It took Winston remotely piloting a compact jet to the signal sent out by Genji's communicator, followed by eight hours of uninterrupted flight over cities and an endless ocean before Hanzo was finally brought into Angela's care. McCree and Morrison helped him carry his brother inside the clinic, where they deposited him on a cot, careful not to jostle his prosthetic limbs too much.
Mercy got to work immediately, pushing them brusquely them out of the way with power cables in her hands. She set them aside while she worked on unlatching Hanzo's exterior chestplate, then inserted them into the port hidden beneath. His visor flared at the input of energy from the generator, and his breathing evened, as the vents and other basic life functions came back online.
His back arched, synthetic and organic muscles seizing. The sudden intake of oxygen was a shock to his system after suffocating in silence for so long. It would take time for the neurons firing off death knells in his brain to change their tune. Mercy ordered Morrison and McCree to hold him down until the convulsions passed.
When the thrashing dwindled to little more than a persistent twitch, an encouraging indictor that the cyborg's body had finally begun to recognize its release from its perpetual loop of death and life, the cowboy and the soldier slowly withdrew to allow Hanzo some space to maneuver. They didn't go far.
Morrison studied the calculating manner in which Hanzo examined his newly mobile limbs through the red lens of his visor.
Mercy turned to Genji, who'd been content to watch the life reenter his brother in silence, so long as he never had to hear the terrible rattle of his dying breaths again, for as long as he lived. "You said in your report that Reaper deactivated his body with a remote?" Her voice was thick with a rage that simmered beneath the surface at such a flagrant abuse of her technology, a technology that she had built to help and save.
Without a word, Genji nodded, confirming her suspicions.
Dipping his head, Hanzo laid a heavy palm over the cord protruding from his chest. At the questioning tilt of his head, Mercy pushed her own feelings aside, and calmly explained that the generator was a temporary fix intended to keep his vitals stable until she could procure a more permanent power source for him. "One outside of Talon's control." Against her better judgment, she placed a hand over his, interlocking her slender fingers between the cold metal spikes protruding from the plates positioned over his knuckles.
He did not pull away from her touch, nor did he respond to it. Rather, he endured with seemingly cold indifference until she pulled away on her own accord.
When she leaned over his chest to examine the structure of his lower jaw and neck, and perhaps to form an idea of what could be done to mitigate the effects of the self-inflicted damage that seemed to be limiting the archer's vocalizations, Genji forgot to breath. He'd never dared to lift Hanzo's veil, both out of respect for his privacy and due to the simple fact that his brother had been in no state to refuse.
Now, however, Mercy intentionally hesitated. Her intentions were clear – hands raised, hovering just above the carbon fiber.
And Hanzo watched her, unmoving, until finally permission was granted by a slight nod, and she moved forward, lifting the veil away to reveal the ruin beneath it. There was a gruesome gash following up his jawline, revealing sinew and bone, each blackened by the organic material's advanced decay.
A curling black mist formed at the edges of the disfiguring wound with an insectile clicking. It passed easily through the gaping holes eaten through his cheeks, aiding in the endless cycle of regeneration and degeneration that Mercy recognized as a bastardized form of the Caduceus procedure.
There was evidence of extensive deterioration in the walls of his mouth and throat, more than enough to warrant a vocal synthesizer, even disregarding the mangled remains of the tongue he'd chewed through. Upon catching a glimpse of it, Mercy suppressed a shudder. Was it the crippling pain that had pushed him to go so far? Was it defiance? Or was it shame?
She glanced at Genji, wondering how he was taking this. His cybernetic body stood rigidly by the doorframe, fists curled at his sides. His gaze was locked on his brother, who shifted slightly to acknowledge his presence for the first time.
With deliberate slowness, Hanzo reached up to remove his visor. His fingers fumbled with the clasps, clumsy and sluggish due the lingering effects of oxygen deprivation, so Mercy, after laying a gentle touch on his forearm to alert him to her intentions, helped him find and undo the latches.
They had not interacted often before his abduction, many of their brief conversations had been tense and charged at best, but she knew him to be a proud creature, and so refused to force her aid upon him. Enough had been forced upon him, already.
Still, she was surprised when he accepted her assistance, and the visor released, vapor streaming out from its edges. The azure ventilation ports build into his shoulders raised to expel puffs of excess carbon dioxide, an occurrence usually brought about by exertion or stress, as the archer gripped the visor in one hand, and then lifted it, revealing the streaks of white scarring surrounding his eyes and cutting through his brow.
His dark brown eyes, so similar to his brother's, were at first hard and cold, utterly devoid of any traces of humanity or emotion, except for perhaps the remnants of a long buried rage.
Despite the intensity of a gaze Genji could not bring himself to associate with the man he knew, the ninja took a step forward, venturing, "Hanzo?"
And Hanzo forced his eyes closed, squeezing them tightly. Genji hesitated, a sudden dread filling him at the thought that his brother might blame him for not finding him before this transformation could occur, that the ninja was even now finding some sort of vindictive pleasure in it, though that couldn't be further from the truth.
He strived for calm, for the tranquility of his master. Keeping his voice carefully neutral, he offered to leave. The thought of leaving now, after having searched for him for so long, it tore like daggers slicing through him, but if that was what his brother wished…
To his surprise, Hanzo opened his eyes, revealing a drastically softened gaze. He gestured for Genji to come closer, and the cyborg did not need any further prodding. He was instantly at Hanzo's side.
Suppressing a smile, Mercy stepped out to head into her office, stating that she'd be back with a few extra chairs and something that might be able to help expand Hanzo's limited communication. Genji, especially, needed to rest. His cybernetic body could withstand much, but there was no doubt that the past few hours had pushed both his body and his mind to their limits.
"Guess you need to work a little on that mug of yours, Hanzo," McCree observed. "Poor Genji here nearly had a heart attack." For a moment, Hanzo regarded the cowboy in silence, then he nodded, and proceeded to adjust the veil so it laid properly over his wounds. Genji turned, his visor flaring to an unsettling brightness, and McCree couldn't see the dark look the cyborg was fixing him with, but he could feel it. "Now, look," he quickly backtracked, "I didn't mean-"
He sighed, breaking off with a sideways glance and a nervous scratch at the back of his neck. "Apologies, archer. I guess seeing you again after all this time, knowing where you've been, it's got me a bit on edge."
"It's got us all a bit on edge," Morrison agreed. "You don't spend a year with Talon and not come back carrying some of it with you." He glanced pointedly at the blade Hanzo reportedly wielded against his brother, a weapon that now rested by the nightstand.
Hanzo moved to reattach his visor, stopping only when Genji laid a metal hand over his. He slowly shook his head, a silent bid for more time. While Genji understood if Hanzo was uncomfortable without it, and would not stop should he insist, he was not repulsed by Hanzo's appearance, nor was he afraid of him. It was important that he know that. "When I was in America, there was a time when Hanzo could have killed me, yet he stayed his hand. Soon after, he defied Talon, despite undoubted awareness of the consequences which awaited him should he do so. Think what you will, but I choose to trust him."
Mercy returned with a compact cube, unfolded a chair for Genji, then placed her own on the opposite side of the cot, where she could best reach her patient.
The instant Genji shifted to sit, however, the visor was snapped back into place, the azure band concealing any reaction Hanzo might have had to the device Mercy presented to him. And though Genji visibly deflated, Mercy didn't let her patient's stubbornness faze her. She'd grown a thick skin after years of patching up the toughest heroes in Overwatch. "It's a synthetic voice box. It senses the vibrations in your throat, and then translates them into words." Though they could no longer see his eyes, the curious head tilt with which Hanzo regarded the metal cube could only be described as skeptical. She held it out so he could get a better look. "With your permission, of course, I'd like to attach this to your neck. It's already been activated, and the processing period will just take a second."
She waited under the intensity of his unwavering gaze, recalling Genji's first days in Overwatch, when he had lashed out at anyone who got too close, refused any further enhancements until time and necessity had forced him to accept her aid. It had been a grueling experience, and certainly not one she was eager on repeating, but if that was what it took, then so be it.
Finally, Hanzo lifted two fingers and pressed them to his throat. And she got to work, attaching wires where she could, wrapping straps around the base of his neck, an act which noticeably made the archer tense, and then clipped on the cube so that it fit snugly against the sloping armor.
He touched it tentatively, adjusting to its weight and the minor audio feedback. There was hint of awe and disbelief to the gesture, as though the experience of sitting in a room that smelled of astringent with someone who genuinely wanted to help him was nothing less than a miracle.
Morrison crossed his arms over his chest. "Can you speak, Hanzo?"
Still somewhat dazed, he turned to face the Commander. They all did. Mercy and Genji had nearly forgotten the audience in the room. At first, unintelligible static issued from the box. Before it had the chance to completely settle, a flat, artificially generated, "Yes," was heard. It bore no resemblance to the archer's natural voice, and was instead generically male, replacing Hanzo's cool, accented baritone with something akin to what one would expect to hear from an automated navigation system.
Genji straightened at the sound. Hanzo, on the other hand, went very and disconcertingly still. Mercy offered them both an apologetic frown. "The device hasn't been calibrated to Hanzo's specific tones. It's a prototype, and a very old model at that. I can build a new one, like the one I built for Genji, but it will take some time." Absently, she tucked several loose strands from her bun behind an ear. "Do you think you could accept this for a few days?"
It was a little disappointing when Hanzo merely nodded, as it seemed to indicate that he would accept its presence without making use of it, but then Morrison approached the bed with a grim set to his brow. "If using that thing embarrasses you, then you're gonna have to get over that real quick. I'm going to need you to recall for me every last second of the time you spent with Talon."
"Morrison," Genji warned.
While McCree, sensing the rising tensions, asked for everyone to take a deep breath and bring it down a notch, Mercy gestured stiffly for Morrison to step outside with her.
He opened the door, allowing her to step out into the hallway first, where she waited impatiently for him to join her. It had barely closed behind him when she hissed, "What are you trying to do in there? He needs rest, Jack. Not an interrogation."
"We don't know what was done to him or how much time we have to figure it out, Angela."
"Then what would you have us do? Toss him out into the streets?" She's always been a bear when it came to protecting her patients, it's part and parcel with what made her such a good doctor, but it's not everyday that Morrison found himself bearing the brunt of her ire like this.
"If it comes to that." He'd expected that betrayal that bloomed in her clear blue eyes, but not the hurt that stabbed through him when he saw it.
But Mercy wasn't the girl she'd once been. In a blink, the emotion vanished, replaced by a coldness that only accented her angelic beauty. So many had seen the healer descend from the sky with a kind smile and wings that gleamed gold in the sunlight. They would never witness the warrior adorned in little more than plain clothes and a lab coat that stood before him now, "And do you truly believe Genji would agree with that course of action?"
Unable to maintain her gaze any longer, Morrison glanced to the side, a gloved hand rising automatically to rest on the back of his head. "He'll understand. He's-"
"A good soldier?" He turned sharply, drawn back to the doctor by the venomous edge to her words. Something told him he wasn't going to like where she was taking this. "Yes, it's a good idea, Jack. Very pragmatic. Gabriel would be proud."
Frustration. Bitterness. Disappointment.
It wouldn't be the first time his mistakes had come back to bite him.
Resisting the urge to say whatever it took to defuse the situation - How many messes had that caused in the past? - Morrison shook his head. "That's not fair, Angela." It wasn't easy to see the little girl he'd watched grow into a woman carrying so much anger within her, especially not when he was the cause.
She didn't back down, didn't let up. "And why not?" Her voice was level, coming across as all the more dangerous for it. "Do what needs to be done, and as for the people it hurts, the lives it ruins, well that's just too bad, isn't it?" Gradually, she relaxed, laying a tender hand on his forearm. "We have a real chance here to do some good, Jack. We can help this man. No. We can help our comrade. Even after all of this, he is still one of us. And I will not abandon him."
Determination burned within her. There was a stubborn set to her shoulders, a defiant lift to her chin. She'd go down swinging, if that's what it took. Morrison breathed out a gusty sigh, resigned to the fact that losing the archer at this point could very well mean losing both his brother and the best doctor they had. "You really do have a soft spot for the Shimadas, don't you?"
A soft smile graced her features. "Don't waste this opportunity, Jack. This world cannot afford to lose any more heroes."
"What do you think they're talking about out there?" McCree let loose a low whistle at the harsh murmurs drifting in from outside. "Sounds to me like good ol' Dr. Ziegler's laying into him."
He was slouching, leaning, resting. The desire to pull down the brim of his hat over his aching eyes and nap for a minute was proving to be more tempting than an apple pie cooling on a windowsill, and striking up a conversation with the toughest crowd in Overwatch wasn't doing him any favors. Still, it wasn't like he'd never gone without a good night's sleep before, and it was well known in Overwatch that the best way to deal with fatigue was to cowboy up and deal with it.
Taking in the unfathomable poker faces worn now by both of the Shimadas, McCree choked down a nervous chuckle. Putting that (admittedly unhealthy) plan into action was going to take some doing with these two wearing him down. Genji used to be pretty good at exaggerating his movements and what little vocal range he had to give the others something to bounce off of, but that was before he'd had to deal with the perpetual sucker punch of starting each new day with an older brother that was still MIA.
It got worse with every false lead and dead end. He'd given up on exaggerating his tone, allowing the vocal synthesizer to render it flat and lifeless, and stopped mimicking human mannerisms, such as the rise and fall of a chest when its lungs fill and empty, often remaining immobile for hours when he wasn't actively participating in missions or searching for the lost Shimada, and could easily be mistaken for a statue. Worst of all, any effort he'd once put into announcing his presence before entering a room dried up with the rest of the social niceties. He didn't purposely step a little louder in the hallways to give the jumpier members of Overwatch a little warning, didn't rap a few times on the doorframe to let everyone know when he was coming in, didn't greet them with a wave to purposefully draw attention to himself.
Lately, whenever there was a meeting, Genji wasn't there until he was, and no one rightly knew when that changed.
Losing Hanzo had hurt like a bullet train between the eyes, but so had losing Genji. He could only hope that now that the former was back, he'd be getting his friend back, too.
"So," he nudged the katana sitting by the nightstand with the toe of his leather boot, "a blade, huh? What happened to your bow, archer?"
But that was only if Genji didn't positively throttle him first.
With a soft, nearly inaudible noise of pain that the device thankfully didn't pick up on, Hanzo dug armored fingers into the edges of his mattress, then shifted to look in the direction where he'd gestured. He stared at the blade for a long time, shoulders hiked, before finally gathering the resolve to speak. "It was not by choice."
Genji looked as though he wanted to say something, but didn't get the chance, as Morrison and Angela chose that moment to step back into the medbay. Morrison cleared his throat. "It's been brought to my attention that you may need time to get readjusted, so we'll be putting the questions on hold for a few days. However, during that time, I'll be assigning either McCree or Genji to accompany you. You are not to go anywhere alone. Do I make myself clear, Shimada?"
McCree arched a brow at that. "Jesus, Jack, he's not a criminal."
Hanzo's gaze shifted to him for an instant, before falling back to Morrison. "I believe the commander is correct. However, I cannot say that I am not grateful for the reprieve."
Once that was settled, Mercy ushered Morrison and McCree away to give the brothers some privacy.
McCree, having decided that leaving on his own accord was better than leaving through a cowboy-shaped hole in the wall, bid them all a fond farewell, then followed Morrison out with his hands interlocked behind his head.
It'd been a long day. He'd check up on the brothers later but, for now, there was a bed in his quarters with his name on it.
At their departure, Genji finally allowed his synthetic muscles to relax. He felt stiff, a remnant from the hours he'd spent hunched over the jet's controls that wasn't being helped by how still he'd remained during the majority of his visit to the medbay.
The sheathed blade lying abandoned on the floor drew his attention when he looked down. As surreptitiously as he could manage, he kicked the weapon beneath the cot, banishing it from their sight. Perhaps later he would retrieve it, but for now, there was no reason for its presence to cause his brother any more pain.
There was a short, clipped sound from the device resting on Hanzo's throat. At first, Genji was not sure of what to make of it, before realizing that it was the synthesizer's best attempt to mimic the amused huff that his brother was so fond of. "It's a little too late for that, Genji." In his mind's eye, he could picture the wry smile that accompanied the words. "But I am glad to see you have not changed."
How could he be so calm?
Several minutes passed, during which neither of them could think anything to say to disrupt the oppressive atomosphere hanging over them. To recover their former relationship after a year apart did not seem so impossible a task in comparison to the wide gulf of ten, but they had never completely finished recovering from their first separation before they were forced into their second.
After a time, Genji gestured vaguely to Hanzo's body. "Does it hurt?"
Hanzo sucked in a sharp breath. "Yes." It came so quietly that the vocal synthesizer nearly didn't register it.
"And this, all of this, was a result of what their artificial Caduceus did to you?" And Genji was trying not to think about how satisfying it would be to storm a Talon base and raze it to the ground. He was trying not to focus on thoughts of rage or revenge. He was trying.
"Most of what was rendered useless," he waved offhandedly at his arms and legs, before settling a hand on his chest plate, directly over ruined, withered lungs, "was a direct side effect of the havoc wrought by the experiments I endured, but not all…" He shifted to lay the hand formerly placed on his chest atop the scaled tail of the Eastern dragon curled around the carbon fiber sleeve running the length from his shoulder to his wrist.
"You are suggesting that it was your dragons that did this?" He couldn't believe it. Their dragons were entrusted to them from birth to protect them. Even when Genji had reflected Hanzo's own dragons back at him in Hanamura, they had merely weakened him, whereas anyone else would have been destroyed soon after coming into contact with the raw majesty of their power.
"I do not- cannot blame them for their actions. They did not recognize me. They merely sought to eliminate that which was causing them such pain." He purposefully avoided meeting Genji's gaze as he spoke, instead choosing to focus on the wall at the foot at his bed.
"It is not like you to sound so defeated, brother." It was meant to rile him, to bring boiling to the surface anything other than this cold indifference that Hanzo seemed so intent on preserving.
At the very least, his brother looked at him. "I am resigned. This body will not let me die, which can only mean that I have either found redemption or will never find it. In either case, my search is over. What more is there for me to do?"
"You can fight," Genji insisted with uncharacteristic firmness. "Overwatch still needs you, brother." Even now, I still….
"And what better way to pass a second of eternity than to embroil myself in yet another conflict? Is this," an armored limb flicked out in a streak of black, encompassing the whole of Hanzo's prosthetic body in a gesture that combined both long buried frustration and raw, oozing anguish, "truly not enough?"
It was deeply unsettling to know there was a very real anger there, hidden beneath a voice entirely devoid of inflection or emotion. He might have to speak to Dr. Ziegler later, ask her if there was anything he could do to help speed up the process of the creation of the second synthesizer.
"The Hanzo I knew would not give up so easily." Genji regretted his word choice as soon as he finished speaking, and wasn't surprised when his brother stiffened at the insinuation that any part of this had been easy, although that wasn't what he'd meant to imply. With the smoldering heat of his glare evident even through his visor, the former Talon assassin said slowly, "I am not the man you knew."
It was clear that he was ready to let the subject drop, but Genji wasn't done. To his mild consternation, however, yet another interruption presented itself in the form of an unexpected visitor, forcing him to set it aside for the moment.
Hana burst into the room with her long hair disheveled, zeroed in on Hanzo, and made a beeline for his cot, leaping forward the last few feet to throw her arms around his neck. Genji quickly moved out of the way.
She sniffed pathetically, her shoulders shuddering while Hanzo held onto her to keep her from slipping off the bed, still struggling to process this latest turn of events. "Are you crying?" He'd forgotten for a moment what he'd sounded like. Both of the brothers subtly cringed, but Hana either didn't notice or didn't deem it fit to care.
Her grip around him tightened. "We thought you were dead, dum-dum." She squirmed until they were face-to-face. "Of course I am!" "But you're back now, right? I've been working on my archery since… well… " She chewed on her lip, unsure of how to proceed. "But I'm not that good," was what she decided to go with, "and could really use some more lessons." Round, soulful brown eyes widened in a sudden spike of fear. In his initial days at Overwatch, Hanzo had often wondered if the girl was even capable of experiencing such an emotion. "You're not going to disappear on us again, are you?
Doing his best to ignore the distinctly smug aura emanating from where his younger brother stood, Hanzo uttered the words which he knew well would bind him once more, but could not, in that moment, bring himself to care. "I would not dream of it."
It was McCree's turn to supervise him after Hanzo's release the next day, which was how Hanzo had found himself wandering the halls aimlessly, looking like the world's most directionally challenged and incompetent Talon agent.
He was murmuring to himself in frustration, low so the box could not pick it up and the sounds remained incomprehensible, when a cheerful hail from behind him attracted his attention. He turned around with deliberate slowness, reminding himself that he was in Overwatch, and anyone who wished to speak with him would almost certainly be an ally. Additionally, the mechanical tones had struck him as familiar and distinctly non-hostile.
It was the Omnic monk his brother cared so much for that floated over to him, his legs crossed in the Lotus position. "Hello!" Unsure of how to respond, Hanzo offered a small wave. "I am afraid I have not heard news of someone new joining us at Watchpoint. My name is Zenyatta." He waited. "And you are?"
It shouldn't have stung the way it did, to be not be recognized by his brother's teacher, and yet Hanzo found it difficult to merely accept, though that didn't stop him in the attempt. There were things that could and should not be endured, yet he had. He'd endured and survived. In comparison, this encounter would hardly even be worth remembering. "It's- " Again, his own voice took him off-guard. Zenyatta, on the other hand, appeared unfazed. "Ghost." Now that he'd said it out loud, it sounded remarkably pretentious. "On second thought, call me by whatever name suits you. It makes no difference to me." Although he did not expect the monk to hurt him, a bitter grimace still twisted his features. Synthetic muscles contracted without his consent, having been trained over time to brace for the onset of pain following the profession of any sort of independent wants or desire.
The nine dots upon Zenyatta's forehead shimmered. He hummed softly, subtly increasing the distance between their bodies so that his companion did not feel pressured by the proximity. "An interesting request, to be sure. To impose a name upon you would suggest that I wield power over your identity. However, as I do not, I would much rather wait until you feel inclined to share your preference with me."
This short interaction with his brother's teacher was proving to be so widely removed from any he'd endured in Talon that it almost felt like a dream. When it came to accepting kindness, he was dreadfully out of practice, so rather than attempt to respond and unintentionally offend the Omnic, the archer uttered a low noise of acknowledgment, and left it at that.
When it became apparent that he was not going to put any effort into helping the conversation along, Zenyatta said, "If you do not mind my asking, what is it that brings you here today? Might you be a new recruit?" There was a subtle note of suspicion that did not go unnoticed. "Or are you, perhaps, visiting Watchpoint for another reason?" The golden orbs orbiting around his upper chest and head stilled with an abruptness that resulted in them teetering slightly as they hovered as though from a string in mid-air.
A direct blow from one of those likely wouldn't damage his armored plates too much, but the impact certainly wouldn't be pleasant.
Were he able, Hanzo would have grinned at this glimpse of the warrior within the sage. Having spent the majority of his youth questioning his brother's judgment, it was a relief to see that what he'd lacked in taste when it'd come to his clothing or hairstyle, he'd more than made up for with his choice in comrades. "I promise you, monk, I am not here to fight. I am merely searching for my guide."
The Omnic nodded. "We are all guided by the Iris. Though I imagine your meaning to be a tad more literal." There was a lightness in tone that gave the impression of a wink. "May I ask for the name of this misplaced guide?"
"McCree." Hanzo grumbled. He'd fallen into step beside the Omnic, following him as he glided effortlessly through the maze of blank walls and dead ends. It didn't happen immediately, but eventually Hanzo recognized the path they were taking. He wondered idly if the Omnic were taking him to the control room so that they could call for McCree over the loudspeaker as though he were a lost child in a supermarket.
He stopped in his tracks. How long had it been since he'd thought about anything so mundane?
"What a pretty blue," came the awed whisper of a young girl. He looked up from where he was sitting, back pressed against a cement wall with recently carved gouges running through it, to see her pressing her nose against the space between the bars that separated her cell from his. Dirt and straw stuck out of her sandy blond curls, a remnant of a night spent with murderers and terrorists. "It reminds me of my nightlight at home. My mom got it for me because I'm afraid of the dark." She hesitated, gaze darting fretfully right and left, as though anticipating the arrival of the boogeyman. "Are you afraid of the dark, too, Mr. Omnic?" Her fellow prisoner did not bother to correct her. He waited for the red indicator light on the camera hanging from the corner of his cell to stutter and fail, as it sometimes did when he was tempted to do something stupid. Sure enough, the camera powered down.
He took the opportunity to shift closer to the girl, making certain to do so in such an exaggeratedly labored manner so that there was no mistaking his exact feelings regarding the necessity of the activity, in order to throw what little of the cerulean light his armor produced as far into her cell as he could.
She rewarded his efforts with a quiet gasp, before lighting up with a smile, revealing a top row filled with not-quite-grown adult teeth, all of which now shone with a bluish tint.
Zenyatta slowed so as not to leave him behind, remaining close while he struggled to tame the sudden onset of unwelcome thoughts and feelings throwing him off-balance.
Partly to distract himself and partly out of genuine curiosity, Hanzo asked, "I have heard that you believe all humans and Omnics are equal. That machines have a soul…"
Zenyatta dipped his head down, then tilted it to the side, turning his unwavering gaze upon him. "We are all one in the Iris."
A scoff scraped through Hanzo's ruined throat. The effect was a grating sound, like two gears grinding together. "And I suppose that line works on all the lost souls you meet?"
"Often not on the first try." The Omnic admitted with gentle laughter in his voice. "Some take more persuading than others. In fact, my student was a very stubborn case. He often attempted to ignore my teachings, intent on pushing me away, however…" Zenyatta paused, appearing thoughtful. "I could not bring myself to ignore such a wounded heart." And though he possessed no human eyes with which to see Hanzo felt suddenly as though the remnants of his soul, if such a thing he still possessed, were being laid bare before the monk. "You remind me very much of him."
It shouldn't have bothered him. It did. "It must be your imagination."
They stopped outside the control room, where upon Zenyatta wished him the best of luck in locating his errant guide. Stunned that the Omnic was actually going to leave him unsupervised, Hanzo asked if leaving him unattended was truly a wise decision.
The Omnic stared kindly down at him, a soft glow emanating from his form. "Yes, well, I suppose I will just have to trust you."
There was a beat. Hanzo couldn't move, couldn't even begin to imagine the first thing he'd do if he could. His thoughts had come to a crashing halt. He was… Why did none of them understand? He wasn't a kind man, or a good man. And after what they'd done to him, he couldn't even truly be called a-
"Oi, Hanzo!" With a soft utterance of surprise, Zenyatta lowered himself to the ground to watch as the cowboy barreled towards them, harried and moderately disheveled.
The archer silently watched the Omnic's initial struggle. It passed quickly, however, suggesting that, on some level, the monk had always known. "Hanzo?"
There was sympathy and horror, neither of which he was equipped to deal with. He'd much preferred it when the monk believed him a stranger.
McCree bent over at the hip when he finally caught up to them, and wiped his knuckles over his brow. "Whew. I thought Genji was gonna have to kill me for losing you. You can't run off like that, partner."
"I did not." Hanzo retorted shortly. Disgusted with the Omnic's pity and his own inability to refute it, he pushed past the cowboy to escape into the control room. Due to Morrison's orders, he hadn't had a moment alone to collect himself, and was beginning to feel the strain. "You left me behind."
Though McCree called after him, he did not follow. A small mercy.
Ah… Genji was going to hear about this.
"Morrison? Is that you?" It was Winston. He grunted, wary of the gorilla tapping rapidly at several keyboards on a rounded desk, each of which were connected to a separate monitor. The screens were illuminated with newspaper articles, video clips, and still frames. In one, the general theme centered around a missing group of missionaries in South Africa.
Hanzo remembered their faces. They were recent college graduates. They'd wanted to make their mark on the world, do some good. He'd watched them from afar, listened to their jokes and stories when they settled down at night around the campfire.
They hadn't felt any fear or pain. He'd made sure of that.
It was the screen across from the young, smiling missionaries that trapped him, refusing to loosen its hold. It depicted a married couple waving in front of the English and British flags, two London politicians running for Parliament. They'd been esteemed for their honesty, for a sincerity and a genuine desire to do good that permeated every speech and debate they conquered on their campaign. They'd told the crowds at every opportunity that they were going to clean up the streets, better the education systems, and lower the unemployment rate, and all so that the world would be a better place for their daughter, and if the polls had been anything to go by, the people had believed them.
They'd disappeared without a trace two months ago, taken while their daughter was sleeping over at the house of a family friend. Their little girl went missing on her way to school the very next day.
Winton started at the sight of him, moved to exit out of the files, then hesitated. He left them up. "Good evening, Agent Shimada," he greeted cordially, adjusting his glasses so the frames pressed more snugly against the contours of his face. It was a nervous gesture Hanzo had seen commonly enough during his initial stay with Overwatch.
Choosing to remain silent, Hanzo acknowledged the greeting with a nod, then stepped closer to the monitors, taking in each of the faces and names, but always coming back to the London couple.
"It's actually something of a relief that you're here." Too stilted to be sincere. That doesn't mean he's lying, though. "Morrison wanted to hear your report today, but I… offered to take it, instead. I believed you might be more comfortable speaking someone a little less," he paused, struggling for the appropriate adjective, "intense."
He pressed a key, filling every screen with the smiling English couple. "Let's start with where the rumors of Ghost first began to circulate. What were you doing during the time that Mark, Carolyn, and Emily Golding went missing?"
Hanzo clenched his fists at his sides. There was nothing left, however. The musculature had been chipped away during the experimentation, replaced by unfeeling prosthetics. He might as well have done nothing.
For once, he was grateful for the vocal synthesizer hanging off his throat. "I was a child's nightlight."
Winston fixed him with a disapproving frown. "This is not a laughing matter, Hanzo.
He stiffened, some of his old spark rising at the rebuke. "It would be wise not to assume that my time in captivity has transformed me into some manner of comedian. You asked me a question and I have answered."
"What happened to the children, Hanzo?" Winston insisted. "Most of these men and women were killed as they lay in their beds, after which their bodies were taken to a different location, but those with children were generally disposed of while the children were at school or otherwise outside of the house, correct? Almost as though someone where trying to spare them." He paused to allow Hanzo to elaborate, but it was not because he'd been waiting for an opportunity to speak that Hanzo had listened without comment. "And yet... they disappeared not soon after." Winston frowned, and the screens behind him flickered, changing into snapshots of birthdays, sports competitions, and pre-school graduations. "Where are they, Hanzo? What happened to them?"
Though the questions were firm, the expression Winston wore was not unkind, and Hanzo struggled to recall how to string a coherent sentence together. Where did he start? What did he say? He swallowed hard against what felt like a brick in his throat, tasting iron. "Without this armor," To utter this truth was never easy, but it was still leagues above having it thrown in his face, "I am little better than a corpse. The Caduceus experiment was a failure." Only four more words to go, then he'd be done. Then he could finally rest. Shoving away his exhaustion for the mean time, he steadfastly met Winston's gaze, "I… was a failure."
The scientist was remarkably quick on the uptake. "What you're saying is that there were other attempts."
"I can't see your light, Mr. Omnic," he heard her whisper, soft and papery, through the bars. It must have been after her fifth or sixth round of injections. He wasn't sure, anymore. After he'd started attacking the Talon agents sent to take her, they'd begun deactivating his respiratory filters before filling his cell with a powerful sedative in the form of an inescapable gaseous cloud. She was already back in the cell, lying on the ground, too thin and shivering, when the effects wore off. Not bothering to check to see if the camera was active, though it almost certainly wasn't – it was off more often than not these days - he checked her over for signs of decay. There didn't seem to be any. His resulting relieved sigh was gusty and dry, the rustle of dead leave shifting in an autumn breeze.
After flinching minutely at the sound, she turned to face the ceiling with a low groan, throwing a hand over her eyes. "It's too bright in here."
For the rest of the night, fever burned her mind. She cried out for her mother, her father. She whimpered with the soft cries of a wounded bird, flinging out thin arms with skin that occasionally gained a translucent sheen, and the cyborg listened with growing horror, knowing they weren't coming. Knowing why.
"Winston," the scientist watched in shock as the archer bowed his head, "don't… please do not ask this of me."
It was its own answer, in a way. For a time, they regarded each other in heavy silence, until Winston slowly reached over the nearest of the bright monitors, and switched it off. The rest followed suit without his assistance.
"Okay, Agent Shimada. Okay."
Standing outside his cell, Reaper drilled the dark, slanted eyes of his mask into the cyborg, studying him like an insect with its arms and legs pinned under a sheet of glass, "You're telling me you want us to let her go?"
Why keep her? What was the point of it? They had him, didn't they? He'd do whatever they asked; he wouldn't run, so why keep the girl?
He gripped the bars, feeling nothing from the contact. While resting his ornate headplate against the metal, the cyborg nodded, entirely apathetic to the grating scrape the motion produced.
Reaper scoffed. "Then you really are a failure."
McCree was waiting beside the door when Hanzo stepped out after finally being freed from the improvised interrogation. He turned to face the cowboy, shocked that he'd stayed. McCree lifted the brim of his hat so he could get a better look at him, "How'd it go, partner?" Hanzo did not see it fit to deem the question worthy of an answer, and so turned on his heel, forcing the cowboy to lengthen his strides and quicken his pace if he were to entertain any hope of catching up. "That good, huh?"
The girl, Emily, scrunched her nose. "Your hands are cold."
The cyborg responded by writing in the dirt, 'I know. I'm sorry.'
Once she finished tracing them, she frowned at the words. "Stop that," she said seriously. "Stop being sad."
Genji couldn't sleep.
A full and busy mind prevented him from accessing the prolonged trance that for so long constituted rest for him, and so he padded into the kitchen, careful not to wake anyone else with his late night rummaging through the pantry.
There were too many circuits and wires within his synthetic body to allow for the consumption of liquids, but it was not the taste he was after this night, but rather the warmth and the smell. Standing alone in the kitchen with the kettle heating up, a mug, and a packet of cocoa, Genji prepared a cup of hot chocolate. Its sweet scent saturated the air in seconds, and he breathed it in, imagining the taste so vividly it was almost taste it.
"Would you mind if I joined you?" At the unexpected address, Genji started, accidentally sloshing the beverage onto the counter. He lowered his mug, looking down at the spilt liquid with the air of someone having borne witness to a terrible tragedy. He turned to see his brother standing by the refrigerator, head tilted quizzically to the side. "Forgive me. I did not intend to startle you."
Though the old urge to shrug it off with a breezy denial stirred, Genji tamped it down. There would be opportunity in the future to indulge in petty squabbles over pride. "Trouble sleeping, brother?"
Hanzo settled down on a stool, propping his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his palm. On the whole, he appeared distracted. "I could ask you the same."
With a quiet hum, Genji poured another cup of hot chocolate. The steam soaked through the exterior layer of his augmented ligaments, resulting in a pleasant warmth traveling up to his wrists.
He hesitated only a second before sliding it over, internally floundering over how to broach of subject of whether or not his systems could tolerate the introduction of liquids. Hanzo halted the mug's momentum with a metal palm when it reached the edge, and clutched it tightly between his hands.
Watching him closely, Genji sat down to do the same.
There was no indication that Hanzo was ever planning on removing his veil. Instead, he hunched over the wisps of steam, allowing the heated air to condense on his forehead protector until water droplets slid down the curled horns protruding from it, collecting within the curves and grooves of the dragon's defined brow before they overflowed and dripped onto the table.
Genji interpreted this as confirmation that his brother's body was ill equipped to process foreign liquids, and likely possessed an internal hydration and cooling system. In that way, it was not dissimilar to his own.
"You are staring, Genji." Abashed at having been caught in the act, he quickly ducked his head, filling his vision with the frothy chocolate bubbling at the rim of his mug.
They dwelled within uncomfortable silence until their drinks cooled to room temperature, and Genji, realizing that this short spell, this pocket of time where it was just the two of them, with no masks to hide behind, was coming to an end, asked a question that he feared he would not get the opportunity to ask again. "Hanzo?" His brother grunted to show that he was listening. "Is it your wish that you remain an active member of Overwatch?" Hanzo lifted his head sharply, meeting his gaze. Genji waited for him to speak, only to add when no answer proved forthcoming, "If you feel that you need more time, I can talk to Morrison. He is stern, but not unreasonable."
Just when he began to believe that he'd inadvertently upset his brother, something which he imagined would be very easy to do over the coming weeks, Hanzo set aside his mug, and rose to his feet. "Come outside with me. There is something I must show you."
It did not take as much convincing as it should have for Genji to follow Hanzo to the cliffside.
The waves could be heard crashing against the shore, slamming against clusters of large and jagged rocks a hundred feet below them. It would be only too easy for Hanzo to kill him, to toss his body to the rocks and finally finish what he had started all those years ago, but though there was a limit to the amount of trust one could place in another before it became foolishness, and though Morrison would certainly tell him that following a former prisoner of Talon out alone into the night was the very definition of stupidity, Genji could not find it within himself to refuse his brother this, not when he was forced to ask with a voice and body that were not his own.
A seed of unease took root within him, however, when he noticed the spectral energy beginning to seep out of the markings spiraled around Hanzo's sleeve. It started out as a wisp when he began to pace back and forth in blatant agitation over the same patch of dirt, a vapor with little more substance than the steam they'd warmed their hands and faces with in the kitchen. Then it gained form, becoming scaled, serpent-like, and twisting.
It swelled and ebbed in waves, rising and falling. Building. "Genji?"
Straightening, he responded automatically, "Yes?"
Hanzo jerked his head towards the trees, saying simply, "Stay out of sight."
Taking a reluctant step back, Genji nodded, opting to trust Hanzo's judgment in this instance, then leapt to conceal his persistent green glow within the cover of the trees.
From his perch on the thick branch of a sycamore, Genji could hear the mechanical drone of Hanzo's voice as he quickly muttered the dragon's summons.
A guttural growl reverberating in his chest, Hanzo barely managed to extend his arm before the dragons burst forth with a ferocious pressure that parted the grass like a massive blade cutting through the sea, stripped leaves from the surrounding trees and beat against the cyborg concealed within their branches. With one arm raised to defend against the gale that threatened to throw him from the bough he'd chosen, Genji dug his remaining fingers and heels into the branch, determined to keep himself from careening off the cliff for an impromptu dip in the ocean that he likely would not survive.
What was this energy?
Though untamed, the guardian spirits had always maintained a degree of focus in their destruction, but this was chaos.
In contrast to the noble fluidity usually demonstrated by the revered beasts, they proved incapable of maintaining their flight, shuddered, and plowed headfirst into the ground, their snapping maws and corded whiskers burying into the sand the dirt while their tails writhed and roiled, their dazed eyes rolling wildly with the unbridled fear and panic of a wounded animal.
The tufts of fur about their muzzles was tangled and matted. A vibrant scarlet leaked from their gums where fangs had rent the spirit's flesh, and their scales, once glittering with health and vitality, now peeled and flaked in diseased patches.
From his vantage point, Genji could see the smoke curling from the arm Hanzo had used for the conduit. He was supporting it now, struggling to remain standing after the immense burden summoning the spirits had placed on the cybernetic components of his body.
How reckless.
This was why reinforced weapons were the traditional channels through which the spirits were summoned. The strain they placed on the body was too great.
An agonized bellow cut through his thoughts. There was a hollow ache within him that he recognized as sympathy for the tortured beasts.
They were a direct reflection of the state of Hanzo's own spirit. While not broken, he had undeniably been bent, warped into a different form, and the consequences of such distortions were yet unforeseen. As strange as it was not to see his brother's face or hear from him the rich baritone he'd come to associate with the archer, as terrifyingly helpless he had felt listening to Hanzo repeatedly suffocate and revive, it was not the changes done to his body that worried Genji most.
Scars of the body would be overcome in time. Scars of the soul and mind, however, were often unpredictable, and they rarely healed smoothly.
There were even times when they never healed, when they reopened and wept, until the wound became a constant, festering reminder that held you prisoner in its pain.
Hanzo was strong, a born warrior of the highest caliber. But the scars from their past confrontation had only just begun to fade when these new wounds had been carved into his heart.
Deciding he'd observed long enough to know that he was needed on the ground, Genji leapt from the tree, landing in a crouch with his fist braced against the upturned grass and dirt. He raised his head sharply, needing answers, and if he were being completely honest, a target. "How did this happen?"
One of the dragons unleashed an anguished bellow, a pitiful sound like nothing Genji had ever heard from them before. "Despite what you may think, I did not gain a reputation as the assassin of a terrorist organization by defying them at every turn."
"But that is not the whole truth, is it, brother?" It as he'd feared. Any progress Hanzo had made towards forgiving himself for his mistakes and finding value in his continued existence had been demolished with the blunt force of a sledgehammer.
Predictably, Hanzo sighed, but he wouldn't have brought Genji outside, wouldn't have shown him the ruinous state of his dragons, if he hadn't intended to at least elaborate on the cause.
She dug her torn and ragged nails into the earth, putting up an admirable fight, but these were grown men with their bruising grips around her legs, wrenching her from the bars with no concern for the damage the violence was doing to her paper-thin skin. When she finally let go, it was with a terrible cry of pain, and the cyborg in the cell next to hers struggled, trapped as he was where four other tall, strong agents had pinned him against the iron bars. He snarled wordlessly, bucking and twisting in their grips, doing anything to get free because the girl – Emily – would not live through another round of the injections and cellular manipulation that the scientists were subjecting her to.
He was a failure. He could not sustain his life outside of the suit they had forced upon him, and his regeneration were nowhere near as reliable as the former Blackwatch commander's, but the girl was dying. She whimpered in her sleep for parents she would never see again, she shivered in the cold and dark, but despite the hopelessness of their situation, despite the fact that he had no right to even look upon her face, let alone see her smile, she'd regaled him with tales of her favorite stuffed animal, a fox named Reinard, a gift from her mother from when Emily had fallen sick with the flu. Her favorite color was blue, but not like the ocean or the sky, but rather like the stars, a flickering, pulsing, living, friendly blue.
She wanted to be an astronaut someday. She wanted to see the stars for herself.
One of the cowards grabbed a fistful of matted blond hair, whipped her head off the ground with an audible crack, then slammed it back down, smashing her nose, mouth, and eyes into the mud.
The cyborg's azure visor flashed. The ground shook, and dragons, forced to materialize in this realm by the hatred and impotent fury of their host, attacked blindly, ripping with terrifying ease through anything that moved.
When it was over, and all of the operatives lay in unrecognizable pieces, scattered throughout what remained of their prison, he awkwardly maneuvered himself over short iron cylinders, all that remained of the bars that had separated them these past weeks, then crawled to the child, dragging himself through the dirt with the single arm the dragons had left him. Behind him, a scarlet trail marked where he pulled useless half-legs through the dirt. The cybernetic enhancements, the bones, the deteriorating flesh – all of it had vanished in a rush of gleaming fangs and scales.
He should have restrained the dragons, but instead he'd given in to his anger, and now the one person he'd wanted to protect, the child that was as much a shackle as a blessing, was dead.
It wasn't their fault. He knew this. But in that moment where he found himself unable to stand, unable to even properly hold her… For the very first time since he came into the world, he hated his dragons.
Gathering her close as he best he could, he pressed a cool palm against her limp and straggly curls, only to find that even the luxury of tears was denied to him.
He sat there among the carnage, shaking in the dark with the rapidly cooling body of an innocent, of a girl who'd smiled like she was on a mission to save the world, until Reaper found him, and he was taken away to be prepped for repair.
The explanation Hanzo offered was succinct, but it was enough to form a vivid picture in Genji's mind of what horrors he and the other prisoners must have endured. He thought back to how disorienting and frightening it'd been to wake up in a cybernetic body, and that was with Mercy there to help him through it.
Hanzo had not woken up this way. It had been gradual and unnecessary, done in the interest of erasing the man and creating a weapon.
They'd forced him to wield a blade, to steal the lives of civilians and officials working to promote peace and goodwill, and then when he'd tried to spare one life, they stole her from the light where she belonged, so that he could witness the consequences of attempting to cling to his humanity.
His master would tell him not to harbor to a grudge, lest it grow within him like a weed and consume him, but he had now lost his brother twice and refused to do so again. "If I had found you sooner-"
Hanzo cut him off with what Genji sensed to be a sharp look, a rare spark of anger that Genji couldn't help but find reassuring. "Do not dwell on what might have been. Therein lies madness." Genji frowned, tempted to ask if he was speaking from experience. "I never blamed you. I had no reason to. You must," there was a ferocious roar from the celestial beasts, and he swayed, threatening to fall. Jolting forward, Genji extended his arms to catch him, only to withdraw when he managed to stumble and catch himself, "…know that."
It was taking too long to dispel the dragons. Sustaining their continued presence was draining him at an immense rate. "Send them back, Hanzo." The only response he received was a sluggish and dazed nod, as thought the archer weren't truly listening at all, but was instead absorbed in the suffering of his celestial beasts.
Moving with lightning spend to grip him by the shoulders and wrench him around until he had no choice but to look at him, Genji snapped, "Hanzo!"
He roused as though shaken from a dream. "They can no longer hear me."
And hearing that, Genji saw past the armor, the alterations, the enhancements, saw past even the walls raised to convince the world that his heart was made of stone, and found a man, hidden deep within, who was so lost he'd long given up on the hope of ever being found.
Well, if that was the case…
Releasing his brother, who drooped noticeably once deprived of the additional support his grip had provided, Genji gripped the hilt of his blade.
It might work. It could work.
He had to try.
Genji unsheathed his katana, calm coming to him easily now with the familiar movement and the nearly inaudible scrape of his blade's curved edge.
It started out small, a wisp that could have been chalked up to the starlight glinting verdant off the blade's reflective surface, but then it solidified, growing thick, growing scales, a long snout, and jagged spikes that framed the dragon's jaw and protruded from the top of its heavy brow, continuing down its spine before ending in the form of the small mounds at the tip of its tail.
Jade, pupiless eyes narrowed at the sight of the roiling azure dragons and their weakening host. A disgusted snarl ripped through the night, and it launched forward, springing from Genji's blade to take flight, until it reached the pair, and began to carefully circle around the feral beasts.
They shrunk into themselves, snapping at the wall of green scales keeping them corralled, and Genji's dragon roared.
Eventually, when it became clear that the green dragon had no intention of harming them, the dragon's wary gazes shifted to a curiosity that carried with it traces of their former awareness. After a few additional revolutions, the green dragon slowed and broke the circle, allowing Hanzo's dragons to join in its flight.
At first, they were unsteady, but the green dragon was patient, alternating between growls and exasperated huffs as it waited for them to rediscover their balance, and though the azure spirits sometimes snarled their irritation at the prodding, they listened, and soon enough, to the amazement of both the Shimada brothers, their great serpent bodies lifted off the ground.
The green dragon soared in triumph, a neon streak shooting towards the sky, and its siblings followed, twisting and arcing as they followed its path across the stars.
Gradually, they began to fade, becoming more and more transparent until the only remaining evidence of their passage was the curling traces of their mixing auras… and the utter destruction the rampage of the blue dragons had rent upon the cliffside.
Helping his brother to his feet, Genji allowed himself a soft sigh. Morrison was not going to be the least bit happy about this.
It seemed Hanzo was thinking along the same lines. "The Commander was already less than enthused about my stay here. Do you suppose he will request that I leave?"
He shifted to take on the burden of the majority of his weight when Genji took a step forward, ignoring what was sure to be an unimpressed glare aimed in his direction. "If he does," Genji began, "his organization will lose the greatest ninja of this generation." He allowed time for Hanzo to digest his words, before adding lightly, "And also his older brother."
Hanzo huffed. "Remind me to hit you once when my strength returns."
Laughing off the half-hearted retort with practiced ease, the cyborg shifted his hold on his brother to free up an arm so that he could input the main entrance's passcode, then helped him over the threshold when the debatably infiltration proof door slid open to reveal Mercy and Morrison standing in the corridor, brows furrowed and arms crossed over their chests, feet tapping out a steady rhythm on the linoleum floor.
Genji gulped, noting a sensation of rising dread that felt disturbingly similar to what he recalled experiencing in his adolescence, on those rare occasions when he'd been caught sneaking out to rendezvous with his friends in the village.
Morrison started to speak, only to stop when Mercy abruptly cut him off with, "What were you two thinking? What could have possessed you to think summoning dragons in the middle of the night was a good idea?!" To be fair, it had been Hanzo's idea. Genji was pretty sure he didn't deserve this, but Dr. Ziegler was less than impressed by his attempts to defend himself. "I don't care whose idea it was. Your brother's still recovering, and Genji," – Oh no. – "I expected better from you." And there it was.
"My apologies, Dr. Ziegler," Hanzo said. "It was indeed my idea to step outside to test the state of my guardian spirits." Genji nodded a little too eagerly, accidentally jostling Hanzo, who nearly slipped from his shoulder before Genji had the chance to hastily adjust his grip.
Dr. Ziegler placed her hands on her hips, looking sternly at the two of them, then suddenly sagged, all the ire rushing out of her in a breathy exhale. "It is late. Why don't you drop your brother off in the infirmary then head off to your quarters? We will discuss this in the morning."
Massaging his brow and suddenly looking very much as if, given the option to relive the past few minutes, he'd have pulled the sheets over his head and rolled over, Morrison muttered, "It's best to do what she says."
"Are you… sending me to my room?" Maybe it was the disbelief in his tone that did it, but Dr. Ziegler's lips thinned, her blue eyes narrowing to dangerous slits, and Genji recognizing the telltale signs of an oncoming storm, hastily raised the palm not wrapped around his brother's torso in a placating manner, "Right, okay, I'm going."
While they hobbled awkwardly through the hallways, making slow progress due to one bearing more weight than the other, despite the archer's best efforts to support himself, Dr. Ziegler maintained a pace that was always several steps ahead of them. Never leaving them behind, but also making it clear how upset the sight of her recently released patient back in such a weakened state both angered and worried her.
Noticing the chastened manner in which Hanzo observed the stiffness of her back and shoulders, Genji offered, drawing on his years of experience with busting up his cybernetic suit or draining his power core and the scoldings that subsequently ensued, "Do not fret, anija. Her ire will fade in time... Most things do."
He felt Hanzo stiffen. "As the doctor said, it is late." He hadn't expected a reply, only hoped that he would interpret the deeper meaning to his words, and now he wondered if it wouldn't have been better to have simply let the subject drop. "However, I am… grateful to you." It sounded like he was struggling, but Genji barely noticed. He hadn't expected this, to be thanked even though it had taken him so many months to find him, and now that it was happening, he found himself drawing a blank on how to react. "For searching for me, for returning me to this place. And for helping my dragons. I did not think I would again see them soar as they did tonight."
Finding his voice after a long moment of stunned silence, Genji hummed, tightening his grip around Hanzo's torso by the slightest degree. "Given time, their wounds will fade, as well." As will yours, brother.
He raised his head stiffly, focusing in his mind's eye on the distant back of a former friend and present adversary to whom he owed a debt.
As will mine.