A/N: Since this drabble decided it never wanted to end, it will be split into four parts. Enjoy!
ossan - a middle-aged man (very casual)
ne, isha ga irimasu ka? - hey, do you need a doctor?
kumicho - the yakuza boss
Hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, Hanzo strode through the sterile hallways of Watchpoint with a simmering ferocity, the calm in the midst of a hurricane. New recruits slipped quietly behind closed doors upon his approach, having taken his expression into consideration and subsequently decided that snagging an early morning coffee wasn't worth the near death of experience of crossing paths with the enraged archer.
This did not bother Hanzo in the slightest. He hadn't joined Overwatch to make friends, after all. It was right that they fear him.
It was that inflexible way of thinking, however, that had led his current predicament.
This wasn't the first time Morrison had requested that he train with the rest of Overwatch after a missed training session.
Nor the second.
Nor even the fifth.
The man had given Hanzo many chances to join the group practice sessions, yet Hanzo had never once believed that the man would truly follow through on his threats and temporarily suspend his identification badge from the facility's database, thus preventing him from entering, with the only exception being when a joint training practice was already in session.
It was due to the singleminded force of Hanzo's ire consuming his senses that the blur of orange fabric whipping around the corner registered too late for him to avoid the oncoming impact. Instinctively, his hands shot out to immobilize the object or assailant careening towards his torso, locking onto small, thin shoulders, as well as the young ninja they were attached to.
Exhaling sharply due to the shock of the sudden stop, the boy raised his chin to stare up at Hanzo, who recognized the roundness to his cheeks, the thick tufts of unruly brown hair, and the youthful, ever curious glint in his eyes, as though each new, impossible confirmation of the child's identity were a dagger digging through his chest, reaching for the soft, vulnerable tissue of his beating heart.
At first, the boy's expression was challenging, defiant, as though he'd been caught where he was not meant to be, and knew it, but as the silence continued without interruption, it slowly shifted to concern. He shifted uncomfortably under Hanzo's grip, subtly checking to see if it had loosened at all. It hadn't.
Finally, the boy mustered up the courage to ask, "Are you okay, ossan?"
Startled by the address, Hanzo abruptly released him, then took a wary step back, unaware of the harsh breaths bursting from his chest, and though it was the perfect opportunity for the boy to escape, his conscious kept him rooted to the spot. It wasn't in him to leave someone alone when they looked so scared, not even an old man who looked at him like he was seeing a ghost. "Do you, um, need me to get you a doctor?" When Hanzo didn't reply, he frowned, curving the corners of his lips down into a rare shape. After a deep breath, he tried again, "Ne, ossan, isha ga irimasu ka?"
A doctor? Yes, that was exactly what he needed.
Acting on a mix of impulse and what little composure he still possessed, Hanzo surged forward, shackled the boy's wrist with an iron grip, then proceeded to drag him towards Dr. Ziegler's nursing station, the issue of his access to the training facility the furthest thing from his mind.
The boy squirmed, pawing uselessly at Hanzo's thick forearm with loud protests, though Hanzo guessed that he must not have felt truly endangered, as the shruiken he knew to be concealed within the flowing white sleeves of his yukata had thus far gone untouched. It was the most thought Hanzo could afford to spare the boy, as keeping the majority of his thoughts at bay was playing a major role in keeping his feet from buckling as the very earth seemed to shift treacherously beneath him.
A quick glance into the doctor's quarters revealed her sitting in a rolling armchair at her computer, dressed casually in a simple white frock and jeans, her pale blue eyes scanning a document with print too small to read from a distance as her blond tresses, still wavy from the lasting imprint of a ponytail, spilled over the keys without her notice.
Whatever important matter she was working on, it would have to wait.
Forgoing politeness, Hanzo barged in without knocking, roughly deposited the boy onto the closest cot, then subtly concealed his hands behind his back in an effort to conceal their feeble tremors. Ignoring the indignant scowl twisting the boy's youthful features, Hanzo brusquely requested that the doctor keep a close watch on the child while he informed the Commander of their young intruder.
With a meticulously manicured nail hovering over the cusp of her coffee, Angela fixed him with a look of startled bewilderment, her lips parted in a million silent questions that Hanzo neatly sidestepped by turning on his heel and exiting the room as quickly as possible.
Morrison, who'd been scanning the detailed map filling the entirety of Winston's computer screen, appeared to be entirely unfazed by the sight of Hanzo ducking to enter the expansive room faster than the slow moving automatic door would allow, then crossing the floor to reach him in several long strides, forgoing the act of stepping down the stairs into the lower level where he and Winston resided by deftly leaping over them, landing less than a foot from the commander himself.
Though Morrison tensed at the sudden proximity, Hanzo cared little for the man's discomfort, and so spoke without openly acknowledging that the violence of his entrance might have unintentionally given a trained soldier such as the Commander, who'd clearly been expecting some sort of argument from the archer, the wrong idea. In truth, Hanzo had forgotten all about his previous ousting from the training facility. "Commander Morrison, there is something you must see."
Running a paw through the coarse coat of dark fur sitting atop his head, Winston asked if the matter was truly urgent.
"It cannot wait," Hanzo insisted, already turning to leave. He felt rather than saw them shrug, before Winston nodded in the direction of the archer's departing back and Morrison, suppressing an unprofessional sigh, moved to follow him out.
They made quite the procession as they strode towards Dr. Ziegler's clinic, an ex-yakuza and a soldier. It drew the attention of McCree, who joined in because he was bored, having had no active missions to complete in little over a week, and if Hanzo was deigning to interact with the rest of them, then it was safe to say that something big was going down.
It only became apparent just how big, though, when a boy of roughly seven darted through the doctor's doorway, obviously pleased to have escaped her. If the smirk crossing his face upon hearing Angela's exasperated shout was anything to go by, then he was trouble with a capital T.
Hanzo stilled at the sight of him. Morrison glanced his way, concern regarding the archer's strange behavior warring against his irritation at being dragged away from his planning for the likes of a child intruding on the base. Watchpoint was a lot of things from a military standpoint, but it wasn't impenetrable, nor was it childproof. Still, that didn't explain why the archer looked so spooked, clenching and unclenching his hands as though desperate to ground himself in the tangible, in the evidence presented by his own flesh and blood, the proof that he was alive.
"Why did you call me here, Hanzo?" The archer started, as though he'd delved so deep within his own thoughts that the presence of the others had completely slipped his mind. Such things tended to happen when faced with a ghost.
Offended by their apparent lack of acknowledgement, the boy loudly announced, "I am the son of the current kumicho of the Shimada-gumi." Foolish. Had he truly been in a any danger, that information would have guaranteed that his assailants held him for ransom, and that was if they didn't kill him for belonging to a rival clan. But then, listening to the warnings of the elders had never been his strong suit, had they?
Reaching into his sleeves for the shruiken Hanzo had known would be hidden there, the boy snapped imperiously at the three grown men staring at him in disbelief, all reckless fire and youthful vigor, "What gives you the right to try and keep me here? Or to," confusion clouded his brow as he struggled to remember which English word would be best suited to convey his ire, "manhandle me in a such a manner?"
The two men standing beside Hanzo threw questioning looks his way, though Hanzo ignored them. He was staring at his palms, wondering how he had ever managed to touch the boy before. Somehow, without thinking, he had grabbed the child and taken him to where he'd known he would be safe, but now that the urgency of the situation was over, he wondered if he hadn't made a mistake.
With her hair slightly disheveled, Angela appeared at the threshold, one arm propped on the molding as she paused to catch her breath. "That one's quite the handful." She glanced at Hanzo, attempting to gauge his emotional state, which could scientifically be described as imploding. "He's been asking after you since you left. He told me his name was Genji."
"Genji? This little rascal?" McCree laughed. "Did somebody leave ya in the dryer for too long, buddy?" The boy scrunched his nose, then stepped forward to stomp on the cowboy's boot. McCree jumped back with a yelp, nursing his throbbing appendage with a wounded expression.
Having observed the exchange, Angela placed a delicate hand over her mouth to conceal a smile.
Morrison knelt to the boy's level, then slowly placed his blaster on the floor. "It seems we've gotten off on the wrong foot." He paused for a moment, allowing the boy to divine the meaning behind the idiom, and relax a little. "We just want to get you home," he continued in the same calming, deliberately slow pace, "so if there's anything you can tell us about how you came to find yourself on our base, that'd be a big help." After a long, scrutinizing silence, the boy reluctantly admitted that he wasn't sure how he got there.
The last thing he remembered was running through the courtyard in Shimada Castle, bored because his brother was stuck meeting with the elders again and there was no one else to play with, " And then I bumped into that grumpy ossan over there."
Morrison nodded, seriously. "Of course. I can guess what happened after that." He clapped a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. "Thank you for sharing with that with me. Now, we'll do what we can to get in contact with your family. Is there anything in particular you'd like to do while you wait?" The boy's amber gaze, flecked with gold, darted to Hanzo, who suppressed a flinch, as though the his attention alone held the impact of a powerful blow. Gesturing for Morrison to again come lower, the child cupped a hand around his ear, whispered something that went unheard by those present, with the exception of Morrison, who visibly turned the information over in his head, then gave the solemn promise that he would not tell a soul of what had been spoken in confidence.
With a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his features, the boy stepped back inside Angela's clinic, his job done.
"Hanzo, can I speak to you in private?" Hanzo snapped his attention to Morrison, suddenly dreading whatever conversation was about to ensue. McCree made as though to follow as Morrision stepped further into the hall, away from any nosy ears that may have been perked, but the soldier quickly put that idea to rest. "That does not include you, McCree."
Sulking, McCree returned to the clinic.
When they were alone, Morrison cut right to the chase. "I need someone to keep an eye on the boy. We know who he thinks he is but, far as I know, we already have a Genji Shimada running around somewhere under this roof, and we can't afford to overlook the possibility that this is a trap." Hanzo did not need any further explanation to know what was going to be asked of him. Slowly, his limbs became to harden, turning to stone. "Can you tell me you're up to the task?"
Determined to snap a denial, Hanzo forced his mouth to open, ordered his tongue to move, but to the surprise of both of them, what passed his lips was instead a quiet assent. "If you ask it of me, I will look after the boy," he heard the words as though someone else were speaking them. Furious, he pondered just what it was he was hoping to gain by torturing himself so.
As he had done with the boy, Morrison clapped a hand on his shoulder, the hard lines creasing his forehead softening a degree. "You're gonna do fine, Hanzo." The expression on the archer's face must have betrayed his doubt on that matter, since he quickly added, "It's only until Angela can run a few diagnostics, and he likes you," the Commander grunted as he released Hanzo's shoulder in an attempt to belie the levity seeping into his words when he added whilst turning in the direction of the clinic, "though I can't imagine why."