Chapter Summary: After an argument with his brother goes a step too far, Hanzo leaves Watchpoint for a breather, but life's never been kind to him before and it's not about to start now.
A/N: Just a quick warning, there is a poisoning in this one, so if a mention of vomiting skeeves you out, you might want to hold off on this chapter.
Akumu
Genji knew well how to read the signs of a man who fought with a yearning for death in his heart. Once, that man had been him. He'd acted recklessly, with little concern for the state of his cybernetic body or the sleepless nights he'd forced upon Dr. Ziegler so that he could be repaired.
Though he had always known reuniting with his brother would bring back uncomfortable memories of the past, he had not realized the extent to which Hanzo would remind him of his previous self.
Perhaps that was why it was so difficult to maintain his composure when Hanzo required treatment after a relatively simple reconnaissance mission for a bullet he should have been able to avoid. Once Dr. Ziegler finished bandaging the wound and bade him goodnight, Hanzo stepped out into the corridor where Genji had waited to confront him, his body emitting a soft, disarming green from where it leaned against a wall not five paces away. They left together, with Genji leading him into the meeting room, as it was abandoned for the night, so they would not be disturbed, and the result was a rehash of an argument they'd had many times over the first few weeks of Hanzo's initiation into Overwatch.
"I want you in my life, Hanzo." There was traces of anger simmering beneath the deceptive levelness of his tone, and the knowledge that that's all his brother would hear, not his words nor their meaning, only served to exacerbate his mounting frustration. "And if you could just see past your own ego for two seconds, you would know that!"
Genji plopped down into one of the cushioned, rolling black seats at the long table, pushed aside a pile of maps, then propped his elbows on the table so that he wouldn't bow his head in exhaustion.
As he'd feared, Hanzo's expression closed off like a flip had been switched. Inwardly, Genji mused that though only his features were concealed, his was not the sole mask in the room. "What did you hope to accomplish by inviting me here?"
Always so cold. Despite his best efforts to reconcile with his brother, nothing had changed. Finding himself unable to meet his brother's unfeeling stare, Genji averted his gaze, cursing himself for his weakness as he did so. "I am no longer sure."
It was exactly what he'd meant to say. It wasn't a slip of the tongue or an impulsive outburst, which made it all the worse when a crack in his brother's mask of calm revealed a flash of pain.
Without a word, Hanzo turned on his heel and stormed out, moving quickly in case Genji attempted to follow, but despite his repeated checks over his shoulder, there was no sign that the cyborg had any intentions of coming after him.
It wasn't until the exit was in his sights that he received any kind of resistance to his departure, as he found the former Shambali monk his brother seemed so fond of hovering in front of the door and keypad, making it impossible for Hanzo to leave the base by normal means unless he actually took the time to speak to the Omnic. It was a confrontation Hanzo had been avoiding since his move to Watchpoint for both their sakes. And for Genji's, as well. For it was obvious that his brother cared for the monk, and past experiences had proven that there was little Genji cared for that Hanzo could not destroy.
Still, the Shambali was owed a certain measure of respect for his wisdom and for what he'd done for Genji, so the archer swallowed his anger, feeling the burn like a shot of arsenic, and said, "I am leaving, monk. You should not stand," or float or hover or whatever it was that this Omnic did when his feet ceased to touch the ground, "in my way."
Instead of doing what he'd asked, however, Zenyatta zeroed in on Hanzo's chosen form of address, sounding pleased. "You called me monk."
After pausing to think over their past interactions, which had been short and simmering with one-sided hostility, Hanzo realized that this was the very first time he'd addressed Zenyatta with any of the deference that a man of learning was due, regardless of his make or origins.
With a sardonic twist to his lips, Hanzo bitterly reflected that his childhood tutors would have been so disappointed with the poor manners he'd adopted in his later years.
Taking quiet stock of the brass orbs circling languidly around the monk's head, Hanzo firmly repeated his request, "Let me pass." Despite there being no other souls around, with most of the agents having returned to their quarters or the living areas after the late meeting, Hanzo inexplicably heard his voice soften. "Your student no longer desires my presence here." As it turned out, saying it aloud did nothing to stop the churning, burning regret raging in his chest. It was why he needed to leave, to breath fresh air, to cool his temper, not stand in this sterile hallway exchanging niceties with an omnic.
"My student is confused," the monk replied, patient and infinitely tranquil in the manner that Hanzo found grating. "As you are." Already thrown off by the scratched and expressionless faceplate, Hanzo couldn't bring himself to believe the traces of sincerity and sympathy in the monk's gentle tones, as the majority of the methods through which he would check for authenticity were rendered ineffective. But just as he moved to sidestep the omnic, having grown tired of this farce, Zenyatta mused, "I see much of him in you."
It stopped Hanzo in his tracks. Slowly, he lifted his head to meet the pair of angled indentations that passed for his eyes. "Is that why you are always so kind to me?" This was a suspicion that had soured Hanzo's thoughts since the monk had first approached him. "Because I remind you of him?" He was so tired of guessing motives, so tired of watching his back and looking over his shoulder. If this was what it felt like to be among allies, then he was better off alone, and Genji was better off with him gone.
What they'd once had was now too twisted, too broken to ever be repaired, and the jagged shards that remained stuck from their skin like blades that could only ever be used to slash and wound.
As if sensing the dark and spiraling path his thoughts had traveled down, Zenyatta placed a hand on Hanzo's shoulder, aware that he might resent the contact but also willing to chance it if it meant providing the man with an anchor, something to ground him to the present. Ignoring the questioning glance the archer shot him, Zenyatta said, "I am kind to you because I believe that there is more to Hanzo Shimada than his mistakes," he felt the archer tense beneath his fingertips, a thousand conflicting emotions flitting over his features, but continued, "and because someone I care about deeply asked that I provide you with the same guidance and understanding that I once provided another when they too had lost their way."
After burying a spike of irritation at the implied comparison, Hanzo stepped out of the omnic's reach with a heavy sigh, averting his gaze from the nearly palpable concern emanating from the monk, who he was beginning to learn was much more expressive than his appearance and generally even tone had suggested.
"I did not pack my things."
It didn't mean much. Assassins often trained themselves to leave on a moment's notice, but Hanzo had grown accustomed to sleeping in a bed, to having a space he could call his own. He wasn't going to give it all up to flee from Watchpoint in the dead of night like some common thief.
And for the first time, it became clear that Zenyatta had not been as relaxed as he'd appeared, as his shoulders drooped subtly at the deceptively neutral statement. It was oddly comforting to know that even the wise monk was capable of being caught off guard. To Hanzo's surprise, though, the omnic drifted several feet to the side, allowing him access to the keypad.
Zenyatta watched, hovering yet unobtrusive, as Hanzo typed in the 6-digit password. "I trust that we will continue this conversation upon your return?"
It was spoken innocently enough, but Hanzo glanced down to see the omnic's slender fingers twitching slightly in his lap, as though he were suppressing the urge to fidget, and Hanzo realized with no small degree of satisfaction that the unflappable sage was nervous. There was no way to be sure if letting him go was the right thing to do, and he couldn't be certain that the archer wouldn't take this opportunity to run.
It wasn't that the monk had no tells at all, or that his peaceful serenity precluded the existence of doubt, just that one needed to know where to look.
He felt the strangest urge to reassure him, but then the keypad blinked green and the steel door slide open, and with the limitless space and fresh air fully within reach, Hanzo found that he couldn't delay another second, and so it was with a grateful nod that he disappeared into the night, knowing full well that his problems would be waiting for him when he returned.
There was a small town close to the sea with a dozen little shops and a café that provided complimentary sunflower seeds with every ordered beverage or snack. Hanzo watched from his perch on a large redwood as an elderly woman with snow-white hair and a distinctive tattoo around her only exposed eye stepped inside, spoke politely to the cashier, then sat down at a table in the back corner. But was it a strategic move to diminish the risk of being sniped from the window or a personal preference?
People watching was something Hanzo had grown accustomed over the years, inventing fanciful tales about the lives of those whose paths would never intersect with his. And yet, this woman had a story to tell that needed no embellishment. It was the reason she had captured his attention. There was something of her demeanor that spoke of frailty, and yet, when scrutinized, it became apparent that the frailty was a façade, a mask to hide the steady gait, straight posture, and keen gaze of a soldier.
The powder blue hijab wrapped around her head and shoulders suggested that she was of Arabic descent, while the healthy tan she bore spoke of long days spent under a cloudless sky.
She pulled out a book shortly before the young lady from behind the counter offered her a glass of water to tide her over while she waited for her order. It was a family-run café, which meant there weren't any servers, only a few kids doing multiple jobs to take care of every occasional trickle of customers. This meant also, of course, that despite her deliberate positioning, the older woman was more exposed to sniper fire than she would have liked.
Or maybe not.
If she were in a crowded restaurant, other bodies would have made it difficult to get a clean shot on her, but what if the sniper in question wasn't interested in minimizing causalities?
And it was for that reason that the Egyptian woman with the white braid wasn't the only sniper Hanzo was following that day. He'd heard tales of the ballerina who'd married the Overwatch agent, Gerard Lacroix, only to murder him in his bed shortly after her rescue from Talon. Some said that she was a traitor, that Talon had somehow turned her to their cause during her captivity, but what benefits could they offer to tempt a former dancer to assassination?
In the high boughs of the redwood, he caught a glimpse of a slender, armored leg, of lavender skin that was no doubt cold to the touch due to a heart that beat at a pace so sluggish it was a miracle she could speak and breath and move, let alone bound from branch to branch to position herself effortlessly and seamlessly in the forest's canopy. Hanzo could not imagine anyone consenting to the process that no doubt turned her into the weapon readying her rifle not two trees across from him.
He did not know who the old woman was, but if Talon was after her, then perhaps it was worth lingering to keep her alive.
The Widow didn't appear to be aware of his presence as of yet, though it was only a matter of time. Though his upbringing had granted him with a certain lightness of foot, the creak of a single branch would be enough to alert her, as was the way with snipers who worked alone.
After readying his own bow, slowly so as not to rustle any of the foliage around him, Hanzo watched as she positioned herself solidly on the bough to compensate for the rifle's kickback, then raised the scope to an Infrared sensor on her headpiece so that she could line up the perfect shot, and waited.
Listening.
If he was going to save the old woman's life, then he would have to time this right.
Below the din of the cicada shrieking in the treetops and the murmur of a dozen conversations drifting up from the streets, was a steady, measured breathing. He recognized the rhythm, matched it, until he could feel the pounding of his own heart begin to slow, could almost touch the steel trigger beneath his fingertip. Synchronized as they were, Hanzo knew an instant before she did when she would squeeze it, and loosened his grip on the shaft of his arrow, allowing it to soar in an explosion of kinetic energy that placed its head directly in the bullet's path.
It was impossible to shoot the bullet out of the sky and so he didn't try, but deflecting it? Changing its course ever so slightly, just enough so that instead of ricocheting through the old woman's brain cavity, it merely nicked her hood on its journey to plunge into the wall behind her?
Apparently not.
In spite the sudden chorus of startled and frightened screams within the cafe, none of which belonged to the old woman ducking beneath the table for cover, the familiar swell of smugness at the completion of a nigh impossible feat swelled within the archer who, if nothing else, had always held his abilities in high esteem.
It was short-lived, however, as the arrow had given away his position to someone who regarded their skills with a pride that rivaled his own, and he had just made her miss.
The ferocity of the glare burning down on him hit his skin like acid and, in an instant of adrenaline-fueled whimsy, he vividly recalled how the arachnid known as the Black Widow got its name.
She fired a single bullet through the leaves with deadly accuracy, and death missed him by inches as he pivoted on the branch to avoid it, his clawed prosthetics grinding themselves into the bark and wood beneath it.
"Why are you here, Widow?" He called up to her, hoping to buy himself some time before she utilized the automatic spray from her rifle's close range mode that would be almost impossible to avoid with such little maneuverability. Real life wasn't like the television shows he and his brother had grown up with. There were no conveniently placed boughs to catch him should he fall, nor any guarantee that those within his reach would support his weight should he choose to risk leaping beyond her range.
A harsh, discordant grating of metal accompanied her rifle's transformation as its barrel sprang upon like a fanged maw. Looking down at the archer like he was the fly that had dared antagonize the spider in its web, the Widow indulged him long enough to reply icily, "To finish what I started."
"I have read your file, Amelie Lacroix." The barrel was pointed at his chest. He could try to run, to leap out of the way, but there were branches blocking his escape. Though he wouldn't have paid them a second thought in any other situation, the truth was he couldn't avoid even the minimal delay they would cause him. Still groping for a solution, he heard himself say, "You were kind, once."
The rifle lowered an infinitesimal amount so that he could clearly see the frown sitting plainly on her face. "And I have read your file, as well." She lifted it once more, and Hanzo imagined what it would feel like to have his insides pumped full of cold lead. "You were never kind."
Bullets erupted for the barrel in a dense cloud that chipped away at the branches and ripped the leaves of the redwood to pieces, decimating the location where the archer had been standing, a breath after he'd let himself fall, allowing his prosthetics to absorb the worst of the impact when his feet collided with the ground, though his knees screamed at the sudden jarring pressure.
There came a soft whirring and cranking behind him, a sound that set off blaring alarms in his mind, and he spun to see a venom mine attached to the trunk. The lavender liquid in the vial that served as its head bubbled and sloshed as the container rotated, then exploded in a burst of green gas that quickly enveloped Hanzo, and though he clapped a hand over his mouth and nose to minimize the damage, it was too late to stop the exposure completely and he knew it. As Captain Pharah's two-day sabbatical in Dr. Ziegler's clinic could attest, the poison was engineered to seep into the bloodstream through open pores and wounds.
Though disoriented by the fall, the rough landing, so many scratches and shallow lacerations that he couldn't even begin to deduce their cause and severity, Hanzo stumbled out of the miasma, blinking black spots out of his vision. It soon became clear that he was in no condition to run, as it felt as though the muscles in his limbs were melting, and he was melting, and soon there would be nothing left…
But even so, he refused to die with his back turned on his enemy like a frightened lamb. He was a dragon. It was how he'd been born into this world and it was how he was going to leave it.
Though the movement was sluggish and unsteady, he managed to force himself to look up into the canopy where the bullet that would bring his death awaited him, and bared his teeth at its bearer, fully intending to snarl his defiance until the last, but fate had other plans in mind, as shortly after the Widow lined up her shot, her eight lenses glinting scarlet with reflected sunlight, there came discharge from an entirely different sniper rifle, forcing Widow to temporarily overlook her prey in favor of going on the defensive.
Following the foreign projectile's trajectory, Hanzo caught sight of the old woman he'd been observing. After the screams and the commotion caused by the Widow's attempted assassination, he thought she might have evacuated or else gotten lost in the crowd, but it seemed he needn't have worried. She was set up on the café's rooftop with her long-range weapon held steady by a platform, its scope pressed against her sole good eye. Get moving, archer, crackled his comm on a channel only Overwatch personnel were meant to have access to. I have you covered.
He blinked dully, then lurched unsteadily in the general direction of Watchpoint, nearly falling flat on his face with every step that he took. Silently, he thanked whoever was listening that the majority of the citizens had fled, as it meant there were few eyes watching him during this moment of shameful weakness.
A graze on his shoulder was weeping freely, the ground was shifting beneath his feet, but worst of all was the nameless, faceless fear growing within him, causing his heart to pound rapidly and relentlessly as it seized his lungs, thickened his blood, and scrambled his thoughts.
He wasn't sure when exactly the sounds of gunfire behind him faded into the background, or when the rows of off-white European-style architecture became short stretches of forest, or when the forest became rock and a steep climb. He didn't even know when he'd transitioned from shambling alone to leaning heavily on the elderly sniper supporting the majority of his weight, but now that she was up close, he could see that she was not quite as old as she'd appeared from afar. He yearned to ask her why her steps towards the Overwatch base seemed so strong and sure, why Widowmaker considered her enough of a threat to warrant an assassination with such a personal touch, but his jaw had locked and his tongue felt thick and cottony in his mouth.
"I suppose I owe you my life, Shimada." She was being kind. Even without his intervention, she would have likely survived. Old soldiers were tenacious like that. "It's a position I'd rather not be in, to tell you the truth… so do me a favor and don't die."
Had he been lucid he might have scoffed at the request, but as he had directed the entirety of his mental and physical faculties to not falling when a stone dislodged beneath his sole and dragging her down with him, he managed only a wordless grunt, something noncommittal and distracted that could have meant anything.
She frowned, apparently unsatisfied with his answer, then pressed a pair of fingers to her collar, activating a concealed communication link with a burst of garbled static. "I've got your archer," she paused, as if listening. "He's in bad shape, Jack."
After hearing the former commander's name said with such familiarity, Hanzo finally made the connection between the elderly sharpshooter supporting him and Ana Amari, the Egyptian sniper from the original Overwatch, presumed dead by Widowmaker's hand.
He'd been right to think she could have defended herself, then. He'd interfered where his protection was uncalled for and, as always, there was a price to be paid for such foolishness.
By the time Watchpoint came into view, the front entrance was already sliding open to reveal 76 and the cowboy scanning the perimeter warily, which was fair and expected since there was reported Talon activity nearby, but Hanzo wished they would hurry up with it, and judging by the exasperated grunt from behind him, Captain Amari's thoughts mirrored his own. At last, they stepped aside to reveal Dr, Ziegler standing at the head of a stretcher. Her normally tidy ponytail was disheveled, as though she'd slept with her hair up, and her lab coat was wrinkled, all of which pointed to a late night, for which Hanzo could only pray he wasn't the cause.
It occurred to him then how bad it must have looked for him to have absconded from the premises in the middle of the night, only to return early the next day injured, poisoned, and in the company of a ghost.
Upon seeing their approach, Ana slowed, the exertion and heat finally catching up to her. Though she was breathing heavily, there was a direct cause for it, whereas Hanzo could feel himself gasping, desperate for air like a man suffocating despite the vast supply all around him. A flash of red and gun-metal gray darted through his periphery. He swung his head to follow it, nearly tipping them both over before Ana gripped his shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze, steadying him, grounding him.
"We're almost at the finish line, young man. Stay with me." Her tone was both a command and a plea, military and motherly. Unable to reply, Hanzo merely nodded to show that he'd understood. That he was capable of understanding.
Then he was being lifted onto the stretcher, and there were gentle hands on his wrist, checking his pulse.
"His pupils are blown." The soldier's gruff observation drifted over Hanzo without impact. Soon, he was moving again, and the unwavering heat of the summer sun was replaced by air conditioning that cooled the sweat on his skin. Normally, such a change would have been welcome, but a chill had already sunk deep into his bones, and he shivered as he was rolled into the medbay.
He was afraid. No, he was terrified. And he didn't know why. The fear seemed to have no source. It was everywhere and everything, overwhelming his rational mind and wresting control of his body.
A rapid beeping – a heart monitor – joined the urgent tones above him, the sound like ice picks drilling into his ears. Without any idea of what he wanted to say, he tried to speak past the rancid fluid rising in his gorge, then turned on his side to spill the inky black liquid on the floor. It was humiliating, but at least he could breath again.
Until a mechanical hand wrapped around his throat and squeezed, blocking his airway. His eyes flew open to see, not the good doctor working to save him, but the lacerated and necrotic flesh of his younger brother, his face inches away from Hanzo's as he snarled his hatred with a synthetic mouth full of fangs dyed an oily black…
"Help me set up a hemodialysis and a second monitor," Mercy ordered without pausing to see if anyone listened. The wounded and the ill were her domain, and she expected the directive to be followed without question. As she bent to retrieve three bags of saline solution from a cooler beside the fridge, she elaborated, "Talon's poisons are designed to react aggressively when brought into contact with any common sedative, so I'm going to try to flush the poison out of his bloodstream, instead. However, since this would proceed much more smoothly if we could find a way to calm him down, I'd like to try something Winston and I have been working on, as well."
Though hearing those words from Dr. Ziegler should and would have sent a thrill of apprehension through the archer on any other day, Hanzo found to a much more subdued brand of horror that he didn't have the strength to care. All he wanted was for this nightmare to end. Every time he closed his eyes, the same red sky replaced the fluorescent lights above him, and all around stretched a burned and barren landscape. Drifting from the crimson sky like ash, the soldier's skeptical words made themselves known, "Am I right in thinking that what you're suggesting is trying a new piece of untested technology on a patient who can't consent?"
A low scoff with a mechanical edge accompanied Mercy's snapped retort, though Hanzo no longer trusted his senses to know the difference between the real and the imagined, "Talk to me about ethics after we save his life."
"Hey, guys?" It was the cowboy, though he sounded a little off, somehow. "Sorry to interrupt, but did he have those bruises a second ago?"
Delicate fingers ghosted over Hanzo's throat, tracing the impossible bruises forming there. Once she'd retracted her hand, Angela surged into quick and sure motions, moving with a renewed urgency and purpose that resulted in the full preparation of the dialysis and second screen taking place in a nigh superhumanly fast pace.
Meanwhile, Hanzo stared at the back of the creature now standing eerily still in his Hellscape, its dull and gray silhouette looming at the edge of an abyss that surrounded the island they stood on. It was then that he heard a collective intake of breath that was sharp and strained, and could only assume that Mercy had gotten her machine working.
What he didn't want to hear was the hesitant, wounded manner in which Genji at last made his presence known, "Is that… me?"
"No." Hanzo's eyes flew open at the rasping malice spilling from behind a bone-white mask, and saw the wraith standing unnoticed and uncontested behind his anxious comrades. "That's not it, is it, Hanzo? It's not Genji that frightens you, but the thought of what I'm going to do to him once you're gone."
It was a hallucination. It had to be.
Hanzo knew this and yet the knowledge alone couldn't keep his heart rate from skyrocketing, which only serves to spread the poison more effectively, more completely. After a lifetime of suppressing and concealing his emotions, he was going to die because of a fear he could not control.
Even in his current state, the irony was not lost on him.
Beneath his skin, the dragons writhed as they waged war against the corruption growing inside him. Their energy swept through him like a cleansing wave, comforting, warm, and electric, but not enough to tear Hanzo from the gruesome specters waiting wherever he looked. Despite their efforts and his own struggles, there was little they could do to keep him from sinking back into the trance that had allowed him to see the grotesque transformation Talon had forced upon his brother in this nightmarish vision of the future.
There was no white in his sclera. Instead, an oily blackness surrounding an iris that glowed eerily with a pale light, like a moon reflecting on the surface of a rippling lake. His face - or what remained of it, since the entirety of his lower jaw was synthetic, while large chunks of his cheeks had been cut away to expose the artificial fangs implanted into metal and organic gums - was largely devoid of any human expression, though Hanzo couldn't help but notice a hint of resignation and despair in the way his gaze drifted askance. Or perhaps he was simply searching for some piece of the brother he knew in the cyborg's tortured visage.
Against his better judgment, Hanzo chose to take a step closer, though he was careful to remain out of range of short-range attacks. It didn't seem as though this Genji could summon and wield his dragon – perhaps there wasn't enough of his mind left for the ethereal guardian to recognize – but he was dangerous, still. In the way that all wild beasts are dangerous when they are cornered and wounded.
When Genji slowly shifted his body, like a marionette turned by the untwisting of its strings, it allowed Hanzo to see the scarlet ports pulsating on his torso and shoulders, the exposed tendons and armored mesh. Then their eyes met, and the monstrous cyborg's features twisted with rage and agony. With his gray flesh ripping open with a fearsome roar that even now bore too much resemblance to a tortured scream, he charged the archer with his long arms raised and outstretched, ready to tear and slash and rend with his claws and teeth.
Dr. Ziegler watched anxiously as the archer's brow furrowed and sweat began to bead on his forehead. There were pads are his temples so that the dreamscanner could pick up on his brainwaves and convert them into images, but immediately after the corrupted version of Genji had turned to attack, the screen had dissolved into a flurry of snow-white pixels. "Hanzo, I know this is difficult but I am going to need you to listen to me. Is Gen-" Her gaze flicked to the room's sole remaining occupant, as Amari had left to have an overdue conversation with their former commander and the rest had been asked to wait outside. "Is he hurting you?"
"No," came the quiet, troubled response. "He is in too much pain."
His pulse was irregular, fluttering like a hummingbird's wings. If this kept up, she would have to risk sedating him. This poison was new. There was a possibility it hadn't been perfected yet. "Try to talk to him." She glanced at Genji, who had his palms curled tightly around the cot's railing, his visor staring straight at the dual monitors, one with his brother's dangerously fluctuating vital signs, as the faster his strong heart beat, the more worrying they became. It seemed inappropriate, somehow, to touch him when he was like this, so she stifled the urge to reach out to him and returned her attention to her patient. "He might still recognize you."
The response she received in return was surprisingly dry, "That is what concerns me," though this was a Shimada she was dealing with.
In her periphery, she witnessed the soft green of Genji's visor brighten as he moved to wrap his slender fingers around Hanzo's hand. "I'm not going to hurt you, anija."
"I'm not going to hurt you." Hanzo twisted, pivoting on his foot to dodge a swipe from the claws aimed at his chest. He raised his hands to show that he was unarmed, that he had no intention of harming the cyborg, however changed he might have been.
But the cyborg redoubled his efforts, snarling, "You've already hurt me." And the potency of the seething hatred in those words caused Hanzo to stumble. Whatever Talon had done, they never would have had the opportunity to do so if he hadn't destroyed Genji first. Didn't he deserve to be struck down by him?
But vengeance was a double-edged blade. For all the blood it spilled, it harmed the wielder, as well. Killing his own brother had robbed him of his peace of mind and any hope for happiness he might have possessed. And now, when he was so close to the death he'd yearned for, he found that couldn't allow his younger brother to suffer the same fate.
A noise of distress burst from Genji's vocalizer at the sight of fresh lacerations on Hanzo's forearms. Somehow, the dream was hurting him, but it was his body, his face that his brother saw as he fought for his life. "I am sorry, Hanzo," he whispered miserably. "I never meant for this to happen."
It was time to stop running. Keeping his arms lowered to his sides, Hanzo regarded the cyborg, who stopped as well, his head tilting quizzically at this actions. Before the cyborg could come to a decision on how to react, Hanzo bowed his head, "I am sorry, Genji. If you wish for my death, then so be it, but killing me will only cause you pain".
"Shut up!" The cyborg howled, and Hanzo went sprawling when a punch powered by the ninja's artificially enhanced strength slammed against his jaw. Blinking away exploding stars in his vision, he looked up to see Genji looming over him. "Where was your care for my soul when I was bleeding out at your feet? Where was your mercy, then?!"
This was the reaction he'd expected from the man he'd killed. It didn't suit him.
Genji bent and metal claws punctured Hanzo's abdomen, causing him to grunt at the sudden agony shooting through him. Reacting instinctively, the archer kicked out his legs, catching the cyborg on his torso, then flipped him over his head. The cyborg landed hard and rolled across the scorched rock, all the way to the edge. Though he tried to gain purchase by digging his claws into the stone, the momentum was too great, and to Hanzo's horror, the cyborg pitched over the side.
Clutching a hand to the wound to stem the bleeding, he ran to the edge to see the cyborg dangling over the abyss. The claws of one hand embedded the stone were all that kept him from falling into that bottomless pit, and they was slipping.
"Hanzo, hold on! Whatever you're seeing, it's not real! It's not me!"
"Genji, hold on! I'll pull you up." He gripped the cyborg's hand and pulled with every ounce of strength left in him, though it strained and tore at the punctured muscles on his torso. The front of his gi was soaked and stained a dark purple, but despite his efforts, the cyborg's body seemed to grow heavier with each passing second.
"Why?" With a tone that was tentative and disbelieving, as though drawing any amount of attention to his actions could lead Hanzo to change his mind and let the cyborg fall, Genji stared uncomprehendingly up at him. "Why do you go so far to save me? What changed you?"
Hanzo's hands weres slick with blood now, as they'd once been. The smell, bitter and acrid, made him dizzy but though his strength flagged and his brother's dead weight threatened to send him tumbling over the edge with him, he stubbornly clung to Genji's hand, even managing to bite out in spite of the pain, "You did."
After a moment of stunned inaction, the cyborg nodded as though he'd learned something incredible, a small smile looking foreign and out-of-place on his mangled lips, "I see." Then continued with a hint of warning, "Do not let go of me again, Hanzo. I won't be so forgiving a second time."
Suddenly, the burden Hanzo was carrying vanished, and he watched, helpless, as the cyborg disappeared into the gloom, a gentle, even peaceful expression on his face. And it should have taken the pain with it, but Hanzo felt all the more acutely now that he was alone. Sobs tore through him, cutting deeper than any knife or blade, and then
there's a weight on his chest, precisely on his bandaged torso. He blinked away tears to make out the distinctive faceplate of his cybernetic brother – the true one and not the tortured, demented visage his mind had conjured.
Genji's head, surprisingly heavy, was resting on his chest, which certainly explained the weight. He was breathing evenly, and the lights adorning his body pulsed softly with a dim glow.
Without thinking, Hanzo placed a hand on his helmet, his mind drifting to when they were younger and he used to run his hands through his hair to comfort him after a nightmare. A quiet cough pulled his attention away and he looked up to see Dr. Ziegler smiling down at him with a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. "It's good to see you returned to us, Hanzo. You had us worried."
The archer bowed his head. "It is good to be back, Dr. Ziegler. I apologize for any trouble I may have caused you."
With a quiet laugh, she strode over to Genji's side, "While I appreciate the sentiment," and placed a hand on his shoulder, "I wonder if there isn't someone more deserving of that apology," then she bent to give the cyborg's shoulder a strong squeeze.
Genji shot up like he'd had a thousand volts injected into his systems, the violent motion jarring the wounds on Hanzo's abdomen that shouldn't have existed, and the archer caught a slight flicker of doubt on Angela's face but it was too late to rethink her actions now. Though Hanzo braced himself, the sensation of Genji throwing his arms around his neck and resting his head on his shoulder still took his breath away, but not for the reason he'd imagined. "I thought I'd lost you."
It was all that was needed for the wall between them to crumble. Past arguments forgiven, Hanzo firmly returned the embrace, feeling the relieve sweep through him at how solid and present, real and alive and whole his little brother was, "As did I."
Unbeknownst to them, Angela had left briefly to invite those in the waiting room inside, which led to an internet sensation and a cowboy stumbling onto the touching scene. While 's remained standing at the door with her wide eyes shining wetly, McCree tugged his hat down, sniffling, "These dang Shimada are gonna be the death of me, I swear it."
A/N: How many times can I get the brothers to hug in this series?
A-one, a-two-hoo, a three...