three guesses, but, knowing you, you will likely require more."
I took my chances and upped the ante. "If I get it right the first time, I'm getting' a reward. A reward of my choosing."
There was thoughtful pause. And then, perfectly pokerfaced, he replied, "Very well."
Ryuu brought the cigar to his mouth. Closing his eyes, he sucked in, deep and deliberate, as if he was trying to inhale the whole length of burning tobacco into his belly. His chest expanded, like a bellows. Then, on the verge of exhale, he stretched his entire torso upwards, back arched, face tilted to the sky. Smoke erupted from his open mouth in a long, soundless roar; the billowing column rose like fire, volcanic and aglow in the orange sun. Ryuu then looked back at me, eyes bright, the end of his smirk still seeping with slips of smoke.
He's spoon-feeding it to me, I marveled. On a silver platter. We've been playing the game from the same goddamn side.
I gave him the answer he wanted to hear in one guess. Later, in my kitchen, pressed up against a wall, the two of us made out for the first time. Amid the hot breath and clawing teeth, he made no protest when I shoved up the sleeve of his shirt to trace the shape of the dragon.
The first time I wake up, the house rattles from the force of a thunderclap. I sit up from the couch, startled and still exhausted. One of Ryuu's leather jackets slides off my chest and falls to the ground. I look across the room. Ryuu is watching me silently from the other side of the makeshift dog bed we put together by the fireplace for Okami. The flickering light glints off the empty whiskey bottle at his feet. At length, he stands up, walks to me, holds out a hand and says, "Let's go to bed."
The second time I wake up, I'm dreaming that the ghost of a dead man is curling his fingers around my neck when the bed suddenly dips beside me. It takes a sleep-addled minute before I realize that the only other person in the room was Ryuu, wearing a cloth robe, hair damp and undone, smelling like soap; the apparition I thought I was wrestling was pinned beneath me on the bed, struggling against my own flesh and metal fingers that surround his warm neck. I release him, arms shaking, and babble apologies until Ryuu growls something scathing in Japanese and pulls me down to kill my words with a tongue still edged with liquor.
The third time I wake up, I'm under another nightmare: I watch as a sparrow falls from the air to the slaughterhouse floor, its wings bent and broken, only to be approached by a hungry wolf and then devoured alive from head to tail. I surface from the vision gasping like a drowned man and feel cold sweat slide down my face. It's still the middle of the night. The storm continues to howl outside. Ryuu isn't here; the other half of the bed is cool to the touch. His robe that I remember spreading open on the sheets is also nowhere in sight.
I look around. My socks prove to be the only clothing I shed earlier tonight. Out of habit, I pull them back on before going down the creaking hallway to look for the absent man, turning on the lights along the way.
When I reach the living room, I know in an instant that something isn't right. The bed of towels and cushions on the fireplace rug is also cold and vacant. I rush to check the other rooms and then realize that the man is gone, the dog is gone, and I'm the only living soul in the house.
I try calling him. The only answer I get is the sound of his phone buzzing near the dog bed.
"Dammit, Ryuu. Where the hell would you go at this godforsaken hour?"
When the sheriff himself is in trouble, there is no-one else to call – of this I'm always well aware. I bite my dry lips, yearning for a smoke. My fingers graze the hard leather of my hip holster in distraction, seeking succor in the shape of the revolver I haven't fired since the day I last shot a man in defence. But even with Peacemaker, I am alone. If only I had another friend beside me…
And then the answer hits me. "God, I am one slow motherfucker."
A minute later, I leave the house pressing my hat firmly on my head, squinting through the downpour. Our trucks are still parked on the side of the house. That's a good sign. I make quick work of the distance to the lamp-lit barn. The latch outside looks untouched. I unlock it and open the door just wide enough to step inside.
In the shadows of the barn, I hear Ryuu's other dog before I see him; there is a jingle of dog tags, and then Suzume is whimpering and sniffing around my feet.
"Easy, boy," I whisper. "C'mon, let's go find your brother and your pa."
The dog is already brushing past my legs, way ahead me. I fumble for my phone's emergency light and follow him outside before I lose sight of my detective.
The darkness around us is as thick as molasses. It's all I can do to keep up with the dog when my only leash to him is a thin beam of light. I focus my eyes to the ground, keeping him in sight, not knowing at all where I'm going and not wanting to know the black shapes that haunt the edges of my vision. After what feels like an eternity of wading through the dark, the dog finally stops and claws at a vertical slant wood.
I shine my light up. Before us stands the slaughterhouse door, already cracked ajar.
More than ever, I find myself wishing that I never believed in all those stories about the Deadlock murders as a kid. But I need to find Ryuu – that much I know for certain. Sucking a deep breath through my teeth, I push the door wide open and reach quickly for the light switch.
There is no-one inside. Dimly lit by fluorescent lights, the room looks like the way we left it in the afternoon. It smells of old meat and blood, but the place is mostly clean. The tiny part of me that half-expected to see things hanging from the ceiling is put at rest. I take off my hat and put it down to dry.
Suzume seems unconvinced by the empty room. After shaking off the rain, he's already smelling the ground again. I follow him, curious. At the back of the room, the dog begins barking in earnest at the old, disused freezer. It's large enough to freeze two cattle whole, but I don't remember ever seeing the rancher running it.
"Is this where they're playing hide-and-seek?" I wonder out loud. "I hope you're right about this, pup."
The steel door is heavy but unsticks easily. Immediately, I find out I was wrong to call it a freezer. Or maybe it was designed to only look like one from the outside. But on the inside, the four sides are barren, and the sole feature is a large, open hatch on the ground that disappears into pitch black.
Suzume makes a beeline for the hatch, but I snatch his collar in time.
"Whoa there! You ain't goin' in there by yourself. Sit. Now gimme a moment…"
The pit of my stomach twists, as if my body is trying to tether me in place. Before me, the square hole in the ground gapes like an invitation, a trap, a devil's maw. And I know without question that the man I'm looking for has gone down that hellhole.
I pull out my phone again. My right hand is almost too numb and tense to select the right number. As the line connects, I hold the device against my head, tapping my foot and counting the rings.
After far too long, the ringing stops and a rough, gravelly voice fills my ear. "You'd better have a damn good reason for calling this late, McCree, you sonovabitch."
"Evenin', Gabe," I don't think I'm ever happier to hear his cheerless voice. I take a breath and then fake a smile to myself, trying to sound braver than I feel. "Look, I wouldn't be calling on a city-slicker like you if it weren't important. I'm in a bit of a situation, so just hear me out. The Japanese rancher… he disappeared in the middle of the night. I tracked him to some secret underground bunker in his slaughterhouse – I've never heard about such a thing in all my years – and I haven't gone down there yet. Something is fucked up about this place, and none of this feels right. Hell's bells, I'm scared for him. I know I ain't an agent no more, Gabe, but consider this my last mission brief for you. If you don't hear from me in two hours, you can assume something went awry. And you better get ready to come to the ol' Deadlock ranch to retrieve me… or what's left of me… if that happens."
"Mierda... McCree, hold your position. That's an order," Gabriel barks through the phone, sounding much more alert now.
"Can't copy that, Commander. My gut feeling says I don't I have much time to spare."
"We can get to you in three hours if you need backup." There is a rustle of fabric and the bass of another voice rumbles in the background. "Two hours," Gabriel amends. "Jack can fly us there in two."
On any other day, I'd be asking sly questions about what work-related shenanigans involving Jack Morrison were happening at this hour, but I just don't have the drive. A part of me is already making peace with the world. Good on ya, Gabe. It's about time. Hope you two live happy lives.
"Thanks for the offer, but I gotta decline. Give me that intel though, please, before I go."
"Stubborn ass," Gabriel growls back. "Fine. Let me get the file… The info I found could help you. The guy's been playing you about some pretty important things."
"I reckon so."
"For starters, his real name isn't Ryuu. It's Hanzo. Hanzo Shimada…"
Thirty years ago, when I was still a little thing, brash and wild, my pa taught me the creed of a hero, the Lone Ranger.
It was a list of rules about how to be a good person. Rules about faith, equality, and morality. Pa was likely just trying to make me grow up quicker and be less of a menace, but, to me, the creed just sounded so heroic and so darn cool that I couldn't help but want to follow the rules by the letter. I fashioned my own mask, brandished finger guns, pretended to be the Lone Ranger, and then became the Lone Ranger to the neighborhood kids whenever a bully made a scene or a cat went missing.
At the time, I was too young to really understand the Lone Ranger's first rule:
"To have a friend, a man must be one," my pa would start to read.
"To have a friend, a man must be one," I'd repeat, word for word. "But… a man must be one what, pa?"
He always told me I'd understand the rule better when I'm older, that I'd know the moment I feel it happen. I spent years of my youth wondering when that would be. When my arm was shot dead and amputated at eighteen, I felt even further away from knowing what it meant to be 'one.' And when they told me my pa wasn't going to recover from his gunshot wounds, half of my heart crumbled away.
"Rule number nine," he whispered from the infirmary bed. "All things change but truth."
"…And that truth alone lives on forever." I finished for him, clutching his fading pulse in my only hand.
He smiled through his blood-streaked beard, his eyes proud and swimming. "That's my little Ranger. Live by the creed always, Jesse. Take my gun; keep the peace with it. Before the end of everything, you will be one, and you will find that friend."
There's something in the air that stifles. I feel it too. It's a heaviness that seeps under the skin like poison, draws out the soul, getting thicker and darker the deeper I go. This must be konmei, the wraith's touch.
By the time we reach the bottom of the long coil of stairs, Suzume is barely conscious. I carry him down the last few steps and lay him on the ground. He blinks slowly, and then faintly whines. Unfortunately, his smaller body has surrendered. He doesn't move from the spot.
"Rest up, little fella. Thank ya kindly for the help. I'll be back." I pet his head a last time, and then turn around to walk forward alone.
At the end of a concrete passage, there is an open doorway. Beyond that, the bunker opens up into a space as wide and as tall as a hoverplane hangar. I can't help looking around in awe. All around the perimeter, piles of crates are brimming with decades-old tech: guns of all sizes and calibers, rusting husks of first gen omnics, and other nameless, old contraptions marked with warning labels heaped under layers of dust. This is, by no mistake, the lost mother lode of the Deadlock legacy that nobody knew about. And, in the middle of it all, the crown jewel: an area is cleared around a solitary, brightly lit machine that is unlike anything I've ever seen.
A large, switch-laden console stands whirring at the center of the room, many of its little lights glowing. It almost looks like an organ with the way a dozen glass pipes rise up vertically from its rear. At equal height overhead, the pipes split into two directions, half of them left, the other half right, where they form two symmetrical arcs that curve back down to attach to the tops of to two glass-covered beds laying on either side of the console.
I know they are beds because one of them is already occupied – within it, a sleeping stranger. The man's face and body is marred with a lattice of dark scars, his features indistinct. But even without a clear look at his face, I think I could already guess at his name.
"You should not have come here."
I turn around. Ryuu – no, Hanzo – stands half in the shadows near the door, holding a bow drawn taut with an arrow nocked and pointed at my head.
I slowly hold up my hands, praying that the other man hasn't completely lost it yet. "Hold up now, partner. I ain't here to fight you. Let's try being reasonable. Let's just talk… Hanzo."
Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. The bowstring creaks; he tenses the weapon further.
"If you know that much about me, then there is little to discuss. You learned everything. You called Reyes."
Nothing surprises me anymore about this man. I only feel a flare of betrayal through the calm. I narrow my eyes. "The only way you'd know that is if you snooped through my phone somehow. Sometime tonight."
"The passcode is your birth month and date. I have known that for a while. It was a predictable combination."
I don't know whether to feel violated or impressed. "You sure did your homework, Sherlock. Not many living people even know my real birthdate."
"I have researched you, as you have researched me." Hanzo shifts forward slightly, into the light, positioning himself squarely between myself and the bunker exit.
Under the light, I can see the red in his eyes. Sweat glistens on the sides of his face. He looks haggard and pale. Sick. The wraith's touch has got him too.
He's also dressed differently now, I notice. Dressed like a warrior. His robe is more elaborate and shorter than the one he wore to bed but it's still distinctly Japanese. It ties at the waist and ends at his hip, above his pants and metal combat boots. His bow arm is sleeved and gauntleted, while his arrow arm is bare and unrestrained from fingertip all the way to where the tail of the dragon tattoo ends on his left pectoral.
"Alright, I'll admit it: I looked you up. When I couldn't, I asked a few favors from old colleagues who could. But I ain't the one pointing a weapon here, and I don't intend to, even as the sheriff." I inch my arms down a bit, taking my chances. "I can guess what you're tryin' to do here, but it don't seem to me like it's working. Instead, you're killing yourself and everything else-"
He growls, bloodshot eyes narrowing. "Don't. Move. You know nothing about what I am doing, and I will not let you jeopardize it."
I tilt my head to the sleeping figure. "Oh yeah? Humor me with a guess. That's your brother: Genji Shimada." I draw the name out deliberately. Hanzo flinches. It's enough confirmation for me. "From the looks things here, the official reports I heard about his execution two years ago by your own hand were a clever hoax. But he was close to death, and you fled from Japan with your brother. Somehow, you had the intel to know that there was something useful buried under Deadlock's ranch in America, and you brought him here to perform some sort of Frankenstein project to save him. Am I on the right track so far?"
Hanzo doesn't respond. I continue, not needing his affirmation. "And then you met me, researched me. Despite apparently knowing everything about me, you let us be friends. Heck, you even let me kiss you and put my hands all over you. And now that I've seen your truths, you're just gonna shoot me in the head? Tell me, Hanzo, was the seduction part of your grand scheme too?" I no longer care to keep my arms up at this point. Instead, I point sharply at the empty glass bed on the other side of the console, already guessing its purpose. "Was that going to be my grave from the very first day you wormed into my life?"
I realize that I am breathing heavily now, exhausted from the tirade. I press my good hand to my brow bone and close my eyes to make the room stop tilting. This close to the machine, I feel my energy draining in waves.
When I look up again, Hanzo looks pained, as if someone just punched him hard in the chest.
"…It was never meant to be you," he said quietly. "The machine – it needs a soul to wake my brother. I tried, with the animals. But that did not work. If it must be a human soul, I resolved that it would be mine, and I would do it before you found out who I am. This is my burden. I was never going to involve you."
"You involved me, partner, when we became friends," I grit out. "You should have told me, Hanzo. You shoulda shown me this at the very beginning and asked for help. I reckon you know who I worked for before I was discharged. You should also know that I have connections to some of the most talented doctors in the world. They can do much better than this soul sacrifice bullshit."
His eyes flashes with anger again. The grip on his bow does not relent. "It is not 'bullshit.' I do not know about your doctors or their abilities, but I do know this machine can save my brother."
"At what cost? This piece of scrap has gotta be at least thirty years old! It could've killed you both!"
"It will work. This type of device gave life to the first omnics… the ones that were created by transferring a living, human soul into an empty body. Most people do not know this history. But the yakuza and other gangs who once used this technology – some of us still remember."
Bile pools in my throat. The revelation makes me want to puke.
"I'm not gonna let you do this, Hanzo. I swear…"
"I'm not going to let you stop me! Genji is my family and my responsibility. You should not have looked so hard, McCree. Now, you are a liability."
Without thinking twice, my hand slides into the holster at my right hip and pulls out the cold, solid body of Peacemaker.
"DON'T MOVE!" Hanzo roars, his voice echoing off the distant concrete walls. "Put that down! This is my last warning…"
Ignoring him, I stare at the revolver in my palm. I recall all those times that I ran my mouth off, telling him my proud, tall tales about how I'm fastest shot in the southwest, never once losing a duel. I bragged that I could draw and shoot a man between the eyes before he could blink. But the strange thing is Hanzo hasn't shot me with his arrow yet, even with ample opportunity. He's hesitating. I continue to hold my gun, thinking hard, idly feeling its weight and thumbing its superfluous spur.
Maybe, just like before, we are playing the game from the same goddamn side; neither of us wants to shoot the other, and both of us are trusting that to be true. We've locked ourselves in a mutual stalemate.
I meet Hanzo's eyes – wild, fierce, scared – and in one slow and determined gesture, I raise my gun, clicking off the safety, and point the barrel of Peacemaker to my own head.
"W-what are you doing?"
"Keepin' the peace," I reply, voice steady. "If you want to kill me, Hanzo, then I'll do it for you. If this is how it's gonna end, if I'm not leaving this place alive, then I'd rather pull the trigger on myself."
The aim of the bow trembles in his hands. "No. Don't you dare…"
"I reckon you haven't killed as many people in your life. You must've had bodyguards to do that dirty work for you. You think almost killing your brother is bad? I tell ya: killin' people messes you up. And killin' a lot of 'em seriously fucks with your conscience, until the lines are all blurred and you can't tell the difference no more between the good, the bad, and the ugly. You forget that people are people. You start forgettin' that you're human too. I left that life years ago. It shouldn't become yours."
"That is not your decision to make for me," Hanzo retorts, but his grip is already slacking, the bowstring loosening by an inch. He has no answer to this, caught in the checkmate.
A part of me is glad to see his torment. It's proof that maybe he still values whatever it is between us. All those hours spent in each other's company - two cowboys riding neck and neck across the barren landscape, sharing spirits and smokes, kissing in the blood-red sunset… And, only hours earlier, in his bed, half awake and half dreaming, I explored his entire body with my hands and mouth, sucked on every inch of skin, made him shiver and release while the storm beat down around us. Maybe Hanzo valued that moment too, even if it was only meant to be a selfish, indulgent goodbye before he descended the slaughterhouse hatch alone.
"You're not alone, Hanzo," I implore. "Let someone help you – let me help you – for once in your goddamn life. Turn off that blighted machine, and all of us can make it out of here alive. Commander Reyes and his partner can get here in two hours to take your brother by hoverplane to the best doctor I know. Or…" I dig the end of the gun firmly against my sweat-soaked temple, resolute, my heart thumping in my ears. "Or I can shoot. You can carry out your original plan in peace. I'll give up my soul for that."
We stand in a silence broken only be the telltale hum of the machine behind me. Hanzo turns his gaze to the direction of where his brother lies asleep on the bed. At last, looking thoroughly trapped and defeated, his arms go slack. The bow and the arrow separate to different hands. Then, closing his eyes, he whispers, "Fuck you."
He doesn't need to say anything else; I can read his mind like a mirror. Dazedly, I holster Peacemaker, close the space between us, and reach around the breadth of his shoulders to hold the man tight in my arms as his weapons clatter to the ground. Thank you.
Like a dragon who lost his fire and allowed himself to become human again, Hanzo leans nascently into the embrace.
"Fuck you," Hanzo repeats, mouthing the words against my shoulder as his own arms wrap around my back, holding on for his life. He's shaking. Or maybe that's me, passing the tremors to him between the forceful press of our bodies. I don't reckon either of us can tell anymore; I feel as delirious as Hanzo sounds. "Fuck you, Jesse McCree, you bastard…"
Love you too, cowboy. Ryuu. Hanzo Shimada. Love you too.
Epilogue.
Gabriel's hoverplane arrives at the break of dawn. I hear its familiar drone in the lull of the storm-torn morning moments before it descends from the clouds.
Time passes by like a bluster of moving pictures and flashes of déjà vu. In their field uniforms, Gabriel and Jack make quick work of retrieving the dogs from the bunker and carrying out the younger Shimada brother on a stretcher glowing with biotics. They load him onto the hoverplane with military efficiency, and Hanzo, attached to Genji's side, disappears inside with them.
At length, Jack reappears, an aluminum can in hand, and approaches me at my spot against the wet fence post. He presses the drink into my hand. "Finish this. It'll make you feel better."
I pop the cap reluctantly and take a sip. I make a face. "Tastes like shit."
"You look even worse."
"Thanks. Real happy to see you again too, Morrison."
Jack cracks a soft smile and then looks back over at the hoverplane. "The patient is stable. Gabe's running a system check. We leave for Zurich in about fifteen minutes. You coming with us?"
I swallow. The restorative slides down my throat, sweet and bitter at the same time.
"Can't," I reply. "The town sheriff's gotta show up to work tomorrow… today, rather. But leave me a few more cans of this stuff. For the two dogs," I clarify.
"Alright." Jack puts his hands in his pockets of his fatigues and turns to leave. He doesn't ask another question. "Door's open for you until takeoff if you change your mind, McCree."
I nod and give him a little salute. "Thanks, Jack!" The blond man vanishes back inside the plane.
A few more minutes pass. Then, Gabriel emerges from the open doorway carrying a large, heavy box marked with the caduceus symbol. He spies me, frowns, and yells over the sound of spinning propellers. "Where do you want me to put this?!"
I make hand motions for him to drop it by the back door of the house. When he's finished doing so, Gabriel joins me by the fence in the space Jack occupied earlier.
"Jack tells me you're not joining us." Gabriel grouses, accusatory. "I can't believe you're still so attached to this hick town in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere."
I smother a snort behind the drink can. "I grew up here, Gabe, and my home is here. It's always been here."
Gabriel throws up his hands. "What do you do all day? Catch chicken thieves and enforce speed signs for horses?"
He's actually not too far from the truth, but I don't let that on. I shrug. "Hey, someone's gotta maintain law and order in these parts."
Gabriel heaves a long-suffering sigh beside me. He then faces me, his voice serious. "I've said it before, and I'll keep saying it, McCree. Your talent is wasted here. We could use you back. And if you didn't know yet: I'm getting promoted to Strike-Commander next month. I want you back. On my team."
I look up, surprised. "Well, congrats! Knew you were always hunkerin' for that promo. I'm real happy for ya, Gabe. From the bottom of my heart. But as I've also said every time you asked, the answer is no. I'm sorry."
All patience exhausted for the time being, Gabriel stalks off towards the hovercraft. Before crossing the doorway, he turns around and yells back in my direction, "Don't forget you owe me one for this, McCree! You owe me big time!"
I cup a hand around my ear in the pretense of not being able to hear him over the noise. Gabriel scowls, and then he is gone.
Soon after, the engines begin to warm up. The drone flares like the yawn of a waking giant. Across the pasture, a flock of birds startle and take to the skies. The twin propellers start cycling faster, signaling the impending takeoff.
I realize too late that I've been crushing the drink can in my mechanical hand for the past few minutes; the liquid suddenly gushes out, soaks through my collar, and forms a sticky trail of yellow down my front.
Cursing under my breath, I put the can on the ground and try wiping it off, but I only manage to spread the stuff further and onto to my sleeve.
Then, through the roar of the hoverplane, a single shout: "Jesse!"
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. I look up.
Making his way towards me is Hanzo. He's holding an arm over his eyes, his clothes and hair sash whipping in the turbulence. He doesn't stop until he's standing in front of me, close enough to touch.
"You are not coming," he states, his dark eyes boring into mine.
I shake my head. "My place is here. Don't worry, partner. I'll look after your ranch, figure things out with town hall. And I'll take care of Okami, Suzume, the cattle and horses-"
"I will be back," he interrupted. "I will be back to see you."
I smile and relax my shoulders, basking in the man's diligent attention. "You just worry about your brother first, cowboy. I wish him the best of luck in Zurich. He's in good hands."
He glances towards the hoverplane. "Your friends, Reyes and Morrison… They seem like good people. You were right – I should have explained everything to you long ago."
"Now, don't you do that," I rebuke, reaching up to place a firm grip on his bared shoulder. "If you're gonna say goodbye to me, then do it properly. Don't make me listen to regrets and apologies. We both did stupid things. Don't get me started on myself."
Hanzo frowns and wets his lip, tongue darting out almost too quickly for me to notice, but I do. He catches me staring. The straight, sombre line of his mouth slowly softens, then curves, wolfish.
This time, for the last time, Hanzo bridges the gap, kisses me with enough force to make my legs bend and my heart drum in my throat. I grab the back of his head on instinct to draw him even closer, doing my damndest to memorize his mouth, his taste, and the vast typhoon of his vigor. And I know in my soul that he is doing the exact same thing.
Then, like with all storms, the moment passes. When the hoverplane leaves that morning, soaring into the east, I don't chase after it with my eyes; the rising sun blinds.
It's a new day.