Genji delicately dabs the facepaint onto Hana's face, his body emanating a low humming sound that Hana has learned generally indicates focus and tension. The paintbrush hairs tickle, so badly, so even as she stifles a giggle her shoulders shake with silent laughter.
"Hana, stop moving. Only half your whiskers are done," says Genji, his tone of voice so serious and... Intense that Hana's cheeks puff out with a contained snort.
Unfortunately this apparently distracts Genji, because his mechanical fingers twitch across Hana's face, dashing a trail of bright pink right across her nose.
A squeak of laughter exhales from Hana's lungs like a mouse being stepped on. There's a moment of silence as Hana claps her hands over mouth, knowing that once she starts, she can't stop.
They stare at each other for a moment. Then-
Too late. Neither of them can take the ridiculousness of the situation anymore.
Genji hurls the paintbrush away, reeling back in his seat as he howls with autotuned laughter, while Hana holds her aching sides as she wheezes for breath. She fumbles for the mirror, Genji collapsed on the couch, enhanced lungs allowing him to giggle on without pause.
Hana sees her face, painted with two lines, meant to resemble pink whiskers, on each cheek, with one extending into an involuntary stripe of paint right in the middle of her face. Her wheezing laughter redoubles.
"GENJI, I SAID TO DRAW WHISKERS ON MY FACE, NOT TWO EQUAL SIGNS!"
Genji lifts his head from where lies sprawled. "Those are not equal signs. They would make terrible equal signs," he supplies helpfully.
"That's right," Hana sniffs. She turns her head one way and other in the mirror, inspecting her reflection with exaggerated poise. "They're not good enough to be equal signs, and not good enough to be whiskers. What abominations have you created, you MONSTER!"
Hana throws down the mirror and tackles Genji, who puts a hand to her face and pushes, trying to get her off. All the while giggling like a madman, unaware that- he's just smearing pink paint all over Hana's face now- her cheeks hurt from smiling so much-
"Having fun?"
Everything freezes.
Hana jumps back. Genji is stock-still, one arm reaching up to push away an invisible face. The couch has stopped moving underneath her. The air feels quieter.
Time has frozen, and for some reason that makes sense.
After all, this is all a dream.
She turns.
Dollface Girl is back in all of her porcelain-skinned beauty, hair straight and sleek and properly trimmed. There's something on her face that Hana doesn't recognize from her previous dream- a pair of pink whiskers painted onto her face, perfectly done. Almost like tattoos.
Like they're a part of her.
Hana unconsciously reaches up to touch her face, at her own imperfect whiskers. Something clicks.
She says, feeling stupid, "You're me."
"I'm more 'you' than you will ever be," scoffs Dollface, tossing her hair. It feathers and falls perfectly back into place, like the feature of a shampoo commercial. "I'm what you could be. What you're failing to be."
And it's true. It's like Hana is looking into a mirror- a mirror that transforms its viewer into something else entirely. A flawless reflection of herself.
But indignation takes hold. "Why would I want to be like you? You're…"
She hesitates, because this is not as easy as making fun of McCree. Dollface is obviously better looking than Hana. So perfect, so flawless, so-
"…fake."
This doesn't bother Dollface at all. "Who cares? This is what people want. If you give it to them, they'll give you anything." The girl spins in an impeccable circle. Lands on her two feet and smirks at Hana. "But that's not what I'm here to talk about."
Dark brown eyes look into dark brown eyes, and a shiver runs down Hana's back.
"…Whatever it is, I don't care. I don't want to know."
Dollface sighs. Her hands go to their hips and she shakes her head, painfully reminiscent of Mother's attitude whenever the woman was disappointed in Hana. "Oh, sweetie. You don't know anything," she mimics.
That stings, but Hana doesn't contest it. She stays silent, brain half-frozen with all the angry comebacks she could throw back right now but just… can't. Anger is replaced with a quiet acceptance.
"You're right." Hana leans over to slowly pick up the paintbrush from the floor, where it had left a pink splotch on the hardwood. "So what are you going to do about it?"
Hana's mirror narrows her eyes, those hands unmoving from those hips. Hana looks up from the brush, to stare down this reflection of herself again, a stony resignation beginning to settle in her stomach.
Because this… is nice. Reliving the past, where everything was just right.
The present doesn't hold anything for her. No family, no friends, no fans, no fortune, no future. She had thought she hit rock bottom when Genji disappeared, but she was wrong- this is rock bottom, where there is nothing and no one to hold onto but herself, and this mildly unsettling reflection of herself. Yes, Dollface- Dollface is-
"You're a construct of me. I created you. I control you. You're," and then she realizes again, dully, "you're DVA. And guess what? You can't make me go back. I don't want to."
"A construct of you. Who says?" Dollface- DVA- she shakes out her curls and tuts. "You're a construct of me. Something weak that showed up from being bullied all your life. You never stood up to anything, never fought, or even ran, just stayed there like a stupid fucking-"
"SHUT UP!" Hana stands. Something is ringing in her ears, a silent pressure building in her head. She feels her face contort with anger, with regret, and her voice is so brittle, even as it sounds so angry.
"I know."
That's why Amin and Tara are gone.
She feels like something is crushing in her chest in, like she's lying underneath a mountain. It builds, expands in her veins, and her skin itches with pain, because it feels like all this pressure is going to make her pop like a balloon. A solid mass of despair and regret that seeks escape, searches for an opening in Hana's tough, tough exterior.
Amin and Tara are gone.
Hana inhales- the pressure builds- exhales- the pressure goes whooshing out. Into a broken sob. Tears sprinkle down her face like a gentle rain, and she's ashamed, even if the only witness to her tears is herself.
DVA does not back down. Instead, she takes a step forward, her voice angrier. More forceful. She glares down at Hana, the sniveling rabbit who stands frozen in place even still.
"Fight it. Don't give in. Don't you remember where we are?"
Where we are.
.
.
.
.
.
.
The rush of Hana's senses returning to her body is accompanied by a falling sensation, as if she'd been drop-kicked, unconscious, off a plane. She sucks in a noisy breath, jerks upwards- upwards?- falls back down, her head slamming against the-
…the leather car seat.
She's lying on her side, in the back of a car. She shuts her eyes, takes shallow, rapid breaths- there's a swelling pain on her forehead, above her left eye, as if she'd been hit by something blunt.
The butt of a giant shotgun.
"Chica! You're awake!"
The voice from the front seems maliciously glad. Hana shrinks back, into the cool leather of the seat; in the darkness she can just make out the purple sprigs of some woman's hair. It bobs as the woman turns in her seat, clasping her arms over the headrest to stare directly at Hana.
This woman- a Hispanic woman, most likely a foreigner, and built like a pixie- she's smiling brightly, but in a way that makes Hana shiver with apprehension. There is nothing warm about her expression. There is nothing welcoming about her voice. It is cold, fake, and sharp as a knife's edge. Her eyeshadow creates dark gradients around bright purple irises.
Seated next to her is the cowled man that had knocked Hana unconscious. He doesn't bother to turn, doesn't bother to acknowledge Hana's presence. His clawed gloves are wrapped, around the steering wheel of the car, creating an almost comical contrast between that which is normal and that which is creepy.
Judging from the darkness out the windows and the frigid air, Hana guesses that it is night. Her stomach sinks; how long was I out?
The woman chatters on, unperturbed by the fact that she'd just kidnapped a girl. Her voice lilts and rolls with a Hispanic accent. "I'm Sombra. That is Reaper." She inclines her head towards the man. "Say hola, Reaper!"
He- Reaper- stays deathly silent. Sombra markedly rolls her eyes.
"Lo siento. He's a bit of a downer."
Hana clears her throat. It feels like trying to swallow sandpaper. Her voice sounds like she'd just swallowed sandpaper.
"Where are you taking me? To the Terrorists Around the World convention?"
Sombra stares at her for a moment, purple lips still pulled out into a pout. Then she throws her head back and laughs, the edges of her teeth glinting in the shadows.
"Ohhhhh, DVA. DVA, DVA, DVA." Her head lolls to the side, that smirking grin still affixed to her face. "You didn't show this much attitude in your stream. I thought you'd be a sniveling wimp. I'm glad to see that I'm wrong!"
"Well, I'm sorry that I made you glad about anything," hisses DVA, who takes over in a flash when Hana reels in alarm. Because this woman… she knows… Just how long have they been watching her?
"No te preocupes, 're not going to kill you. We're not even going to hurt you." Sombra leans forward in her seat; consequently, Hana edges away, trying to awkwardly wriggle into a sitting position- only to find that her hands are affixed together behind her back. "Well. Maybe just a teensy bit."
"I'm not anything special!" Hana yells this, throat tearing at the edges of her words. "You don't need me. I can't do shit." Handcuffs- her numb wrists can vaguely feel the restraints around them now, solid metal that can't be broken by someone like her.
Suddenly, in a cold rush of feeling, she wishes that McCree were here.
"Chica, listen." Sombra taps the side of her head with one overlong fingernail, her voice scathing sarcastic. "Think about it for a moment. Do you really think I care? I'm just following or-"
Reaper hits the brakes with a sudden screeeeech, and Hana tumbles, sideways, into the seat in front of her. Her face slams against the leather back with an oof!
Sombra, who had been facing Hana, is thrown back mid-sentence. Hana hears a similar squeak of surpriseas the woman tumbles back, hitting her head with a sharp smack against the dash.
The Reaper turns his head slightly towards Sombra.
"Put on a goddamned seatbelt," he growls drily, his voice the grind of gravel under tires, and Sombra raises an incredulous eyebrow at him.
"Wow,Reaps. That wasn't very nice. I was talking to-"
"Sombra. Basta."
Hana has never wished to understand Spanish more in her life, as Sombra crinkles her nose and snips right back.
"Reaps. Nada que he dicho era importante. Y ella estaba pidiendo…"
Hana gives up her struggle to sit up straight and rests her head back down, Sombra still shooting off rapid Spanish from the front. Her dark curls fall in a circle around her head, like a halo. That throbbing pain above her eye becomes stronger still, especially with nothing else to focus on…
For the first time, Hana feels the warm trickles of blood webbed across her numb face, all extending from that one painful spot. Some of it has begun to dry, and is sticky against her mouth. She smacks her lips; it tastes of iron.
I'm not going to die.
They're not going to kill you. McCree and Genji had both said that, but neither had sounded reassuring about it- something about their voices, their faces, told Hana that a fate worse than death was awaiting her, if she were captured. Genji thought he was good at lying, but he wasn't good enough. And McCree hadn't even made any pretenses at deception- he'd looked her in the eyes and told her, told her that she wasn't going to make it to Seoul.
We're not going to kill you.
Sombra, this purple-haired terrorist, had been the scariest about it. A lazy smile sliding across her face as she regarded Hana, like a cat watches a rabbit.
Either Sombra's cutting Spanish is growing quieter, or Hana's hearing is fading. Exhaustion sets in her veins, exhaustion that dulls the constant pain ringing in her head. Her eyes fall closed, and as she gives in to the darkness, all she wants to do anymore is never wake up again.
"Hey. Hey. Wake up." Sombra snaps her fingers in front of Hana's face, but even though the Korean girl's face is obscured by the shadows, Sombra can tell that the girl won't be waking up anytime soon.
"Out like a light. Apaganda las luces," she quips to Gabe, punctuated with an eye roll. She turns back around to settle in her seat, pointedly clipping in the seatbelt with a face like she'd just bit into a lemon.
Honestly? Sombra has mixed feelings about this entire operation.
She doesn't think of herself as evil. Evil doesn't exist- it's what the weak call the strong when the strong does as they wish, which is simply the natural order of things. And so there is nothing wrong with the strong, being Talon, doing as they wish with the weak, being this girl. DVA.
But the method they use to acquire agents- that irks her. Brainwashing, they call it. But that implies that something is being added, altered. Sombra would rather call it mindwiping. Because the end products are always the same- one-dimensional versions of their previous selves, their minds having been less 'rewritten' and more of wiped clean.
It's difficult to pinpoint why Sombra dislikes it so much… it's cheap, is what it is, because the resulting agents are not people. People have a will, and if that will aligns with Talon's interests, then all the more power to Talon. When people are mindwiped, they are people no longer. They are simply weapons, weapons that can just as easily wipe out its owner as it does the owner's enemies.
Widowmaker is a ticking time bomb, Sombra muses. She's witnessed the silent, dead-eyed agent 'remember' things. Hints of her past life, and the emotions she felt with it. Sombra, with her invisibility cloak on, had even watched the stony woman stare out a Parisian window for a good two minutes during an operation in France. Staring at the rain as it fell over the distant Eiffel Tower.
She hates working with Widowmaker. At least Gabi has a little charm in how pissed off he is at everything and everyone, which entertains Sombra more than words can express.
Widowmaker is a blank slate trying to write itself.
Talon is being foolish, if they truly think converting these people into mindless killers will do them good in the end. They may be coldly logical. Calculating. In the end, they know nothing on how to truly manipulate a human being.
A little smile alights on Sombra's face, a smug grin that she knows everyone hates. Not that she cares. She doesn't need anyone but herself.
Herself and her 'friends.'
That reminds me. I need to pay a visit to that Volskaya woman...
So.
McCree is stranded in a foreign country, his only friend having run off to their demise. He'd stayed behind, claiming to be the voice of reason. And now, because of it, he is all alone.
A taxi shoots past him, missing his feet by mere inches. The gust of wind sends his hat flying off. It twirls in the air and lands behind him with a soft thump. Jesse McCree does not move.
Well, damn.
He'd watched her leave. Just stood there, giving up when she got too far, the words come back dying on his lips. He'd been very quiet and very still as that bright pink dash of her jacket disappeared down the street, standing there numbly as if they were strangers. As if they hadn't just shared a laugh, a brief moment of connection in the sea of cut ties that made up McCree's life.
That coulda damn well been the last time anyone sees her, he thinks dully. Until they brainwash her to be the second Widowmaker, of course.
Maybe he's grown clever over the years, smarter and better at handling emotions, but becoming smarter doesn't always mean he's become better at making the right decision. If there even is one, in a grey-stained world that wants only black and white. Three years ago, he'd have barreled after her without a second thought, his impending death becoming a mere passing thought.
The difference between then and now was that then, the concept of dying hadn't bother him. McCree, in his heart, had long since died with his Deadlock gang. But now? Now he has things to live for. People to live for. Blackwatch is gone, maybe, but save Gabriel Goddamned Reyes, its people remain. McCree remains.
He tips his head back, eyes closed, as he faces the darkening sky.
Her life isn't any of my business.
But-
The thing is- He knows it isn't. But that doesn't make him feel any better.
This has happened before. It's a startling moment of déjà vu for McCree, realizing that this feeling of emptiness slides perfectly into place somewhere in his heart, to the right of all the people he's left behind and to the left of all his regrets. Familiar- far too familiar.
And in situations like this, there is only one way McCree has ever handled things without blowing his brains out.
Luckily for him, Korea is no stranger to alcohol. It's the country with the highest average blood-alcohol levels in the world, beating out even the Russians with their near suicidal drinking culture. As McCree wanders aimlessly through the flickering streets, cigarillo clenched between his teeth, he sees more than one bar advertising cheap liquor in a language he can't understand.
It's okay. McCree isn't a picky man by any means. As long as it's strong, cheap, and not horse piss, he'll take it.
He eventually settles on the seediest one of the bunch, one with a flickering neon sign that illustrates a dragon wrapping around indecipherable Korean letters. It looks exactly like a squatting place for gangsters, so what the hell- at least he won't have to deal with any more civilians. The criminal underworld has always been his real home.
And true to his initial impression of the place, right by the door, crammed into eight tiny chairs are eight rather large men who immediately swivel to stare at the newcomer. Goldfish, sparrows, and large Oriental dragon tattoos jump out immediately from their arms.
He gives them a momentary stare- a challenge- before heading on his way. Maybe it's McCree's race, or more likely his big fucking cowboy hat, but they stare right back, all the way until McCree sits down.
But as it is with most gangsters, they don't pick an unnecessary fight. McCree watches them turn back to their game of Chinese checkers in relative peace.
That leaves McCree free to get totally shitfaced.
He turns to the bartender, scratching at his mustache. "Gimme something strong. Er-" He waggles his fingers in the air, enunciating clearer: "Strong. Alcohol. I. Have. Money."
The bartender gives him a strange look, shrugs, and lazily complies, with an air of I've seen stranger things. He sets a transparent green bottle on the table, one plastered with a sticker of a dragon, along with two shot glasses. All in a neat little row. As if McCree is expecting company.
Really heavy with this entire dragon theme, eh? He pours one out. The transparent liquid looks like water, but one sniff tells him it's definitely alcohol- most likely some sort of grain based liquor, if he recalls his Asian drinks correctly. He tosses it back- the sting hits the back of his throat and his nose like the smoke and flames from that Talon bomb, but McCree is no novice to drinking and downs the thing like a champ. There's one thing he's good at.
The taste is rough, unrefined, and heavy with ethanol. It's not whiskey but it'll do the trick.
He downs another. Another. The wizened bartender eyes his rapid drinking with narrowed eyes, before losing interest and wandering off to the other side of the bar. That's fine with him. McCree's used to drinking without company.
He can almost hear Angie screaming at him, from his right, Jesse, you stop drinking this instant! Cirrhosis of the liver can be fatal-
"Gee, sorry, Doc," McCree mumbles to himself, heat starting to rise to his face.
He'd met some real shady characters at the bar back home. Fought against some of them, got drunk with some of them, or usually some combination of both. He drank to loosen up, have a good time. He'd never done this before- drinking to forget. Drinking like he's dying of thirst.
He's on his fourth shot when he hears another feminine voice, this time from his left.
"Ahnyonghaseo, cowboy?"
A lady sits down on the stool next to him. She's wearing a black dress, one that reminds McCree of rainy funerals and black umbrellas. It's a slinky, low-cut thing obviously meant to be sexy, but McCree can't help but drunkenly recall Angie's devastated face when he looks at it. Swiss accent thick in his ears.
"Jesse… if Ana isn't here to keep Overwatch together, who will?"
McCree hadn't even thought of that. He had been thinking, what will I tell Fareeha?
The woman will not be dissuaded by McCree's lack of response. "Mohanen kuya, mm?" She leans her face on her hand, raises an eyebrow at him. "Mur sengak hanenkuya?"
"I'm a stupid foreigner, sorry," slurs McCree. "Korean ain't my strong suit." He gulps down the rest of the glass and peers at the woman. A pointed chin, round eyes made sharp by thick eyeliner. Hair pulled back into an elaborate knot on her head. Lips that pop as red as they come. She's dressed to impress, and more likely, dressed to pick up men at a bar.
"Oh." Those red lips purse in displeasure, and her words are thick with an accent. "It's okay. I speak English as well."
Maybe it's because he's rather tipsy, but it's only then that he realizes the woman's arm has a dragon tattoo snaking down its side.
He narrows his eyes, pouring himself another glass. If the dragon curled all the way around her arm in a spiral, then she'd probably be a Shimada, which… wouldn't be hard to believe. The Shimada did dealings with all of Japan's neighbors- Korea, China, Russia, and more, though McCree's never had one try and seduce him.
But it doesn't- it's a wavy streak going straight down the length of her arm, almost as red as her lipstick. So, what does that make her?
"Hey," he blurts out, sloshing the glass in her general direction. A few droplets of the drink spill over onto his glove. "Which gang are you from?"
The woman's eyes flare for a millisecond- probably out of shock, because McCree is pretty surprised himself. What on earth had possessed him to say something so stupid?
Oh, well. He downs the glass, slams it back down on the table. I'm drunk. Who cares.
For a moment, he thinks he's gone too far too fast. The woman draws back, eyes narrowed. The men in the corner haven't noticed what he's said, apparently, but judging from their tattoos, they hang with whatever crowd this woman belongs to. If things get messy, McCree will be outnumbered nine to one. Ten to one, if the bartender is in on the gang too.
Good enough, odds, actually. Maybe the alcohol in his system is boosting his confidence, but McCree doesn't feel a smidgeon of fear. Staying alive is second priority right now.
So, he grins at her, adjusts his hat. Pulls out his most charming line from the deep recesses of his mind, lays honeyed charm thick on his words. One guaranteed to hook in any gangster woman-
"I… have a lot of money to spend."
Another moment of silence. The woman appraises him with an unmoving stare. One so staunch that McCree's gaze flickers to the men in the corner, watching for any sign of movement. His hand hovers over his side, where Peacekeeper is strapped, hidden.
Then-
She leans forward again, interest sparking her eyes. Her voice is brisker, more businesslike. "Who is asking?"
…Oho.
"Someone who is lookin' for a lil' something." Things are getting hazy around the edge of his vision, but McCree has high enough of an alcohol tolerance to trust himself with a gun, if things go that wrong. Not that they will- he's McCree, after all, and nine armed gangsters are nothing to him at this point. Or perhaps that's just the alcohol speaking.
He continues brashly with his bargaining. "A gang could help with that, right, miss?"
A plan is beginning to unfurl in his mind. An uncertain plan, one that will almost definitely not work, as well as probably get him killed. Under normal circumstances, it's not one he'd ever consider. Rationally speaking, the risks are higher than the rewards, and even a gambling man like McCree wouldn't take such terrible odds.
But it leads straight to retrieving a certain Hana Song, so all of a sudden those odds seem quite acceptable.
"Depends on what a man is looking for." Gangster Woman taps her long, neatly clipped nails against the bar, voice strangely seductive. "We have all the cocaine a man could ever need, baekin."
"Charming." McCree finishes off the drink by swigging it straight from the bottle. He sets it down with a contented sigh, running a grimy sleeve over his mouth. "But that ain't what I'm looking for."
Apparently this throws Gangster Woman off, because she arches a manicured eyebrow. "Then what is it that you are trying to find?"
Contentment.
An adventure.
Hana Song.
"A person. Who's the highest-rankin' member of your little thing here?" drawls McCree, and he feels a swell of confidence that he should probably attribute to all the alcohol in his system. Instead, he takes it as a sign.
A sign of, why don't we take this further?
So he attacks her front with further determination. "I mean, I gotta talk to whoever's in charge, Miss…?"
The woman drums her fingers on the bar table. "Miss Sujin. And I would recommend you just talk through your business with me. We- the Ssang Kal- are not very active in Busan." Her drumming becomes faster, and annoyance shines clear on her face and through her accented words. "Therefore the management isn't very… disciplined."
"Oh really?" McCree leans forward, propping his elbows on the bar. He grins at Sujin. "Go on."
Sujin stares imperiously down at him. It's remarkable how quickly her demeanor has changed, from sultry to professional in an instant.
Her words are sharp as flint. "He… all he does is go around with his band of cronies, get drunk at local bars, and flirt with strange women. In fact…" and her voice grows amused- "he is rather a lot like you."
McCree chuckles at that. "No ma'am. I ain't got no cronies. Other than that… maybe."
Sujin clucks her tongue, crossing slender arms. "You came at the wrong time, Mister McCree. There is a new boss in town, trying to out the old order. I suggest, instead of taking you to the higher-ups-"
McCree cuts her off. Because he's run with a gang long enough to know that once he takes a situation like this to anything lower than a section head, it will never move up and never get finished.
"Listen, lady." His voice is thickly honeyed, sliding smooth through the air. "I don't care who I'm dealin' with, as long as they're up there with the other lead's, you hear me? This ain't somethin' the likes of you can handle- no offense intended, of course. That conflict isn't any of your business. Money is your business. And I have plenty to spare."
Sujin sits there, like a statue, looking upon McCree with a face equal parts impassive and impartial. But he can read the twitch in her right eyelid, the curling of her toes, and he knows that she's finally taking him seriously.
Finally, she sighs. "Alright. Follow me."
She sweeps her dress up as she stands. And the eight men in the corner rise with her, silently pushing away their chess pieces into a Ziploc bag.
The buzz of soju in McCree's veins dies a little as he stands, and with it, his confidence. Just slightly.
What the actual hell have I gotten myself into?
Translation Notes:
Spanish
Lo siento- Sorry
No te preocupes- Don't worry
Chica- Girl
Basta- Stop
"Reaps. Nada que he dicho era importante. Y ella estaba pidiendo…" – "Reaps. Nothing I said was important. And she was asking…"
Apaganda las luces- Turning out the lights (Sombra's ult line)
Korean
"Mohanen kuya, mm?"- "What are you doing, mm?"
"Mur sengak hanenkuya?" – "What are you thinking (about)?"
Author's Note:
School has started! Good luck to everyone who is in school!
As a side note, DVA isn't all evil, and Hana isn't all good. They are aspects of her, personalities- different, not necessarily higher or lower in moral standing. Also, Hana isn't necessarily the 'original' personality. This is a concept I'll explore more later.
We went from talking about two Overwatch characters (McCree and Hana) to soon, about six :)))))) Things are about to chaotic. In a very good way.
Hopefully you enjoyed that extra long chapter, and I look forward to all your reviews on this chapter!
-FillerText
