A/N: Happy Halloween!
Warning: Brief mention of a suicide attempt.
He should have known this would happen, eventually. No paradise was meant to last forever.
He'd made the mistake of wandering too far from the base, deep into the words where cautionary tales of wolves and witches warned children not to venture.
Yearning for a brief reprieve from the light and sound, from a family, each connected by bonds than ran deeper than blood, that despite his past and all of his many flaws had accepted him as one of their own. It was more than he had ever dared to hope for, more than he deserved.
It overwhelmed him, sometimes.
He hadn't meant to leave for long. The night was cool, a mild breeze shifting the air with the lingering scent of that afternoon's rainstorm still present in its current, and his legs, restless, yearned for the exercise.
A kyudo-gi seemed out of place for a jog through the woods, so he substituted the traditional attire for a short-sleeved white t-shirt with a pair of navy blue sweats he'd swiped from his brother's bottom drawer. It seemed appropriate retribution for all the years of mysteriously disappearing jeans, yukata, sandals, sneakers, and other articles that he'd endured during their youth. Unlike Genji, however, he fully intended to return the clothing once he returned from his run.
It wouldn't do to return the outfit saturated with sweat, however. Perhaps, if he was quiet, he could throw the clothes into the washer and dryer, then return them to Genji's drawer before he ever noticed they were gone. Or, perhaps, he was being ridiculous and overthinking this.
A gnarled root appeared on the trail he was trotting on, its appearance monstrous and reaching in the meager illumination provided by a moon that shone behind wisps of clouds so dark they blended in with the endless reaches of space above them.
Hanzo deftly jumped over it, his mind now derailed by the sudden realization that absconding with his brother's clothes, and then subsequently returning them without his notice, was going to prove to be more time consuming and burdensome than if he'd simply asked to borrow the clothing in the first place.
A thin branch, barren of leaves due to the approaching winter, scratched a shallow divet in his cheek as he increased his speed to a sprint, flying past the stones and dips in the dirt as the path began its sharp dive into towards the ocean. He could already taste the tang of salt on his tongue, breathed it in through flaring nostrils as a white barn owl launched itself from its perch, bursting through a cluster of curling brown leaves and skeletal limbs in a shrieking flurry of feathers.
Though he was making no conscious effort to quiet his steps, his body had, through training, been imbued with a natural inclination to mute its movements, always striving to be unobtrusive.
It was not unheard to think that he would disturb an animal so unaccustomed to the sight of humans, but to frighten it into frenzy… Had he truly been so careless?
Hanzo crouched low, staring past the thick trunks of the narrowly spaced trees, senses alert for any signs of movement: a broken branch, a gleam of metal, the click of a trigger. Instinctively, he reached over his shoulder to nock an arrow, only to realize with a muttered curse that he'd left his weapons in his quarters.
There was something – a sound. A labored rattle, as though through damaged lungs.
If there was an enemy waiting for him in the dark, then they were already aware of his position. What they were not aware of was his rapidly dwindling patience. "I know you are there," Hanzo called past the trees. "Come out and face me."
As though emboldened by his challenge, a section of the night split from the shadows cast by the many sprawling branches of a towering Yew, taking on its own form as a shade that drifted soundlessly towards the path.
The weakness of the moon's light allowed for mere glimpses of the pale mask the shade wore beneath its hood, giving the being a sense of disembodiment, as though it were truly a vengeful wraith, driven by its resentment and bound by hatred for those still drawing breath.
Except no spirit Hanzo had ever heard of had ever wielded duel rifles.
The cloaked figured stepped into the paltry light, revealing a thick, heavy cloak and boots that sank into the dirt. Now that he could see it clearly, Hanzo recognized his mask as that of the terrorist known as Reaper, formerly known as Blackwatch commander Gabriel Reyes.
A rustling in the underbrush behind him alerted Hanzo to the presence of the soldiers approaching on his rear. Each of their visors shone with a greenish tint, the sole indicator of their activated night vision.
Unarmed, alone, and outnumbered by enemies in an unfamiliar terrain, they had him dead to rights.
But if it was his life they were after, then they were going to have to work for it.
With a feral snarl, Hanzo launched himself at the closest solider, digging his nails into any exposed flesh he could find, driving his heel into the man's knee until it collapsed inwards, giving under his weight with a wet snap.
The man howled as he went down, but Hanzo was already moving onto the next, shoving cold barrels of high-strength steel to the side, and jamming the base of his palm against tinted glass masks that shattered into the eyes and cheeks of the men who wore them.
The key was to keep moving, to always stay in close quarters, to never give the operatives the opportunity to raise their weapons to his head or chest without potentially endangering one of their own. He was, in essence, using their own numbers against them.
In most aspects, he was at a disadvantage, but had he not been trained to overcome such poor odds? There was always a path to victory. In times like these, one only needed to find it.
Hanzo breathed evenly, moved fluidly from one strike to the next, until a burst of scattered flame, followed by a thunderous discharge, changed the playing field. Lips parted in silent surprise, the man Hanzo had ducked behind glanced down at the gaping wound in his chest. Hanzo, too, stared down at it in horror, watching as the soldier struggled to gasp for air, until his body could no longer prolong the inevitable, and he dropped to the ground, dead before his head hit the dirt.
Disgusted, Hanzo snarled at the wraith with the smoking barrel, "You would sacrifice one of your own? You have fallen far, Reyes." So far, in fact, that Hanzo wondered if redemption was not entirely beyond his reach, yet what right did he have to pass such a judgment onto another?
Turning his head with deliberate slowness, Reaper fixed his false gaze on the archer. "My men are willing to die to carry out an objective. That is what they are trained for." The gloved hand raised above his chest clenched into a fist, signaling his men to latch themselves onto Hanzo's arms, to drag his snarling, snapping form to the earth, where they forced his forehead to press against mud and the rotten, frozen detritus buried within it.
A rifle butt was jammed against the back of his head to quiet him, causing his vision to fill with explosions of white spots as Reaper's boots squelched in the muck, stopping just beyond where his hand could reach. "No one," the former Blackwatch commander sneered, "calls me Reyes, anymore. That man is long gone."
Despite the cold chill of a barrel pressed against his scalp, Hanzo struggled to raise his head. "I do not confess to know much of you, Reaper. The wound your death left behind is still too raw for your former comrades to speak of you without pain, but it is obvious that many of them admired you."
"They had a funny way of showing it," Reaper growled, lowering his guns. "They abandoned me. They betrayed me."
"You speak of betrayal as though they, and not you, were targeting the lives of their former companions." The restraints on Hanzo's arms grew even more restricting, to the point where he was sure they would leave bands of bruises wrapped around his wrists and biceps like shackles, but it didn't matter in the slightest. If he was going to die, then he was going to speak his mind.
Pressing the tip of a rifle against Hanzo's forehead, Reaper told him, "They turned me into a monstrosity."
Drawing on the lessons his own mistakes had carved into his soul, and on what little he had observed of Zenyatta's teachings, Hanzo answered with a genuine sincerity that surprised even him, "Only our choices can make us monstrous. This immortal life, though forced upon you, needn't be your curse."
A man who had fallen from grace, who blamed the world, refusing to accept the crushing weight of his own responsibility – if someone reached out to such a man, there was a chance that he could find salvation. And, if not that, peace.
Even after all this time, there were people waiting for Gabriel Reyes to return him. People who had done so much for him, that it seemed cruel not to at least attempt to offer him that same sense of belonging and acceptance that they'd offered him.
Removing the barrel of his gun from Hanzo's forehead, Reaper took a step back. "You don't know what you're taking about, Shimada." And Hanzo lifted his head, ignoring the weapon still jutting against his skull, refusing to let the dismay he felt at witnessing firsthand the result of this former hero's disintegration show. For a moment, Reaper appeared thoughtful. He chuckled quietly, cruelty in each utterance. "Perhaps, I should change that."
Horrified by the implication, Hanzo bucked and writhed, throwing off his captors, until one of the soldiers managed to embed a tranquilizer in his thigh, causing his movements to gradually become sluggish, until finally consciousness fled, allowing the Talon agents to carry him away.
It was on that night that the birds of prey stole a dragon, and dragged it into darkness.
The inky black sky stood in sharp contrast to the bustling, beeping, glowing city below it. Wide streets filled to the brim with cars, cars filled with families going out to eat, a nurse at the start of her shift, a financial adviser on his way home after a long day of watching the stocks rise and fall.
So many lives to protect, so many people Overwatch had the responsibility to keep out of harm's way, to brush against so lightly that they never knew how drastically their whole world could change in an instant.
It was for them that Genji was perched atop the base of the thick, towering antenna adorning the roof of the Empire State Building, where he dutifully scanned the surrounding structures and windows for any signs of electric green laser light, though if this new assassin, referred to only as Ghost in the underground channels, was truly as good as their informant claimed, then there was a chance he'd forgo the scope for the very purpose of obliterating any sign of his presence.
One did not acquire an appellation such as that, and at such an early stage, without reason.
We don't know who or what this Ghost character is, Morrison's disgruntled voice rumbled over the comm link. After the search for Hanzo had proved fruitless, he'd been forced to reassign the cyborg to other missions that required his particular skill set, so if you spot him, I don't want you doing anything rash. Overwatch already more than enough cowboys, Shimada.
Genji cocked his head to the side with a combination of amusement and irritation, fingers bending at the joints as they entwined themselves within the folds of the golden sash blowing about his person as he was once more reminded that ninjas thrived when they kept to the shadows. His mission was to identify the objective - the Pro-Omnic protest scheduled to take place that evening had been covertly relocated, so as to minimize the risk of any civilians being caught in the potential conflict - report back to Overwatch, and then wait for reinforcements. It was notto rush headfirst with guns blazing into every hub or hole in the ground that seemed like it might contain a lead.
A year to the day had passed since his brother's disappearance, yet Dr. Ziegler and Morrison still restrained him, forbade him from taking point on any offensive endeavors, as though keeping him on a leash would prevent him from vanishing as his brother did.
Though none of his friends had said so aloud, Genji knew that many believed him dead. Even still, there was no mission Genji participated in where he didn't search the crowds for his brother's face. The others believed him grieving. They couldn't feel the faltering beat of Hanzo's clinging existence as he could.
Though the bond between them and their dragons had not yet been severed, something was wrong. There was a time when Hanzo's dragons responded to his calls, a subtle twinge in the connection between them, a strumming of a cord.
The sensation had gradually grown weaker over the following months, until one day when he meditated on their connection, aligned his thoughts and feelings with it, it was to experience as the bond itself began to fragment, sending an tortured, inhuman screech through the link that ran through his mind with the sharpened point of a dagger.
Hanzo lived. Of that, Genji was certain. And he would continue to search for as long as it took to find him again, but… He could not abandon his teammates, nor could he abandon his duty to protect the innocent.
The sun ducked below the horizon, taking with it the golden hues, the reds, and warm orange. A blue night followed quickly on its heels, and Genji watched in quiet awe as his perch burst into bright spikes of dancing, rippling spotlights.
Leaping down from his position, Genji landed effortlessly on the railing lining the ramp below, then walked along it with lithe, fluid strides, as he batted away the flap on his satchel, then carefully withdrew a stick of incense, along with a delicately painted stand. At the height where he stood, the wind was ferocious. It battered his arms, legs, and torso, howled its fury at the impudence of his presence, but this sight before him now, that of a busy, thriving city, filled with the potential for good, was something he'd have very much liked to show his brother.
This was what they risked their lives for, after all.
Someday, that dream would come to pass, but until then, Genji could only hope that his adherence to the old ways would grant his brother some measure of peace. Crouching low, he set the incense down within the protective confines of a corner, down by the base of an old fashioned binocular stand.
Inclining his head towards the smoldering stick, Genji watched the curls of smoke dissipate as the wind took them and carried them off. "We will meet again, anija."
As he turned to leave, an azure glow flitting across the windows caught his eye. He halted, one hand surreptitiously reaching for his blade.
This could be any of a number of assassins. There were too many after his life to guarantee that this was his objective. "I am searching for one known only as Ghost," Genji called out. "It is said that he moves as though he has already passed beyond the veil of this world, without sound or breath." A scornful scoff traveled without resistance through the empty world they inhabited. "Since you've alerted me to your presence, however, it appears that you are not the assassin I seek."
When it came to luring out an enemy, a well-timed taunt could work wonders.
To his surprise, Genji's thoughts momentarily drifted back to Hanzo as the figure deftly vaulted over the spindly wires rising from the guard fence that spared those standing at the edge of the outlook from the rather nasty fall waiting for them should they tip over the side.
A blue visor peeked out from under an ornate forehead protector, the metal carved to form cloud-like brows and curved horns, with a luminous stone embedded in its center. It was only a sliver, though, as the entirety of the assassin's jaw was concealed, hidden by the veil tucked into his faceplate.
Spikes protruded from the assassin's shoulders, though they didn't distract from the ventilation ports located beneath them.
Was it full body armor? Or did Talon decide to create a cyborg of their own? Reyes always was the competitive sort.
Morrison's voice crackled, urgent. Genji? What's going on over there?
The assassin tilted his head, keeping his hands harmlessly at his sides, though Genji kept his gaze locked on the blade strapped to his back. He activated his comm to announce that he may have found a lead on their Ghost.
"Well?" Genji prompted the silent mercenary, ignoring Morrison's increasingly frustrated demands that he wait for back-up. It seemed the assassin was counting on him to initiate this battle, as he had made no other move since his arrival, and so Genji unsheathed his katana and sprinted forward, not aiming to kill. Not when they needed information.
The assassin moved lightly across the concrete, his steps eerily silent as he leapt out of Genji's range time and time again.
"It is you, isn't it?" Had Talon bestowed this man with his current form in order to save him, as Dr. Ziegler had once done for his sake? Somehow, given their history, Genji found that notion doubtful.
A well-aimed strike scraped against the man's ridged chest plate, and he leapt to find higher ground, staring down wordlessly at the cyborg from where his armored hands had gripped the antenna built in the column above the outlook like ladder rungs. "Why do you not draw your sword, Ghost? Are you frightened of me?"
A kunai thrown with deadly precision flew over Genji's shoulder, slicing the incense he'd lit into diagonally cut pieces that tumbled from the stand to drop to the concrete floor, where they laid innocuously alongside discarded gum wrappers and used cigarettes.
Suddenly serious, Genji feinted to the left, then launched himself to the right with synthetically enhanced muscles that pushed him past the limits of the human body. He still wasn't aiming to kill, but when a strike finally landed, he imagined it would do more than tickle.
There was a sharp intake of breath from the assassin. He swung around the column before Genji's blade could find its mark, then continued to evade, often darting behind segments of the building in an effort to hinder the cyborg's attacks.
Morrison wasn't going to be happy with him if the Pentagon sent Overwatch a bill for slicing off pieces of a national landmark. Avoiding any excess damage to the structure was proving to be an obstacle, presenting an irritation that only grew as his opponent made no move to flee or counterattack.
What could he be thinking? For what reason would an enemy go to such lengths not to draw his blade?
Was Genji being tested? Or was his opponent merely waiting for him to tire?
He slid from the higher level the assassin had goaded him to, leaving a thin white line behind as his pointed boots scraped against the wall of clear glass, until he finally came to a stop on the concrete, and lowered his blade. "Tell me, if not to fight, then why are you here?"
The assassin stared down at him from above, wary. Calculating. Then turned sharply, a blue streak cutting through the air as he shifted, lowering his head to land on a point behind the cyborg. Alert, Genji followed his gaze in time to spot the bullet careening towards him. He dodged, bending over backwards to avoid both the shot and the swirling current around it.
It slammed against the building, shattering the windows into jagged pieces that collapsed in a shower of broken glass. Even the steel frame, damaged by the impact, warped and groaned as the remaining unaffected bars struggled to adjust.
Genji focused on following the path of the bullet as he crouched, deeming the sniper the greater threat for the time being.
He switched to thermal vision. There was a cold spot on the end of a crane hanging over the roof of a nearby hotel. It registered as several degrees below average core temperature for a healthy human, yet the figure moved with the speed of a lioness, tucking the rifle under a slender, toned arm as they made for cover.
He didn't need to see the unnatural tint to her skin to know Widowmaker had very nearly succeeded in taking his life.
There was little even Dr. Ziegler could do to substitute for a beating heart. If given the time to prepare, perhaps, but there was nothing she could do for him from Watchpoint.
Had this man, this Talon operative, intended to warn him?
"Who are you?" He'd lowered his guard, overwhelmed by the dread chilling what remained of his organic body. It proved to be a mistake, as between one breath and the next, the assassin had rushed down from his position and pressed the jagged edge of a sword against his neck.
Though unseen, Genji's brown eyes, the most expressive part of him, widened in shock at the sudden aggression. He swallowed, forcing a lightness to his words as he said, "And here I was starting to think you weren't going to fight."
The pressure held for a moment longer, then lifted, gone as suddenly as it had come. The assassin increased the distance between them as he sheathed his weapon, a subtle shake of his head the only indication of the humanity buried beneath his cybernetic exterior.
They faced each other in silence; the wind whipping the golden sash Genji wore as the assassin's veil fluttered. A strangled, incoherent utterance preceded the assassin taking a tentative step forward.
To remain out in the open like this was to endanger them both. Once she realized Genji wasn't going to close in on her position, Widowmaker would prepare another round, and this time, if this was truly Ghost he'd encountered, if he'd meant to give away the sniper's location and he meant to spare him now, then the next could very well be aimed with the intention of taking out both of them.
But he needed to know. This man who stood before him, who hesitated to draw his blade and refused to cut him down… What face lurked beneath his mask?
The man reached up to grip his visor, ventilation ports rising to expel a rush of steam as the locks disengaged.
Then paused, his gaze suddenly zeroing in on the farthest corner of the outlook. Genji bit down on the urge to shout at him, to make any claims he might regret, but the dragon in him was stirring, waking. It knew what he could hardly dare to believe.
"Hanzo."
He swung back to Genji, startled by the pained recognition in his voice, then retreated several steps towards the fence, where the ocean and the dark sky beckoned.
Genji reached for him, silently pleading with his brother not to leave.
Bu that all stopped when a cloud of dense smoke rushed from the shadowed corner, forming a towering, robed figure that raised a pump action shotgun to Genji's forehead. "I believe I gave you orders to kill this man, agent." The assassin said nothing in reply. Instead, he stood frozen, limbs locked against his will. "Has your tongue not finished regenerating yet?" Reaper sneered. "I suppose that's what we get for using a second-rate Caduceus from a third-rate doctor."
A low growl ripped through Genji's chest. "Reyes, what have you done to him?"
"What have I done? I'm afraid I can't take credit for that one." There it was. The cruel, mocking timbre that Genji struggled to reconcile with the man he'd once been. Had their circumstances been altered, had Reyes not stood before him as an enemy and a threat, Genji might have appreciated the note of wry amusement in his gravelly voice. "As I recall, it was your brother who didn't see the appeal of immortality." While Genji reeled from the revelation that Hanzo had attempted to take his own life in captivity, the wraith ended on a dry note, "Can't imagine why."
Without lowering his guard, Reaper focused the majority of his attention on the paralyzed assassin, "I am going to free you now, Shimada. Do not disappoint me."
There was a click from an unknown source, and the assassin came free with a lurch, temporarily disoriented by the sudden mobility. Gathering himself, he straightened to his full height, fingers curling around the hilt of his blade as Genji watched in muted horror. A sliver of silver glittered in the shifting light show, glowing gold then royal blue then sea green, until he released the hilt, allowing it to fall into the sheath with a dull thud, turned to face Reaper, and confidently mimed firing an arrow into the dry husk that remained of the wraith's heart.
Reaper snarled, revealing a blinking remote from under a billowing sleeve. "So be it, then. It's time you learned that a good soldier follows orders." A metal talon clicked on a round, black button, and the assassin stiffened, the light emanating from his visor and ventilation ports blinking out like a broken bulb as his body fell heavily onto the concrete.
"Ryuujin no ken wo kurae!"
Throwing caution aside, Genji called upon his dragon to devour the black creature looming over his brother's fallen form, the orchestrator of his pain. Power swept through him, surging through veins, through circuits, propelled forth by rage as the ancient serpent heeded his call, and wrapped around his body, then fell on his katana, allowed itself to be guided by the arc of his strike as he lunged towards Reaper with the intent to devour him down to his bones.
By the time Genji was done, there would not be a single cell left for him to regenerate from.
A dark cackle issued forth from the wraith's mask at the fearsome sight of the green dragon's gaping maw, "Are you sure fighting me is what you should be doing right now?" Channeling the hostility and fury of its conduit, the dragon snapped at his padded shoulder. It gave way beneath its jaws, breaking off into wisps of black vapor.
Snarling as the mist swirled, then condensed to return the reaper to his original form, the mighty dragon reared its head, scales flashing as its spectral glow flowed through and around Genji's blade, transforming his katana into an extension of its fangs as it prepared to strike again.
However, Genji hesitated, glancing anxiously at the fallen form of his brother. The dragon spirit growled a warning, eager to cut down the ghoulish, twisted soul that had dared corrupt its kin. Though he shared its wrath, his mind was clear.
Even if his cybernetic enhancements were to be deactivated, Mercy had installed a series of security features, including a battery-powered reserve for emergency life support, which would give his teammates enough time to get him back to base to undergo repairs. Without an artificial respiratory system, it would not be long before he suffocated. His lungs were little more than scraps of tissue with too many holes burned in them to be of any use when stripped of the mesh wall surrounding each, or the pump that enabled them to fill and empty without struggle.
He listened again for the sound of his brother breathing, taking in the ragged, labored wheezing with new understanding. A feeble gust of wind passing through a rusted pipe would have sounded much the same. Lying there, immobile and helpless, Hanzo was slowly suffocating.
"I see you've finally realized that suit of his isn't for show. Like you, he needs it to survive. But unlike you, the nanomachines regenerating and breaking down his cells will never let him stay dead for long. Who knows how many times he's died, already?"
Genji changed his stance, shifting to a quick strike that could determine the winner of this encounter in an instant. The accents on his armored plating flared, a beacon of single-minded purpose reaching up into the night sky. Staying hidden was no longer his concern. If the woman who felled Mondatta chose to pursue him, to stand between him and the medical attention Hanzo so desperately needed, then he would be forced to exact the revenge his master had not asked for.
Noticing the increased aggression in his demeanor, Reaper continued, "Come now, I thought you would be pleased. Didn't you want your brother to know exactly what he put you through?"
"Do not lay your twisted machinations at my feet as though they were a gift." Tranquility eluded him, calm forsook him as a dangerous tempest churned within his mind. He pushed against the storm to regain control. "I did not ask for this."
Reaper considered that, his hollow gaze fixed on the cyborg, taking in the spectral energy that still emanated in steady waves from the razor edge of his weapon. "You told me once that revenge was your reason for living."
"Yes," a heavy sadness crept through Genji's synthetic voice, the aggressive form with which he'd held his sword relaxed, "and you told me that such a reason would never bring me peace."
The wheezing stopped; replaced by a silence so massive it left no room for thought, no space with which to breath. Aiming the barrels of both his shotguns at Genji's forehead, Reaper told him without cruelty or malice, "I'm not that man, anymore."
But before he could finish applying the pressure necessary to fire off the shots that would have taken the cyborg's head at such close range, Genji sheathed his sword and swerved to the side, simultaneously tossing the shuriken he'd lodged between his fingers as he moved to avoid the blast.
Snarling, Reaper snatched them from the curved forehead of his mask. He regarded them with palpable contempt, until their edges began to blink, and fire bled through his hands, reaching up to consume him in an agonizing cloud of red, yellow, and orange.
While he swatted at the flames, Genji knelt to gather Hanzo into his arms, shocked by how little he weighed, armor and all, then sprinted for the skyscraper's edge. A projectile - a lead bullet, deadly in its momentum, clipped his shoulder, stripping him of a panel of protective plating as he ran, but he did not cry out. Instead, he lengthened his strides until the edge passed beneath him, and his feet touched lightly against glass windows as he sprinted down the side of the building, towards alleys that would hide them, shadows that would shield their presence until this long night ended, and the morning led them home.