#hanzo's going to meet chef in the next chapter

[overdrivels]

The Way to a Heart (7)

<<Chapter 6

The halls of the Watchpoint in the early mornings are busier than one would expect.

There are those who are just returning to sleep, like D.Va, who has likely just finished up a gaming session for her viewers in Korea. There are those who seemed like they never slept. Soldier: 76 would be wandering the halls like a poltergeist,never seeming to need sleep, frightening anyone not expecting the glaring red of his visor. Others like Genji and Zenyatta are already up (or having never slept), just about to begin meditations.

Other agents are much more elusive and Hanzo tries his best not to keep track of their habits, but loses out to years of habit.

So it’s certainly a surprise to Hanzo, who is deep in the middle of his kata, when Reinhardt stumbles into the training room.

He ignores him in favor of finishing his form. The lack of missions in the past few weeks grows on him, whittling down his senses and nerves. While he’s not fully committed to Overwatch’s mission, he really does hope there’s some action soon. Though, he can’t quite shake off the needles of paranoia that bursts over his skin when he notices the giant watching him with startling silence.

It’s not that he’s not used to an audience—his teachers would often watch him and correct his form and Genji, way before he learned of his independence, would be staring intently to try to imitate the moves—but the way Reinhardt stares makes him self-conscious in a way that neither his teachers nor his family was able to (not until recently anyway).

Hanzo finishes his form quickly, driven by muscle-memory rather than actual conscious effort, a fact that grates on him, but is only amplified when he acknowledges why.

Reinhardt claps, a cheerful grin on his face. “Fine form, my friend!”

Hanzo says nothing, his lips pressed together into a tense line, suspicion narrowing his eyes. No, they are not quite friends and his form was sloppy and meaningless beyond reason.

“Fine form,” Reinhardt repeats, a smile too cheerful for this hour spreading on this face. “What say you to a quick, ah, sparring session?”

Hanzo raises an eyebrow. “With you?”

“Who else?” Reinhardt says easily, already rolling his shoulders. “Afraid to lose?”

“Never.”

Despite all of Overwatch’s flaws, it had one thing going for it: there’s never a shortage of competition. If this was all that the crusader wanted, Hanzo would be more than happy to indulge.

“What are the terms?”

“Bets; I like that.” Reinhardt strokes his beard thoughtfully, the smile turning mischievous in a way that makes Hanzo reconsider how much time he’s been hanging around Hana. “How about first ones knees to touch the floor loses? Winner gets beer.”

He tries very hard not to pull a face. “Sake.”

Reinhardt laughs heartily as he tries to bend himself in half, barely able to even touch his knees, let alone the floor. “Sure, if you win.”

At that, Hanzo does make a face.

“You should stretch after warming up,” he says sharply instead.

Reinhardt shrugs him off. “Bah, I’ll be fine.”

A hot flash of irritation goes off in his face. How dare he—a man of his age, a man who is so reckless, he rushes in like he’s eager to die and drag the life of every healer with him—disregard his own health so carelessly. A sharp twinge goes off inside him when something in the back of his mind mockingly reminds him that he says this even though he never others asking for healing. (“Like you’re punishing yourself,” Ana would say, slyly and infuriatingly smug.)

He decides then that he doesn't care enough to correct him. There’s another bet with alcohol involved, and he’ll be damned if that doesn’t sound like a conspiracy, but it’s not about the prize.

It doesn’t take particularly long for Reinhardt and himself to face off against each other, both taking their respective stances.

At first, they went easy. Slowly trading blows like a practiced dance, stepping back and forth into each other’s space, trying to gain the advantage. Hanzo has faced opponents much bigger than himself before, never really considering his height to be disadvantageous. Reinhardt is no different in that regard, but despite his size, he had a good bit of torque to his movements and Hanzo actually has to consciously avoid the slower than natural blows.

If Hanzo were being honest with himself, this was a little fun, relaxing even.

That is, until Reinhardt began to talk.

“Fighting with your brother still?”

Hanzo’s teeth clicked as he ducked under Reinhardt’s arm, prepared for the elbow that would fold and inevitably come down on his head. He deflects it with a little more strength than necessary.

“We are not fighting.”

“Really.” White eyebrows shoot up to an even whiter hairline. “You have not talked to him for days. Come now, tell me what ails you, friend.”

The response chafes him.

Either Genji is still the loose-lipped fool he remembers from his youth or he is still being observed. That aspect of Overwatch is not unexpected, but their growing inistence in wedging themselves into his affairs is tiresome.

He's an adult. This is for him to solve. Not for a broken man who pretends that he's larger than the very life that broke them.

“It is none of your concern.”

Hanzo returns the strikes with a few more of his own. Reinhardt actually manages to dodge two and deflect a third, allowing the fourth to collide with a meaty shoulder.

It was simultaneously the truth and anything but. Everything was fine up until that point, bearable even. He supposed he did not truly, wholeheartedly believe that the walking piece of synthetic human machinery could truly be the rambunctious younger brother he always had to chase after and scold. Too many years and too many differences separated then from knowing the other, having only known the person they each kept in their memories.

“You call avoiding Ana’s teatime ‘nothing’?”

The archer grimaces. He can’t such a self-centered man managed to notice his absence. Reinhardt doesn’t even regularly attend these gatherings.

The pace grows faster, steadier, heavier in lieu of an answer. Each strike, each kick has more weight and more meaning to it than a simple, polite call-and-response of fists. There's a fire behind his skin that only grows.

“You make her sad,” he says solemnly, “and you make your brother sad.”

“That’s none of your business!” Hanzo manages to land an actual hit on Reinhardt’s face, but the tank of a man takes it like it doesn’t faze him. He swears that unseeing eye, so much like Ana’s, is looking through him when he catches sight of it. He almost misses the arm that swings at his ribs and bends over backward to avoid it.

This is the worst place to have this sort of conversation, and he has to remind himself that it would be in very poor taste to break the elderly man’s neck and leave him here for dead. (He’s also not entirely confident he could hide or drag away such a mountain anyway.)

For a while, Hanzo remains in the offensive, but the crusader is becoming a lot more agile than he gave him credit for. Getting this man to hit the floor really shouldn't have been this difficult.

Was it because he's bigger? Or because he has had at least thirty-odd more years of experience than himself?

An open palm suddenly slaps him dead center in the chest—such a short distance, how did he put so much force into it?—and Hanzo wheezes, popping back and then forward in a jump, intending to catch Reinhardt in his blind side.

But the strategy proves to be less sound than he expected—of course, this man had lost his eye for years, there’s no way he would have not be used to such tactics—and Hanzo is again thwarted.

“What’s wrong, Hanzo?” Reinhardt laughs, his voice become just a touch darker and his words become a little more deliberate. “You fight like you want to die.”

Hanzo can’t control the sudden backhanded fist he throws at Reinhardt’s face.

A thick forearm arm blocks his blow, and Hanzo has the sense of mind to create some distance and let some sense sink in and weigh his feet down before it carries him away despite how his heart beats furiously and his raw pride, offended by these careless words that strike too close to home, demands blood.

He cracks his neck and shakes some feeling into his fingers. The stinging of his chest warms him, and the man who caused it stands there, waiting and hardly winded.

It looks like he’ll be able to make up for his subpar morning exercise after all.

Junkrat’s fourth order of fruit salad for breakfast hung over your head like a death knell.

You rub your aching eyes furiously against your sleeve before quartering a set of apples that look like they have seen slightly better days. You really should limit the amount any one agent can order, but seeing the Junker actually dance and shout with joy, you couldn’t bring yourself to, not when something inside you just swells and squeezes and you’re suddenly all restless again, fingers itching to prepare something worthy to keep that joy on his face.

It’s the same with everyone else.

Those who wants seconds will get seconds.

Those who want to eat will be given fed.

The only problem is that you’re on your last bit of fruits (though, truth to be told, you’re on your last bit of everything) and you’re not sure if anyone else would want any.

You breathe to yourself.

Tomorrow morning.

You can wait until tomorrow morning.

The next shipment should be coming in several hours before dawn, and if you’re really desperate, you could always run out to the grocery stores during that time. It was a great risk—Gibraltar isn’t exactly large, the streets themselves were crawling with cameras and surveillance. You’re no Overwatch agent, you can’t avoid them by double-jumping or blinking.

It would be an absolute last resort, you decide.

You mix the apple cubes with the other fruits, mixing it, and plating it with a sprig of mint on top.

Agent Junkrat doesn’t even wait for the bell to go off, having been waiting at the window.

“Mm-MM! Thanks, mate! You’re the best, y’know that? Really blowin’ me away here!” You can see him rubbing his hands excitedly, fingers then descending upon the tray like it’s a great treasure. “Gonna eat you up good.”

You can only laugh breathily as the Junker snatches the tray away, holding it above his head in victory, but a slowly rumble in your stomach that belies a very real threat of pain reminds you that it is in need of something.

You glance at the clock—just a bit after ten—and consider cleaning up before prepping for lunch service and getting some food and medicine for yourself.

Though, something nags at you.

(“Chefs do not eat until their customers have eaten.”)

Did you serve everyone yet?

The memories of this morning are sluggish, mashed up with the memories from the day before and the day before that. You frown, trying to draw up memories that just seem to be stuck in a bog. Automatically, your body moves to begin cleaning as you think.

Who hasn’t eaten yet?

You slowly go through the roster of agents, reciting their orders to yourself.

‘Captain Amari had pancakes, coffee black, fruit salad; Madame Zielger just had the fruit salad with lemon tea; Roadhog is outside, took his pancakes without syrup and lots of fruit; Winston had his with peanut butter and bananas; Symmetra, yes. Tracer, check. Jesse, check. Rein—’

A stab of panic strikes you in the heart, nearly knocking the wind out of you.  

Agent Reinhardt and Hanzo haven’t eaten yet.

Hanzo never misses a meal regardless of his strange behaviors recently, and Reinhardt always needs to eat before taking his medications and vitamins as per doctor’s orders. There are agents who would occasionally forget to eat, but you do not count these two among those.

“Athena. Can you tell me the whereabouts of Agent Reinhardt and Agent Hanzo?”

“Certainly. They are currently in Doctor Zielger’s office.”

Now that was interesting. “Can you tell me why?”

“Agent Reinhardt has experienced a back injury and Agent Hanzo was responsible for delivering him there.”

“Oh.” Well, that explains everything. “Do you, do you think they still want breakfast? Could you ask?”

“One moment, please.”

While the AI tries to find the answers, you procure the medicine bottle prescribed to you by Madame Zielger from one of the pantry shelves.

Your omnic friend’s words echo in your memory, “I think Asim is picking up on your habits.”

“Don’t be so stupid,” you mutter bitterly to yourself, flipping the pills over before taking two as written. “Especially not when you actually have food to eat.”

“Chef. Agent Hanzo says he will be coming down for breakfast.”

“Thank you.”

“He’ll be having the pancakes, fruit salad, and sencha. With whipped cream and extra syrup.”

You groan. Not the fruit salad. You only have a meager amount left, barely enough to top a full bowl. Do you tell him it's no longer available or do you give him what's left and risk him being unsatisfied? Maybe, just maybe, you could cut up that last orange you were saving for Agent Mei for her post-dinner dessert.

No, that wouldn't do. She always took fruit with her dinner.

What to do?

The options spin your brain around, a constant buzz that you can’t escape, and your thoughts barely take shape before they’re whisked away.

Shaking your head, you set out for the batter, the familiar weight of a ladle in your hand calms the buzzing, but brings forth a swell of determination.

You can think and worry while cooking.

Their morning training went a little too hard; Hanzo’s pride far too sore from a few more choice words to let the morning spar end, and Reinhardt being too reckless and excitable to back off from the hook he’s sunken into the archer. It ended with a tie, something that Hanzo had to suggest out of respect for his opponent’s unfortunate results. Reinhardt was less than happy about it, but hardly had room to argue when he could barely get up, nearly steering Hanzo into walls as the shorter man tried to help him to the medbay. Hanzo had to hold his tongue, a stern, ‘I told you so’ on his lips.

It was only polite.

Reinhardt took the opportunity to pry some more, throwing in stories that filled the gaps in Hanzo's knowledge of his brother’s later life. He couldn't have been more grateful when Athena requested he get some breakfast, but it seemed that today was destined to be terrible.

Ana is the first to notice his presence when he set foot into the cafeteria, waving him over toward the crowd of people she has around her. “Hello there! Come, you haven’t been joining us recently.”

Hanzo scans the crowd as casually as he can manage. Fareeha, Hana, Junkrat, and Roadhog. It's a strange crowd. The Amaris, he could understand, but the Junkers, too? And where does Hana fit in all this?

Catching Hanzo’s brief glance, Junkrat holds the bowl of fruit close, shielding it from view.

“‘Eh, eyes off! S’all mine. Git your own.”

Hanzo snorts and turns away. He didn't want the fruit anyway. He ordered his own and while fruit is good, he can't wait to sink his teeth into soft, pillowy hotcakes—or, as Athena called them, pancakes.

“I’ve been busy,” is his curt reply to the older woman.

That should serve as explanation enough, but his company were far too nosy, likely bored from the few weeks of idleness they’ve been forced to endure while Winston figures out a strategy to tackle the rumors of Overwatch's resurgence.

Hana’s eyes, though a little red-rimmed, are immediately alight, suspicious and far too invested. “Busy, hm? You don't say.”

Hanzo opinion of the young woman's influence on the other members of Overwatch resurface. She is a bad influence.

Ana scoffs, waving a hand at him. "Don't be a stranger, sit, sit."

"I have matters to attend to. Another time." Even to his ears, what comes out of his mouth sounds like half-hearted excuses forged from years of learned etiquette. Though, he really does need to retrieve his breakfast that's not yet ready.

Fareeha and Ana stare at him with frighteningly similar looks—but of course they're similar, they're mother and daughter—of mischief and knowing. Paranoia crawls up his back, resting its spiny hands against his throat.

“Have a seat, Hanzo. I know what you're up to,” says Fareeha slyly.

“I do not know what you are talking about,” he says flatly, crossing his arms. “If you have some to say, be quick about it. I have no time for your games.”

She shrugs a bare shoulder, unfazed by his threats. “I heard you're taking on Jesse’s challenge?”

Is everyone out to interrogate him today? Unblinkingly, he replies, “And if I am?”

“Good luck,” she laughs. “You'll need it.”

Far from the first time today, annoyance settles on his skin, seeping in and dying his insides in it, ready for a flame to ignite him. His hunger for food is slowly turning into hunger for pride.

“What's Jesse's challenge?” Hana asks, butting shoulders with the ex-Helix guard, eyes shining at the idea of a 'challenge.’ “Is there a betting pool?”

Hanzo is quick to react. “That's none of your busi—”

“Athena, is the chef working right now?”

“Affirmative.”

“Can you make sure that Chef doesn't hear our conversation?”

Sounding entirely too amused to be considered a neutral witness to this madness, Athena answers, “I shall do what I can.”

Fareeha fixes him with a certain look that looks too much like the mother beside her. “And there we have it. Chef won't hear us talking anytime soon.”

He stands there, staring. He still doesn't know how to handle this woman. He would have expected the security professional to at least be a little bit alarmed or to be entirely opposed to the operation, not perpetuating it. Even stranger is Athena's reaction. Omnipotent as she is over Overwatch's affairs, why would she willing participate in his success?

The whole world must be conspiring against him if they are so aligned with him.

Fareeha leans forward in her seat, hands raised and dancing as she talks. “When I was young, Gabe used to take me into the kitchens—it was a big deal at the time since no one but chefs were allowed in there. But that's because they have a secret in there.”

“Ooh! What sort of secret?”

Fareeha smirks and Hanzo gets the feeling it's directed at him. “A treasure.”

“Treasure??! Whotssat 'bout a treasure, eh?”

Pieces of fruit and spittle fly out, and Hanzo physically recoils, looking briefly to Roadhog to stem the madness that is Junkrat. As always, the man is unreadable.

“Oh, that old rumor.” Ana laughs softly into her cup and shakes her head. Hanzo can't help but wonder if she knew what the treasure was.

“No one knows what this treasure is, but we know it's hidden behind this door that leads to the 'Cellar.’ I've seen it open a few times, but couldn't see where it goes. So.” She looks right at Hanzo, resting her chin against her fist. “You think you’re up to it?”

Junkrat seems to be seriously contemplating this new information and gives Hanzo a squinty look.

"And y’plan to steal this treasure? You mad? Y'really wanna mess with the bloke that makes your grub?"

Hanzo has to take a step back to avoid getting a face full of hair or swinging arms. That Junkrat would have standards for stealing is unexpected. Hanzo supposes that there is such a thing as 'honor among thieves'.

“Look, mate.” Junkrat takes on a hilariously serious tone, hand pressed together and pointing directly at Hanzo. “I lo—ve a good heist, but this is food we're talkin’ 'bout ‘ere! And that chef in there makes th’ best tucker I had in...ages! Ain’t that righ’, Roadie?”

Roadhog grunts when he’s nudged with a sharp elbow, jerking his head once.

“Point is, y’don’t mess with the bloke that feeds ya. Didn’t no one teach you manners?”

He stares disbeliving. Is he really getting lectured about manners by a man who barely knows the entranceway to a building is not a self-made hole in the wall? Hanzo shoots Fareeha a glare, promising her a swift death for bringing this upon him. It’s woefully ineffectual, and she just smirks.

The tinny echo of a bell goes off in the cafeteria. The sound travels surprisingly well, and Hanzo’s retort dissolves in his mouth.

“I believe that's yours,” says Ana, motioning him to the divide between kitchen and mess hall with a glance alone.

“Don't do it, mate,” Junkrat warns sternly, laughably out of character. “Don't mess with the one who makes your tucker!”

Hanzo largely ignores him, making his way to where his breakfast awaits and hopes that Athena is good on her word and kept you from hearing.

At the window sill, the tray is stacked with a matching set of teapot and cup, a bowl of fruits, and a small server on the side, reminiscent of how he’s seen curry served (just much, much smaller now), holds an amber liquid. A stack of four browned discs stars as the centerpiece with a swirl of cream leaning against the stack’s side.

Hanzo’s face falls just a bit.

It seems he either didn't hide it well enough or you're much more perceptive than he realized.  You return to the window, or at least, your torso does.

“...is there something wrong with your breakfast? I can remake it if you'd like.”

He presses his lips together.

Did you hear their conversation? No, if you did, there's no indication of it. But there is something about your voice that bothers him. It echoes slightly around the edges similar to when Zenyatta or Genji speaks, but it’s still contains the proper cadence of natural speech.

For some reason, it sounds so much more human than even Genji. It's not a thought that sits well.

“Agent Hanzo?”

He forces himself to steer his thoughts back to your question.

It is a tempting offer.

When he heard that pancakes were being served, he somehow imagined the hotcakes that he’s more familiar with; they're twice the height of these pancakes and half the diameter and many more times fluffier. His stomach tells him stop imposing and eat it already—it’s not as though the menu gave the option of hotcakes anyway. It’s not your fault he forgot the different between the two.

“No, they are acceptable.” He takes the tray, and after a moment's hesitation, adds, “Thank you for your concern.”

“If they are not to your liking, please let me know.”

The echo is more prominent, more concentrated, but he has little time to think on it before your torso disappears from the space, allowing him the freedom to duck down and take a good look at the kitchen to see who is it that provides for them and to catch a glimpse of the elusive door to the Cellar.

He turns his gaze down at his tray instead, the cheerful arrangement looks back. If he thinks about it a little, he could see that the amount of pancakes is plenty. If he thinks about it a lot and reads into it, he could see that the tray was carefully arranged so that the chilled foods stay away from the hot ones and the utensils are in neither extremes.

You're not a friend, but you're about the only being in this Watchpoint that cared very little about anything other than your job. A blessing, really, when everyone else seemed to have his broken life on the brain.

It would be a shame to cause you any trouble.

Unconsciously, he walks back to the group, who were talking amongst themselves. Likely gossiping.

He sits next to Roadhog, the man served as a good barrier between himself and Junkrat, but that didn't seem to matter.

“Whot—’ey! I didn’t get any oranges!”

“These are mine,” he growls, keeping the tray far, far away from Junkrat’s extremely long reach which is made simultaneously short by Roadhog yanking the man back.

“Let him eat in peace,” Ana says sternly. “Thank you, Mako.”

The large man grunts, mask still unreadable, but he sits taller between himself and Junkrat and becomes a bigger barrier than before.  Hanzo would have never guessed the Junker would take orders from anyone considering his reputation.

“So, what's your plan, Hanzo? Chef isn't going to let you near the Cellar without a fight.”

“Let him eat in peace,” Ana says again, just as Hanzo is about to sling some sharp words at Fareeha. “All of you.”

“Fine, mom.”

Hana giggles behind her hand, fiddles quietly with her phone. For a moment, Hanzo has the peace he needs to quickly finish his food and leave before Ana allows everyone to again try to spring questions on him.

Probably out of spite than anything else, he eats some of the oranges first. Vengeful glee wells up in his chest when he hears a muffled cry of disappointment and frustration.

Fruit is incredibly hard to come by in Japan at a cheap price. It was almost a luxury that he took for granted when he was younger when gifts of fruit baskets were offered to their family by rivals and business partners alike. He didn't have much opportunity to eat it while on the run

Sure, there were one-hundred yen stores that sold bunches of bananas and oranges for a dollar per piece, but those fruits were hardly juicy or ripe, incomparable to the jewels given to him when he was younger. It was not essential to his diet at the time and barely cost effective.

(Though, he did indulge at one point and took a hypertrain straight to Tochigi prefecture to graze on their world famous strawberry fields in the dead of night. They were so sweet, so juicy; it quenched a forgotten thirst he had had for days.)

These oranges though, were passable. Still nothing compared to the ones in his memories.

He passes on the rest and moves onto his pancakes, pours some syrup on the edge, slicing a triangle into the thick stack, scooping some cream, and shoving it into his mouth.

Immediately, he began salivating.

Sweet.

Unbelievably light but with enough chew to be considered satisfactory.

He’s had the pancakes made by you before, but each time, they’re different. (It was an unpleasant surprise to his tongue when he eats your pancakes from several weeks ago, expecting them to be sweet, only to find out they’re made of potatoes. He begrudgingly forgave the blunder—it’s his own, really—when you gave him some weightless, crunchy white cream dollops that he doesn’t know the name of.)

He hasn’t checked the menu to determine what type they were, but these were fluffier, milkier, a slight tang to it that’s offset by a hint of lemon and the sweetness of the syrup.

He unabashedly shoves another generous cut straight into his mouth.

Click.

Hanzo’s head jerks up and he sees Hana laughing behind her hand, the other hand holding a phone. She tilts it toward the Amari family who both light up.

“Never knew you could look like that.”

Ana covers her mouth with a hand, but her cheeks smile for her. “You look so happy.”

“I'll send you guys a copy.”

Hanzo glares at her, ready to stand. “Do not dare.”

It bounces right off her, and she gives him a smug look, holding her phone at such an angle that he could see her still typing without looking. “Make me.”

He can barely remember the taste of those pancakes after that—he was too busy trying simultaneously get Hana to delete the photo from her phone and keeping Junkrat from wheedling his way into the fruits on his plate. The Junker insisted on lecturing him on who is considered an acceptable target to steal from. He doesn’t know what tea he ordered anymore—Ana had ‘asked’ for some, which really means she demanded it in a polite manner that would mean his doom if he were to refuse. Fareeha watched with Roadhog, both silently judging them.

Whoever said that meals taste better with other people is full of horseshit.  

Unbeknownst to him, your communicator goes off twice, demanding your attention.

The first message is business-related, and you dump that straight into your calendar.

The second is from Agent D.Va and you look rapidly between the camera images of the cafeteria above you and your comm, jaw slack.

On your communicator is an image of Agent Hanzo, fork in his mouth, and the most blissful smile on his face. He almost seems soft, less of a hardened agent and more of a man who has just extended a hand to nourish their inner child. Like he’s made peace with himself.

Pride and joy rushes through you, and you save the image as a careful reminder to yourself of why you came back to Overwatch regardless of the consequences.

A meeting is called sometime in the afternoon for all agents at the Watchpoint. Much to Hanzo’s relief, it seems that the time for idleness is finally drawing to a close.

Hanzo takes his seat furthest away from any windows and doors, and with the clearest view of the room. The nuance of McCree and Soldier: 76 sitting in roughly the same place as himself is not lost on him.

Cowardly as it is, Hanzo could barely look at his brother when he arrives in the meeting room. Neither of them have really been in the same room since that day. The inaction does not seem to go unnoticed by other members, but to his relief, his brother does not make any attempts to reach out and no one says anything.

Though, the empty seat in the room is a different matter.

A window pops up on the giant screen overlooking the round table, Reinhardt’s face trapped in the little square. “Greetings, my friends!”

Winston looks just a little exasperated. “Reinhardt, why are you not down here?”

The giant looks a bit sheepish. “Ah, too much excitement this morning. My back couldn’t take it.”

Hanzo looks away to feign innocence and to keep himself from thinking too hard about the way Reinhardt kept his name from blame.

“Oh, I see. Sorry about that.” Winston clears his throat. “I hope you get better.”

“I have the finest doctors here, no problem!”

Hanzo could see Doctor Zielger press her fingertips to her forehead, leaning against the table and muttering something beneath her breath. The Amari family on either side of her each give her a pat on the shoulder.

“Right.” Winston shuffles some papers around. It’s hard to tell if he really needs them or if it’s just for show. “Now then, since we have everyone here, I want to talk about our agenda. Athena. If you please.”

A multitude of images appear on the screen, each of different areas and scenes. For the next hour or so, Winston talks about Overwatch’s future and direction.

“And for the last time,” Winston says, throwing up a hand, “I especially want the prior Overwatch members to take extra care when leaving the base. Some residents of Gibraltar still recognize you and will likely report you if seen. The last thing we need is for the UN to get wise to our operations.”

Torbjorn is quick to retort. “Hard not to recognize a talkin’ gorilla.”

“Or someone with a giant claw,” Ana shoots back just as fast as she fires.

Almost everyone chuckles at the banter.

“Laugh it up, laugh it up,” the engineer grumbles. “Let’s see who fixes your weapons the next time you need it.”

“Settle down, everyone.”

The meeting ends long after the sun has fallen, leaving some members more restless than others, but it gives everyone something to look forward to in the following days to come. For Hanzo, there’s a reconnaissance mission in the coming week, and then potentially an infiltration mission some time after that depending on how things play out. For everyone else, there’s various jobs to be done. He’s keenly aware of Genji’s assignments, an unease rolling in his chest and stomach as his brother is given the option of investigating something with Tracer. While it’s a relief that Winston has chosen not to place him on a mission with his brother, he knows deep inside that his behavior is nothing short of shameful, and that haunts him late into the night.

He lies painfully awake in bed, unable to will his mind to stop chattering or replaying today's events. The memory of how Reinhardt pulls his back makes Hanzo scrunch up and the noise in his head gets louder. Fareeha and Junkrat run around in his head, a back and forth of goading and unwanted advice. When he tries to think of other things, only the promise of a mission and the intimate details wait for him at every turn.

Even his stomach won’t let him rest, slightly unsatisfied with the offerings it was given.

Dinner was a little lacking, so very different from the breakfast of this morning. (Lunch was a normal affair, quick and filling.) His requests for seconds, though usually granted, was of a smaller portion than usual. It’s childish and petty, but he can’t help but feel slighted. Just when he thought that you could potentially be his only ally in this castle of schemes and uncertainty.

Speaking of which.

He throws the covers off, skin itching with noisy thoughts that filter downward from his mind and infect the rest of him.

Tea. While it won’t put him to bed, it will calm his nerves.

He’s walking into the cafeteria when he decides that tonight he’ll have something more refreshing and soothing. There’s something called ‘moroccan mint’ that Ana introduced him several weeks ago that he took with sweetner. It was much better than that Koshary tea.

The doors to the cafeteria open silently and he is almost at the terminals when the whole world seems to stop.

The terminals are, for the second time, plastered with the word “closed” across their screen.

He stares dumbly at them.

A flicker of anger ignites deep in his gut, and he growls in displeasure.

He was here all day. Why was he not informed that the kitchens would be closed?

Somewhere, a small voice of logic tells him that there’s no way you could have known that he would require tea at this hour. A more obnoxious part of him, sleep-deprived and irritated from the day’s already large pile-up of grievances, reasons that he comes by often enough at this time that you should know better.

Seething and two seconds away from smashing a fist into the terminals, but still controlled, he’s about to turn away when he looks at the hole in the wall.

The pitch darkness of the kitchen through the service window seems to suck him in like an abyss, calling to him like a siren, and he remembers his bet with the gunslinger.

He pinches the bridge of his nose.

No.

No one will be there to witness his crime. Athena has implicitly stated her stance on the matter. There will be no one to stop him.

No, this was, perhaps, the most ill-conceived plan he’s ever had the displeasure of executing. (And that’s saying something considering the escapades that his brother got him into during their younger years.)

It’s opportunity that brings him to this, not any extensive planning or careful calculations, and that does not comfort him in the slightest. Common sense and years of learned espionage tells him to wait for a more opportune time, but he knows that he is not dealing with armed guards or skilled fighters. You’re just a chef. A mere omnic or service bot who makes a nice stack of pancakes and usually has tea ready for him in the dead of night.

He clenches his jaw, body frozen as he’s caught in between two instant crosshairs of thought.

[Closed]

“Don't mess with the one who makes your tucker!”

“Good luck, you’ll need it.”

[Closed]

“It is good manners to thank the people who feed you.”

“I dare ya.”

He steels himself.

[Closed]

Chapter 8>>

[genjiequalsdaddy]

A Ninja’s Gaiden: Chapter 7

Warning: Blood, Violence  “Arriving to Lijiang Tower.”

Everyone who was aboard the Orca were silent as they were doing one last equipment check before they arrived at their destination. Angela holstering her pistol and grabbing her her staff, she looks around the ship watching her teammates prepare.

Lucio, who was in full gear, was working on the console helping D.Va do some last minute calibrations on her Mekka suit. Fareeha was by the door in her Raptora suit ready to get the go ahead to fly out. She was mouthing some kind of prayer as she looked out the window. Towards the front of the plane, Lena was piloting as usual and Mei was manning one of the side terminals.

Angela now looking to the back of the ship, she sees Genji sitting on top of his legs, his hands on his metal thighs. ‘A quick meditation session before going on a mission?’ Angela thought to herself.

“We’re sixty seconds from your drop off point, Genji.” Tracer shouts over her shoulder.

As Genji began to stand up, he grabs his blade that laid right next to him. He twirls the blade before slamming it down into the sheathe on his back. He turns around and starts heading for the door. Just as Genji was walking past Angela, he stops when she grabs him by the wrist.

“Please,” Angela says gripping Genji’s cold metallic wrist harder, still looking in front of her. “Be careful.”

“With these individuals by my side, I have nothing to worry about.” Genji says putting his free hand on her arm. He lets go and takes a couple of more steps before stopping again. “I’ve also have a certain angel watching over me.”

“Thirty seconds, opening hatch now.” Tracer shouts again as she presses a button that opens up the side door. Cold air blasts both Fareeha and Genji who were standing in front of it.

“If all goes to plan, I won’t even need to fire a single rocket.” Fareeha says loud enough for the ninja to hear her. “Watch yourself out there, Genji.”

“Same goes to you, Ms. Amari.” Genji nods.

“Get ready to jump,” Tracer now manually piloting the ship. “In five, four, three, two.”

The Orca flies by a small vacant landing pad and Genji leaps down to it, rolling as he lands.

“Genji, can you hear me?” Mei says over the communicator.

“Yes, Ms. Zhou.” Genji says looking around him.

“Right now you’re in the night market. The satellite images show a mass sum of men in the tea gardens another 30 floors. You’re going to have to find a way up there.”

As Genji starts to walk through the market, he takes notice that there’s no one present. The ramen stand that was in front of the landing pad had no customers or chefs.

“Where is everyone?” Genji says walking into the ramen stand. “Food is still cooking on the stove, and the bowls of ramen are still warm on the counter.”

“That’s strange. I’m not seeing anyone else in the market, or the entire floor for that matter. You think the triads could’ve made the people leave?”

Genji leaves the ramen stand and heads out further into the market. “I do not see any blood, so they must have forced people to leave. This meeting must be important for them to do something like this.”

“There’s an office building near you that can lead you up to the gardens. But be careful Genji, I’m picking up heat signatures and the last three floors. Could be patrolmen.”

“Yoshi, let’s do this.”

After silently taking out twenty Triad thugs with ease, Genji arrives to the entrance to the garden. He climbs onto a nearby rooftop to observe the area.

Triads in suits were posted all around the garden. The men were either carrying automatic weapons or handguns. What caught Genji’s eye was the heavily armed guards that were scattered among the Triads.

He heard a small thud come from behind him. Knowing who it was, he didn’t reach for his short blade. “You finally show yourself, brother.”

“Do not call me that.” Hanzo says walking towards Genji and crouching next to him. “What’s the situation.”

“Triad leaders are here to discuss something. My orders are to capture them, and turn them over to the authorities.”

“You can’t be serious.” Hanzo scoffs. “These people should die for the things they do.”

“You did worse, Hanzo.” Genji fires back at him.

“Genji, do you copy?”

“Yes, Ms. Zhou.” Genji responds.

“There’s three tea houses in the garden. I’m guessing the one the crime bosses are in would be the one with the heavily armed men standing in front of it.”

“Wait, those men. It can’t be.”

“Is something wrong Ms. Oxton?” Genji asks.

“Those men wearing the helmets, those aren’t Triads. I have to double check but this situation can change real quick if I’m right.”

“Rojā,” Genji nods. “Is everyone in position?”

“Roger, Pharah in position.”

“D.Va standing by.”

“Lucio ready to jam.”

“Mercy on call.”

“Ok, wait for my signal to att-”

“Genji wait!” Tracer interrupts the ninja. “Athena is picking up a conversation from the tea house by the edge of the tower. She and I are trying to get a better signal without being detected.”

“Patch it through.”

Static comes through the communicator at first, but then it slowly starts to clear up a little. “Thank you for com- see us in such short notice. We know your organi- very hard to contact.”

“Athena,” Tracer says over the communicator. “Can you clean it up just a little more?”

“Processing.”

“I assume you have looked over our terms of agreement.” The static voice says over the communicator.

“I did,” A woman with a french accent starts to speak.

“No!” Tracer says worryingly. “It can’t be!”

Back in the tea house that was overlooking the city, there were four people sitting around a table. Three old men in suits were all sitting on one side as a blue skinned woman sat on the other.

The woman with the cold blue skin was sitting in her chair taking a sip of her tea, staring at the old men as she drank. She was wearing a skin tight purple jumpsuit that exposed her chest. Her purple hair was up in a high ponytail as a visor sat on top of her head.

The woman pulls the cup away from her lips and places it down onto the table. “You went through a lot of tough obstacles to unite the three big bad syndicates of China, so you can have this little meeting. You ask for many things towards my employers. But I ask, what can you do for us?”

“Well,” One of the old men clears his throat. “With the three families coming together, we have an incredible source of income, we have territories all across Asia which we operate in, and we have control over some high officials in China’s gover-”

“Non!” The woman shouts getting up from her seat, slamming her hands onto the table. The cups that were on the table all shook. Triad men stationed outside started to head inside, reaching for pistols that were inside their suit jackets. They were stopped by the heavily armed guards.

“You can promise riches and lands to us, but can your so called ‘families’ give your full cooperation and loyalty to the organization?”

“What do you mean exactly?” Another one of the old men start to speak with confusion on his face. “We united three families that have been fighting for many years so we could have this meeting. Of course we’re going to give you our full cooperation.”

“So you’re willing to let's say, blow up government buildings?” The woman asks as she sat back down in her chair. “Assassinate influential people? Kill a mass some of innocents to make a mark? Your contact obviously didn’t tell you what our organization does. We don’t just supply weapons and tech to the highest bidder. Oh no, we have one goal, and that’s bring down chaos into this world so we can bring it up with our own agenda. And we will do whatever it takes to achieve this goal.”

“This lady can’t be serious!” Lucio says over the communicator. “History has proven that these kinda plans always crash in the end.”

“So what’s it going to be?” The woman says as she leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “Are you going to join us, or did you waste my time coming all the way here?” The men look at each other not saying a word. “I’ll tell you one thing before you make a decision. You decide not to join and go back to killing yourselves, I won’t guarantee that anyone of you will make it to the end. Talon will be victorious in the end, and we’ll crush anybody that stands in our way.”

“Genji, the mission has changed drastically!” Tracer shouts. “We need that woman alive! She was the one that killed Mondatta. Capture Widowmaker at all costs!”

“So,” Widowmaker says grabbing her cup of tea once again. “What’s it gonna be gentlemen?”

The old men look at each other and start whispering things to one another. After a couple seconds of discussing, one of the men stands up from his seat. His face shows he doesn’t want to give his answer. “We’ve come to the conclusion that.. you.. will get our full cooperation.”

“Incroyable! My employers will be pleased.” Widowmaker says standing up from her chair raising the cup of tea in the air, a grin on her face. “To a new partnership. À votre santé.”

Just as she was about to take a sip, an explosion happens at one of the landing pads near the tea houses. The rumble from it caused Widowmaker to spill tea onto the ground.

Both the Shimada brothers watch as the explosion happened. The Triad members from the other two tea houses as well as the ones spread across the garden start to rush towards it as they hear the cries from the men who were caught in it.

The Triads stop in their tracks as they see dark figures emerge from the flames. What stood before them, was four men in black traditional samurai armor. Glowing red eyes illuminate through their covered faces. Their presence was very menacing and would make anybody terrified to be in front of their way. Both the thugs and Talon soldiers raise their guns up to the intruders, ready to fire.

One of the samurai breaks off from the group and starts walking towards a Triad. The sound of his armor grew louder and louder with every step. The Triad had a pistol aimed at the figure, but was too terrified that he couldn’t pull the trigger.

Behind the Triad, a thug falls to the ground as a stray arrow punctured through his head. He turns as he heard sound of the body hit the ground. The group of men look around trying to find whoever shot the arrow. Archers on nearby rooftops show themselves and start to pick off people in the garden.

“Tāmen zài wūdǐng shàngle!” One of the men shouts.

The scared Triad looks back to see the samurai towering over him, staring at his glowing red eyes. The man in armor grabs hold of the handle of his katana and pulls it out of it’s sheathe. With an upward motion, the samurai slashes the Triads chest; killing him instantly.

“What’s going on outside?” One of the crime bosses says getting up from his chair as one of the Triads ran into the tea house they were in.

“We-need to get- you guys out of here.” The man in a suit says trying to catch his breath. “Samuari are attacking the garden.”

“What did you just say?”

���No time to explain. We’re going to escort you to the shutt-”

An arrow was shot through the opening of the doorway and stuck into the mans neck. The man fell to the ground and that’s when Widowmaker knew it was time to make her exit.

The three crime bosses look over to the opening behind and see a ship hovering above the railing. The ship’s door was open exposing two hooded samurai with bows drawn at the bosses. Behind them, two more men in armor step off the ship, their hands gripping their katana handles as they walk on either side of the table.

As the old men were staring at the two scary looking men, they felt a thud behind them that vibrated the room. Everyone turned to look at another samurai in the doorway. His armor was different from the rest. It was a dark red color that had gold trimming and was bulkier than the rest of the men. His hand was relaxed on top of his katana that was sheathed on his side.

“These are the men that lead their clans?” The man in the red armor says in a dark robotic tone.

“Yes, my lord.” One of his men nod.

The man in red walks to one of the old men and grabs him by the neck, picking him off from the ground. The crime boss moves frantically, trying to get out of his hold.

“What is it you want?!” The other crime lord shouts.

“Nothing.” The red samurai says as he watches his victim try to get out of his grasp. “Your operations are going to be a blockade for our master’s creation.”

With those last words, the samurai closes his grip and a loud snap was heard. The other two men are stricken with fear as their partner's lifeless body hits the floor next to them.

“Wait!” One of them shouts. “We can make a deal! Please don’t-” The old man’s plea is cut off as a blade goes through his chest. The same goes for the other.

“Leave no survivors.” The man in red says as he makes his way outside.

Back outside, both the shimada brothers watched as the Triad and Talon soldiers started to get overwhelmed by their enemies who wield swords and bows. Their bullets would get through their armor and kill them, but the number of samurai that kept coming at them was overpowering.

“Whoever planned this attack made sure they would not fail.” Hanzo says not taking his eyes off the battle in front of them.

“Genji! Widowmaker is escaping!”

Genji quickly looks back to the teahouse they were in to see the woman running the opposite direction of the battle with two of her guards behind her.

“Hanzo after that girl in the purple!” Genji commands to his brother, pushing up shuriken through his fist. “I’m going after the leaders.” The ninja then dashes right off the roof.

Without hesitation, Hanzo stands up and fires at an archer who noticed Widowmaker and was about to shoot. The arrow hits his head and the archer falls off of his ledge he was posted on. Hanzo jumps off the rooftop and quickly follows the woman.

Flinging his shuriken, Genji hits a samurai directly in the eyes just as he was about to slice a Talon soldier who was unarmed. The soldier quickly looks behind him and a metal fist meets his face, knocking him to the ground.

He runs a few more steps before two more samurai come charging in on the ninja. With his quick reaction timing, he takes out his wakizashi and blocks the first katana strike. Genji kicks the man in the chest pushing him back. Raising his short blade again, he blocks the other attack. Once blades make contact with each other, Genji pushes upwards causing the samurai to lose control of his grip and let’s go of his katana. The ninja slashes the man’s stomach and falls to the ground. Quickly turning back, he counters another attack from the first attacker and swipes across his neck.

“Here comes a new challenger!”

Looking up, Genji notices a pink object coming down from the sky at incredible speed. The object lands on two Triad members that were fleeing from their attackers, crushing them. What landed turned out to be D.Va in her Mekka suit.

“Time for you to go creepy looking samurai guys!” She says before firing her fusion cannons, gunning down a group of the soldiers.

“Aw man, I’m loving this!” Lucio shouts as he skates past Genji firing his sonic amplifier. “They ain’t coming across this bridge on our watch!”

Following close behind, Fareeha fires her rockets as she soars through the skies above the battlefield. Angela swooping in next to the ninja, swings at a Triad with her staff who was coming towards Genji with a metal baton. After hitting the man she unholsters her blaster, firing at a Talon soldier in the head.

“What are you doing here? I said move in on my mark.” Genji says to the doctor who was reloading.

“The gunfire and the explosions were more than enough for us to come in.” Angela says after firing more shots into a crowd of enemies. “What’s going on here Genji?”

More ships start to approach the scene as more samurai drop from them. The number of men opposing the attackers were dwindling down and soon they would focus on the Overwatch team.

“I can ask questions later. You need to get to those men and get-” Angela get’s cut off by one of the ships getting hit by one of Pharah’s rockets and crashed into the side of the tower.

“Genji, more of the same ships that our dropping off these men in armor are coming in from the distance.” Pharah says over the communicator. “I don’t know how much longer I can take care of them with these archers shooting at me. You need to hurry.”

“Genji go!” Angela shouts at the ninja pushing him towards the tea house. “Go! We’ll cover the two bridges.”

With that push, Genji rushes to the teahouse doorway. Stepping in he dodges a blade swing that nearly misses his head. The ninja quickly picks up his short blade once again blocking another strike. The strength of whoever was holding the other blade was overpowering and made Genji jump back. Standing up, he looks up to see the samurai in red armor walk through the doorway with two of his men behind him.

“Who are you? Why are you doing this?” Genji says as his grip on his wakizashi tightens.

“Kare o korose.” The dark robotic voice says.

The two samurai next to the person who was giving orders to them take out their katanas and charge at Genji. The ninja counters them both with ease, slashing one across the stomach and stabbing one through the neck.

“Enough of this.” Genji says looking up at the person in front of him. “Why are you doing this?”

“I’ve come to eliminate the men that would pose a threat to my master’s vision.” The red samurai says as stares down the ninja. “I can see that you and your acquaintances have taken out many of my men without breaking a sweat. You pose the same threat as these sicking dogs. I will personally be seeing your death by my blade.”

As the man in red brings up his katana, Genji pulls up his short blade. Both stand in silence, staring at each other as gunfire and explosions happen around them. With a blink of an eye, they both dash at each other.

Sparks fly as their blades made impact. Even in the heavy armor, the man in red was able to defend every attack Genji gave. They start moving slowly underneath the tower that was in the middle of the garden, blades still striking one another.

“You’re swordsmanship is impressive.” The dark robotic voice says as Genji jumps back to catch a moment of rest. “Even with a Wakizashi, you manage to defend every attack I make. Who ever taught you knew well.”

“Sir, Triads have been cleared.” A voice says over the red samurai’s comm. “There are a few of those masked men left, but the group that came unexpectedly are stopping our advance. We completed our orders, sending a shuttle for evac to your location.”

“Understood.” The samurai in red says keeping his eyes on Genji. “It seems our fight ends here. Maybe one day our paths will cross one another once again, and I will take your life.” The man then sheathes his katana and walks away from the ninja.

“No you’re not leavi-” Genji was quickly cut off by him deflecting an incoming arrow.

A ship descends down to the ground next to the tower. Two archers stand at the opening of the vehicle, bows drawn at the ninja. The samurai steps onto the ship and the doors close,

“No!” Genji shouts as he runs after the ship that was taking off.

He leaps into the air and dashes towards the shuttle, landing onto the side of it. Losing his grip, Genji quickly stabs into the metal of the ship holding for dear life.

Back on the ground, the strike team had the samurai assualt on a stand still past the bridges. Lucio and Pharah were on one side, D.Va and Angela on the other. They see that the attackers are slowly retreating, the strike team starts to advance.

Angela, who was ready to follow Hana in her mech, looks back hearing the sound of a ship taking off. Inspecting it closer, she notices Genji hanging by the handle of his short blade. “Genji!?” Angela exclaims through her comm. “What’re you doing?!”

Genji tries to pull himself up, but with the ship moving, it was impossible. With him letting go, the ship would get away and he wouldn’t get any answers on why these mysterious samurai’s attacking.

Without giving any thought, Genji immediately goes to his comms.“Pharah! Take down the ship that’s leaving the garden! We can’t let it escape!”

Pharah, who was flying over to the retreating forces, quickly stops and turns to see the ship Genji was talking about.

“Moving to intercept.” She says before rocketing towards the shuttle.

“Do not engage!” Angela frantically shouts. “I repeat, do not engage! Genji is on that shutt-”

“JUSTICE, RAINS FROM ABOVE” Pharah yells as she gets ahead of the ship and fires her rocket barrage.

The pilot of the ship tries to maneuver away from the projectiles, but a rocket hits an engine and the shuttle starts to spin out of control. Genji panics as he grips for his life, trying not to let go.

“GENJI!” Angela yells as she watches in horror.

Pharah’s eyes widen after hearing Angela through the comms. “Genji was on that shuttle?!”

The doctor starts to sprint towards the crashing ship. Her heart beats out of control and tears fly off her face with every step she takes. She gets to the edge of the building as the shuttle passes her. The heat from the burning engine warms her body for a second.

Not giving a second guess, Angela leaps from the edge. The wings from her valkyrie suit spread out and she pursues after the smoking shuttle.

“I’ve lost controls!” The shuttle pilot shouts as he’s frantically presses buttons. “Prepare for impact, sir!”

The ship starts to shift to left and is seconds of slamming into the tower. Using the handle of the blade, Genji pulls himself upwards and onto the top of the shuttle, extracting his short sword while doing so. Before he could catch his balance on the roof of the vehicle, the ship collides against the building and sends Genji off into a free fall with shards of glass and small debris with him. His metal back facing towards the ground, his arms and legs facing upwards as the ninja fell to the earth.

A few feet above him, the shuttle engine’s exploded. Genji saw the burning pieces of steel flying towards him and there was nothing he could do.

This was it, this was the end of Genji Shimada’s tale. A boy who survived the brink of death from the hand of his brother, a ninja assassin who killed off his own clan, a man who became a new person by the guidance of an omnic monk, was going to die without doing the thing he wanted to do the most before passing.

“GENJI!”

Just as debris was about to hit Genji, Angela swoops into the ninja and crashes through a window to one of the office’s in the middle of the tower. Their bodies rolled for a bit until stopping a few feet from some desks. Genji stared at the ceiling above for a couple of seconds as he laid on the floor, wondering what had happened.

“Genji!”

The ninja turned his head to the voice and saw a worried Angela running towards him. She kneels down next to him and places a hand on his shoulder. “Genji, are you alright?” Angela notices Genji trying to sit up straight so she places her other hand on his arm, gently pulling him. As he sits up, she slowly wraps her arms around his neck pulling him close into her. “I thought I’d I lost you.”

Genji smiles and places a hand on her lower back after hearing those words. “You saved me once again, Dr. Ziegler. Arigato.”

She lets go of the cyborg and stands up again, using her staff as support. She then gives Genji a hand helping him up off the floor. Both look over to the broken window and see smoke rising from below.

Genji walked over to the window and peers down to see the shuttle had crashed into the building that was close the the edge of the night market.

“We need to head down there. Find anything in that wreckage that could lead us to where we can find more info of this new threat.” Genji says turning back to Angela.

“Mercy to Orca, do you copy?” Angela says holding up two fingers against her ear. “I repeat, Mercy to Orca, do you copy?”

“They might still be focusing on giving air support to the ground team.”Genji says as he walks past the doctor and turns his head back to her. “The elevators out, so I hope you don’t mind going down a few flights of stairs, Dr. Ziegler.”

“We’re on the 50th floor, Genji.” Angela scoffs. “But I rather have my feet suffer than falling to my death.”

Genji gives out a small laugh before following Angela to the stairwell.

Finally reaching the night market once again, the ninja and doctor find the vacant marketplace now covered in burning debris from the shuttle and the pieces of building above.  Walking further they see a hole in the traditional styled building that was at the edge of the market where the shuttle crashed into.

As they both got close to the entrance to the building, voices could be heard from the inside. Genji quickly grabs Angela by the arm and takes cover by the doorway.

“What’s goin-”

Angela gets cut off by Genji putting a finger on her lips. With that same finger, he puts it up against his mask where his lips would be motioning for her to be silent. He slowly moves closer to the doorway trying to get a peek of what was going on.

There were five talon soldiers rummaging through the pieces of the crashed shuttle that covered the back of the room.

“There’s nothing here.” One of the Talon says dropping a piece of metal back into the pile of debris. “The ships shredded into pieces. The other half of the ship is in the streets below and even that is completely destroyed.”

“We got orders to salvage anything we can bring back.” Another Talon soldier shouts across the room, as he paces back and forth, rifle in hand. “You rather be fighting upstairs? I don’t think so.”

“Sir, we got movement over here!”

The rest of the Talon soldiers stop what they’re doing and quickly run over to where pieces of steel were moving. Rifles aimed at the ready, waiting for what was to come.

A loud screech was heard that made everyone in the radius wince. In the pile of debris that the soldiers were aimed at, a piece of metal was tossed aside and a red figured appear from the rubble. Taking a closer look, Genji realized that the figure that emerged was the samurai that he was chasing after.

The screech slowly turned into agonizing yell and the samurai looking up to the ceiling as he rises out of the debris. Finally out of the mess, the men of Talon are in horror as they look upon the man that was in front of them.

The samurai’s armor was severely battle damaged, exposing parts of his body. Blood dripped from his left arm that laid limp. He looks down to meet with the men that stand before him. The only thing that could be heard was the samurai’s heaving breathing. With his good hand, the samurai slowly places it on his blades handle.

“Take him ou-”

The samurai lunges straight towards the commanding officer of the group and slices across his throat. Blood splatters from the open wound as the officer hits the ground. The remaining soldiers open fire. Both Genji and Angela watch as the wounded samurai takes on the Talon troops with ease in the state that he’s in. He pulls out his katana from the stomach of the last soldier and immediately falls to one knee.  

Seeing that the samurai’s stamina is low, Genji decides to come out of hiding to confront him. Angela hesitant at first, follows close behind.

“You again?” The samurai says in between heavy breaths. “It seems the devil himself has blessed you.”

“Who are you and what business do you have with the triads.” Genji says staring at the man in front of him.

“Urgh-I am one of the thirteen Sukui Samurai.” The man in the red armor grunts as he stands up. “I was sent to eliminate a group that would tarnish my master's future plans.”

“Who sent you? What plans?”

With the samurai’s good arm, he raises his katana towards the ninja and the doctor. By doing so, Angela raises her pistol. Genji, who is still calm and collected, just stares at the man in front of him.

“Enough! I may have completed the task I was given, but you and your group killed many of my brothers. And for that, I’ll make sure I drain the blood from every single one of you!”

“Very well.” Genji says as he reaches for the handle of his Odachi. “Dr. Ziegler, would you please stand back.” Without hesitation, Angela takes a few steps back while still having the Samurai in her pistol’s sight.

Genji’s metallic hand grips the handle of his blade as he stares into the red eyes of the battle damaged samurai across the room.

“THIS IS IT FOR YOU, NINJA!” The Samurai yells as he charges towards Genji. “SHINU!”

“GEN-”

Angela is cut off as a giant spark quickly appears in the middle of the room, blinding her. Opening her eyes again, she’s startled by the sight of the damaged samurai now mere inches from her.

The sound of his katana echoed across the room as it hit the ground. Soon after the Samurai falls to his knees.

Looking down he notices a giant slash across his chestplate. His good hand touches the wound. When he see’s the blood coating his black gloved hand, the man is struck with fear. Blood is coughed up and starts to spill from an opening of his helmet. With one last agonizing groan, he falls dead onto the cold floor.

Angela breathes out a sigh of relief at the sight of the man in front of her, having the satisfaction of holstering her blaster. Taking her eyes off the dead body, she looks over across the room to see Genji walking over as he sheaths his sword.

“You’re not hurt, Dr Ziegler?” Genji asks.

“I”m alright, Genji.” Angela says with a reassuring smile. Her relieved face then turns serious when she kneels down and starts to inspect the body. “If we had Torbjorn here he would know what kind of metal this is, where it’s from.”

As she continued examining, Genji notices the katana beside him. Picking up the blade he feels the weight of it. It was much heavier than his Odachi, making the man an expert swordsman the way he was able to move the blade with such speed. Taking a closer look, something catches the ninja’s eyes that made the grip he had on the handle tighten in anger.

“I can’t find anything that would give us any leads on who these people are.” The doctor says standing back up again. She see’s Genji staring at the katana in his hands. “Something wrong?”

“The symbol on the guard.” Genji says giving Angela a closer look. “It belongs to the Shimada Clan.”

“What!?” Angela says wide eyed. “This can’t be! You made sure the Shimada’s were no more.”

“Urgh-”

The two look over to the entrance  of the building to see a badly wounded Hanzo leaning against the doorway. His hand covering an area of his side that was drenched in blood.

“Hanzo!” Genji shouts as he runs to his brothers aid. He grabs his arm and puts it over his shoulder. “What happened?”

“I-urgh” Hanzo winces in pain. “I followed that woman through the offices. Took out the men with her, then had a confrontation with her. In the end she got the better of me, but I made sure she left with a remembrance of me.”

“Genji, he needs medical attention right away.” Angela says after quickly looking over Hanzo’s injury.

“No..” Hanzo grunts. “Leave me here so I can finally die..”

“Stubborn as always.” Genji sighs.

“Mercy to Orca do you copy?” Angela says through her communicator. “We need immediate evac on our location! We have a wounded.”

“This is Orca. We have your location and coming for pick up.”

Above them the sound of the Orca’s engines roared as the ship went across the sky and descended at the edge of the market. The doors open and Pharah runs out.

“Sorry about the wait.” Fareeha says as she catches up to the ninja and doctor. “The Chinese government decided to show up and then they started to fire upon us. Had to get the hell out of there and shake them off.”

“Quick, help Genji with him while I set up for an emergency surgery.” Angela says handing the side of Hanzo she was supporting off to Fareeha.

Genji sat at the tail end of the ship, back against the cold steel, still staring at the katana he picked up. Looking at the Shimada emblem, he felt frustrated. He made sure his former clan would never think about rising to power and becoming the biggest crime syndicate in Asia once more. But what was a samurai doing with a seal of a ninja assassin?

“Genji?”

Genji immediately takes his attention away from the katana to look up and see Angela standing in front of him. She was still wearing her white jumpsuit but the top half was unzipped and around her waist, showing off  her black tank top with the Overwatch logo.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” She asks. Genji scoots over and the doctor takes a seat next to him.

“You look very tired, Dr. Ziegler.”

She sighed, “Well I did just come back from a deadly mission and performed a impromptu surgery. There were three bullets that were lodged into your brother. It was a miracle that none of them hit any major organs. They were easy to take out, it was the bleeding that I thought would never stop. He’s all better now and is resting on the cott.”

“Arigato.” Genji says nodding his head. “I knew you would be able to help. If you can save me from the brink of death, this must’ve been child's play.”

She chuckles at his remark. Noticing Genji was still looking at the blade in his hand, she could tell the ninja was experiencing different kinds of emotions.

“Hey,” She says placing her hand onto his that was facing upwards on his thigh. This makes him break away from his thoughts and directs his attention over to her. His green visor and her blue eyes meet. “We’ll figure this out and stop whoever these people are, together.”

Even though those words might’ve meant little to any other person, but for Genji, it meant a lot.

The ninja smiles underneath his mask as he places the katana onto the ground next to him. “Thank you, I needed to hear that from you.”

Genji, to Angela’s surprise, interlocks his metallic fingers between hers. The doctor blushes at the ninjas action. It was nice seeing Genji show signs of affection towards Angela instead of the other way around.

Across the ship Fareeha, D.Va, and Lucio were all gathered around the booth. All of them were exhausted from the mission except for Lucio who was on his tablet.

“What’re you doing there, Lucio?” Fareeha says as she places an ice pack onto her shoulder. Filling out a field report already?”

“Nah, those things bore me.” He says swiping his finger across his device. “The mood around here is dead. We need some tunes to lighten it up a bit, but at the same time, give us something to relax to.” He was still fascinated with the music he got from Genji’s tapes, he decided to look through those songs. Finding one that look promising, he pressed play and broadcasted it across the ship.

“Starry nights, sunny days, I always thought that love should be that way.”

“Oh, this is the jam baby!” Lucio exclaims. “Definitely some music to chill while flying back to the base.” He then looks over towards the back of the ship and see Genji and Angela sitting with one another. “This is also a little something for those two.”

Back at the tail end of the ship, Angela was bobbing to her head to the music that was playing softly through the ship's speakers. “This song sounds love-” Out of nowhere a yawn escapes her. “I’m sorry Genji, it’s been awhile since I last slept.”

Hearing this, Genji scoots closer to Angela motioning his head towards his shoulder. The doctor smiles and lays her head on top of his shoulder. She let’s out one more yawn before closing her eyes.

“Oooh-oooh baby, we've been a long, long way. And who's to say where we'll be tomorrow.”

“Genji,” Angela whispered. “I want to stay like this forever.”

“Well my heart says, no. But my mind says, it's so.”

Genji tilts his head a bit to respond to the doctor, but he notices that Angela had fallen asleep. Genji chuckles to himself, “Sweet dreams, Dr. Ziegler. You earned a much needed rest.”

As he was staring at the sleeping Angela, he noticed pieces of hair where dangling in the middle of her face. Trying not to wake her up, he uses the tips of his fingers and slowly moves the hairs to the side, gently touching her forehead.

As he was sliding his metallic fingers across her skin, something ignited deep down in his heart. A feeling of warmness and happiness came over him. For some reason with the touch of her face, he finally realized something.

“I’ve fallen for you… Angela…”

“That we've got a love, is it a love to stay. We've got a wham, bam shang-a-lang. And a sha-la-la-la-la-la thing.”

[overdrivels]

The Way to a Heart (10)

Thank you for your patience. I’m a little sad that this chapter didn’t push me over the 50k works mark, but eh. Hopefully next chapter will make up for it. As always, thank you @dickbutt-writes-again for your help.

<<Chapter 9

The news tells a small audience of heat-exhausted agents that today is one of the hottest days of the summer. Zarya’s face tells of someone who wants to shut the newsomnic up, but can't seem to muster the energy to stand. It's a disconcerting sight to behold. The heat seems to even put out McCree, who normally relishes in it. The only person who seems unaffected is Ana, who still manages to walk outside fully covered, making fools and weaklings of everyone else.

Every remaining agent was forbidden from going outside for day and Mei could not resist contacting the base, reporting her observations with rapid-fire jargon and a heat in her voice that rivals the weather. Hanzo could not really put any effort into listening, busy tending to himself with a crudely made fan.

Athena sounds apologetic when she tells a group of sweaty, irritated agents that the thermostat cannot be adjusted any further without rerouting energy from vital functions on base. Hanzo suspects all the current efforts are being rerouted to cool down Winston whom he had seen neither hair—fur—nor hide of in the past few days, busy with 'meetings’. It's unfair especially when the common areas are barely cooled and their rooms are no better than if they were to open a window (provided that the rooms had windows), and those agents who were relocated to cooler places for a mission were the momentary object of envy.

This heat doesn't quite rival Japan’s, but it is difficult to breathe, to move without wanting to shower or suddenly take a flight to the Arctic. Hana did not spare any words when pointing out the frizzy state of his hair, and he spared no mercy when pointing out her hair is artificially straightened.

(He learned two things after that: not to mention it in the future and that age has not been ridiculously kind to him in the ways he wants to believe.)

It's his first summer away from Japan, but despite the weather, it doesn’t feel like summer at all. Almost fondly, Hanzo thinks a proper summer should have watermelon. Or shaved ice. The air should be thick with the smell of grilled foods and bright with lanterns or fireworks and accompanied by windchimes or the song of cicadas. (Genji would used to try to catch as many as he could when they were younger, essentially eliminating the entire population near their estate at his peak.)

He doesn’t realize he misses all of that until you serve watermelon as a part of lunch.

They’re neat, thick pyramid shaped slices with actual seeds that betray the semi-professionally sculpted meals you make for them. He steals away into his 'secret’ spot once he's finished off the main course to enjoy the chilly summer treat. He takes in the harsh beat of the sun against his skin, the rare summer breeze and relative silence brought on by this thick, overbearing weather.

The only thing missing are the cicadas.

He takes his first bite with a loud ' hrmph ' and regrets nothing. The cool contrast in his mouth against the heat on his skin is a delight of sensations. The salty air tossed around by the occasional breeze only adds to the experience—he briefly thinks that he should have asked for some salt, but there’s no helping it now. And the hunger —Hanzo is not shy about his eating, the bites audible and vicious. Sweet juices trickle down his mouth and into his beard, trickling freely down his hands. It's utterly disgusting and undignified, but there’s no graceful way to eat watermelon. Sure, they could be turned into cubes or little balls, but that just defeats the point of eating watermelon.

Watermelon slices, no matter how undignified, is best. He’s glad you seem to agree.

Hanzo mindlessly spits a barrage of seeds off the ledge.

For a moment, the sun is not yellow, but white. The cry of gulls are cicadas. The sea before him is grass and the familiar landscape of Hanamura. Genji sits next to him, smaller, younger— human —a wide grin on his face right before he spits a line of seeds as well.

「See, brother? I’m better!」

And he hears himself saying, 「You’re too many years too early to think of besting me at anything.」

The younger Genji protests, taking another bite of his watermelon, chewing furiously through the meat of the fruit. He inhales deeply, puffing up his chest and stomach dramatically before the summer air is filled with panicked coughing, barely drowned out by the whining of cicadas and the pounding of a fist.

A ray of sun passes over his eyes and the scene is gone—the sweetness of the fruit turns his mouth numb and bitter, and he nearly throws the rind off the ledge too, only to remember Winston had long warned them against leaving evidence of their occupation behind, no matter how innocuous.

He sucks a shaky breath through his teeth instead and exhales, then wipes his mouth harshly on his arm, clutching the remains of the fruit tightly in his hand. The juice becomes tacky, sticking to him just as uncomfortable as his thoughts. The twisting in his gut threatening to squeeze out the food he’s just eaten and he clenches his teeth until it hurts.

Maybe he doesn’t miss the Japanese summer as much as he thought, after all.

Hanzo does not throw the rinds into the ocean below, barely mustering the maturity to take them back to the cafeteria to be discarded of properly. He finds himself there on reluctant legs anyway.

To his relief and surprise, he finds it relatively empty and significantly cooler than the rest of the base. Even Ana’s usual afternoon crowd is not around.

Hana’s here, her hair up in a ponytail, a tell-tale towel around her neck that indicates she's just finished her training session for the day and deep in a heated conversation. Hanzo thinks she’s surprisingly chipper for such nasty weather, but figures she’s endured worse.

“Chef, why can’t we have shaved ice?”

“Agent D.Va, I cannot allow your health to be compromised. You just came from exercise. Ice will only cause muscle crampin—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She shoves her hands through the window, making grabby hands at you. “Shaved ice, please. Lots of condensed milk and mochi. Oh, and red bean.”

“I have no such thi—”

“Liar.”

The watermelon remains slip straight out of his hands and into the garbage disposal. He’s dumbstruck by the speed at which Hana calls you out, and by the looks of it—hands frozen in midair—so are you.

She begins to tick off her fingers. “You have ice. You have a mandolin”—she ignores your cries of “It’s not the same!”—“you use condensed milk for Mei’s milk coffee sometimes and you just started to make it for Zarya, and you have rice flour for Hanzo’s red bean cakes, so mochi and red bean.”

The MEKA warhero gives you the slyest of grins and crosses her arms, leaning deep into the window. “ So . Shaved ice?”

You fiddle with your sleeve cuffs for a moment, debating. Instead of answering, however, you deflect with, “How do you know all this?”

“McCree told me,” she says innocently and far too easily.

“Excu—He what ?”

Hanzo almost laughs despite himself. No hesitation with throwing McCree under the proverbial bus. But then, the thought of McCree knowing all of this expunges any and all mirth from his being, the implications of it all casting a dark cloud over him.

“Chef. I require a wet towel,” Hanzo says suddenly from behind the young woman.

Naked relief floods your voice as you answer, “Oh, Agent Hanzo. Of course. Right away.”

You depart the window sill in a hurry, leaving both himself and Hana, who gives him an appraising look that is not unlike Ana’s.

“Nice save,” she mutters sarcastically, “I'm sure the chef will now love to show you right into the Cellar.”

He ignores the obvious bait, leaning down momentarily to gauge your distance. He can hear the water running toward the side of the dish waking station; you won't be hearing their conversation should the MEKA operator choose to continue this conversation.

Luckily, she waits in silence, instead just choosing to look at him expectantly as though waiting for him to break down and spill out all his deepest, darkest secrets. He almost scoffs. That will not be today and it most certainly will not be to her. (Hanzo has seen Hana be professional—reporting back to a sudden call from some higher power from the army, the image sternly reminding everyone that this woman is not a fool or a child and she is not unaffected or unawares of the gravity of her situation—whatever the the totality of that may be—but even that will not make the impossible happen.)

You return shortly, presenting a neatly folded towel. “Here you are, Agent Hanzo.”

“Thank you.” He takes it, a little pleasantly surprised to find it warm rather than ice cold. He wipes his sticky hands and face with it, the heat cools quickly against his skin, the faintest hint of a sigh escaping. Much better.

“Hey, Chef. Isn't hot in there?”

That shouldn't have surprised Hanzo as much as it did and for once, he realizes that he's never once seen you wearing anything other than your uniform—standard Overwatch-issued chef’s jacket with a high collar and sleeves with thick cuffs around your wrists.

Even if there was air conditioning inside the kitchen, the fact that you work with fire constantly probably nullifies any relief you may get.

“A little,” you confess, clearly reluctant. “I'm used to it. And”—you chuckle a bit, like it's an inside joke—“don't tell anyone, but I go into the walk-in to cool off sometimes.”

Sometimes Hanzo forgets how honest and earnest normal people can be. While he's used to the posturing, the facades, the measuring of people, this is different, refreshing, even. He hides the beginnings of a smile into the towel.

“Ooo, you’re so lucky. Can we come in at least?”

“No. Non-kitchen—”

“Stingy.”

“I cannot allow non-kitchen personnel to—”

“You let him in, didn’t you?” She jabs a thumb at Hanzo, and a chill spills into his stomach. How did she hear about that? Did you tell her?

“That was...not intentional,” you say slowly, carefully.

Hana shoots him a glance with an eyebrow raised, asking him silently whether you were serious. Then she has the audacity to smirk at him—she knows just like every other person in this base, but even she would not be so obtuse as to let it slip. He returns it with a frown and a warning behind it: do not say anything.

“Oh?” The MEKA driver’s voice sounds downright conspiratorial as she turns back to you. “Is that right? Hm.”

Hanzo does not like the look on her face or the tone of her voice—it reminds him too vividly of his brother right before he’s about to commit some heinous act against the family that Hanzo would inevitably have to clean up.

“Chef~” Her voice turns singsong and you shrink away a mere half-step. Hanzo thinks it’s because you’re trying to shield yourself; you may be obstinate against impromptu requests, but you might not be so strong against Hana. “Come on, it’s hot and we can’t go outside. Please?”

“No, Agent D.Va, I cannot allow tha—”

“If you won’t let us into the kitchen, then give us the shaved ice! It’s just ice, Chef. Don’t be so stingy. We’re melting out here and you have...a walk-in? Chef ! Don’t you love us?”

You begin to stammer messy half-assurances and Hanzo and D.Va both know that she’s won. Hanzo huffs through his nose. If it’s this easy to fluster you and convince you to do something, then he has questions about why Winston chose you to be here, to defend the kitchen, to serve them when you’re such a pushover. (Though he remembers the multiple attempts to get Ana’s coveted cookies without success and wonders if it’s not because it’s Hana that you seem more accommodating or if it’s because you’re wary of him.)

Hanzo resists the urge to sigh. “If the chef does not want to, there is little point to force the matter.”

“Wow,” she says, utterly sarcastic. “Way to say that after you tried to break into the Cellar.”

“Hana!”—“Agent Hanzo!?”

“Oop-sies,” she says, already slinking away without a hint of apology. “I still want my shaved ice, Chef!” The young woman tactically retreats, leaving Hanzo to deal with the bombshell she so casually dropped.

He needs to give chase and probably put her training to the test for that, but his legs betray him, staying firmly planned to the ground, and all he can feel is bone-deep exhaustion that he wishes he can blame on the heat.

Almost instinctively, he steels himself for the inevitable loss, the towel wringing dry in his grip: his food will no longer be safe to eat despite your thin reassurances; the one sanctuary he thought he had found in this base that was free from judgment and the politics of his past is also decimated; he will have to start spending the meager salary Overwatch provides (or his own) and suffer not knowing if the restaurant he choose will be acceptable—it truly shouldn’t be so much of an issue considering just what he managed to make himself eat during his years on the run, but he may have unknowingly, unwittingly become conditioned by your cooking, by your devotion, by the quality he never thought he would ever come close to allowing himself to have ever again.

The broiling sorrow nearly bowls him over with its force, sapping him further of strength. Weak. He’s become weak. Luxuries like food should never have been afforded to him, and now you know and there’s little doubt in his mind that you wouldn’t retaliate with something more devastating than your shabby fencing skills.

Then you laugh, breathless and disbelieving, shattering him from his silence.

“She is really too…” You stop yourself, breaking off with another laugh. “It’s all right, Agent Hanzo. I already know. Someone else told me.”

Hanzo cannot help closing his eyes for a moment and tipping his head back, willing himself to not immediately leave and strangle someone. He knew the base was conspiring against him, he knew McCree could not keep his flapping mouth shut.

“McCree had insisted I try.” Since that man’s name is already tarnished by someone else, there’s no point in trying to mask his source anymore.

“Oh? So it was Jesse ? That rascal.” Your voice sounds fond, and he does not miss how you refer to the cowboy by his first name and only that, cannot miss how you don't seem to bear a hint of anger at McCree when you easily directed your rage at him. He tries his best to ignore the unfounded and uncomfortable twist in his stomach.

“When Jesse used to do this, he was one of the few people to do it alone.”

You rest your hands a little more on the sill and he glances down. The cuff of your sleeves lie limp against your wrists, damp.

“I guess he's just done it so much that I'm not surprised anymore.” You chuckle to yourself. “His attempts were pretty bad, you know. Even back in the day, he was big—oh, you know.” You gesture exaggerated measurements in the air. “Big, tall, loud. No one could miss him. Thought he could blow off the door once. That almost screwed up the line for a day. Head Chef was so angry he fed him meatloaf for a week.

“People who did it in a team usually were more successful. Some of them broke the mechanism; we had to load in food from the front for about a week while those guys were reprimanded and getting the door replaced. Others tried to go in from above, but that lead nowhere. There may have been a few who were smarter and tried the other side, but there was no shortage of people trying then. Even I had to fend off a few people—I was better back then, I think.”

He bites the inside of his lip, but can’t suppress the quirk of his lips. You? Better at fending off agents whose lives were dedicated to espionage and covert operations? Impossible.

“I’m a little shorthanded and busy because of it, but I welcome the challenge.” You laugh again. “Though, I’m not sure I’m a match against a ninja. I remember when Agen—ah, no.” You clear your throat and he has a feeling he knows what you’re about to say, but lets it go. He doesn’t want to tread that path either. “Well, I ask that you do not do it that often. I do have a job to do and customers to feed, so I ask you please respect that.”

In spite of himself and the situation, he finds himself smiling just a bit. “We shall see.”

To everyone's joy, you do call them to the cafeteria for shaved ice a couple of hours before dinner. It turns out there was a machine from your cache of unused kitchen equipment. For people who have never had any, it was an interesting and welcome experience. For people like Hana, this was sweet, sweet victory.

You knew this was bad—indulging agents in their requests when does little to improve their health—but you reasoned against all reason that this was an exception, this was fine , and this was not getting in the way of anything even as your communicator rung incessantly. It makes everyone happy and a chef’s greatest joy is the happiness of their customers. What was it your mentor used to say?

“ Love them with all our being. We live for them. We die for them .”

By the time the last of the agents got their little bowl of shaved ice, it was already time to prep for dinner service. You have to swallow back the rising burn and pressure in your stomach as you shove an ice cube into your mouth—it won’t work, you’ll need medicine to handle this, but it’s just so troublesome—and get to responding to your missed messages and calls as you changed out of your drenched chef’s jacket.

Dinner rolls around and it’s then Hanzo realizes that the game has now changed when he receives his tray. He can tell you're watching him carefully, mischievously despite your face being hidden by the wall. That single piece of pepper—harmless, really—sits at the top of his dish where he could easily pick it out and throw it away if it truly bothers him.

But Hanzo Shimada is no coward.

He picks up his chopsticks right at the service window and takes great pleasure at the stuttering gasp you make when he snaps up the sliver and eats it.

“Thank you for the meal,” he says haughtily before taking his tray and walking away.

His only regret is that he could not look you in the eyes as he did so.

Hanzo holes himself into his room, ignoring the damp humidity that clings to him incessantly even after a shower, his belly full enough to put him to an easy lull. However, after tonight’s slight against him, it means that it’s time for him to take it a little more seriously. He doesn’t truly hate the pepper as much as he thought—lightly grilled and seasoned, less bitter than he expected, but it’s the intent behind it that counted. You will regret your transgressions and challenging Hanzo Shimada to a fight.

“Athena. I need the floorplans of this Watchpoint,” he says, sitting in the single chair in his room and picking up his makeshift fan and cooling himself with it.

The AI is silent and Hanzo waits with bated breath for answer. Will she provide them or is she alerting someone that he’s trying to look into something that he may not be authorized for?

“One moment, please.”

Hanzo spends the first few minutes in suspense, almost ready to tell Athena off for wasting his time when his communicator beeps with the arrival of a file. It’s a large file, one that takes a little too long to open and takes up a ridiculous amount of space when it does.

However, what results is a pleasing document of neat lines and even neater notes. (Some part of him says that if he did not take the path of an assassin and lived a normal life, he may have become an architect.) There are areas he recognizes and areas he knows are no longer there, having either been damaged in some manner unknown to him or long replaced by something newer. He doesn’t linger on them, however, quickly seeking out his prize.

Hanzo zooms in on the kitchen area and can almost recall every detail of the area from the plan. If he thinks about it hard enough, he can probably even map out the exact path he took in the little scuffle. To his amusement, nothing’s changed, it seems. Not the counters, not the measurements, nothing seems out of place except...

Hanzo scrolls through several more files, searching and finding nothing. He leans back in his chair with a steady hand over his eyes.

“Athena. Is this all? Is there a floorplan of anything beneath or beyond the kitchen area?”

“Unfortunately, that data is unavailable.”

“What do you mean…’unavailable’? Does it not exist or…” His eyes narrow. “Am I not authorized to see it?”

She pauses. “I cannot answer that, Agent Hanzo.”

Hanzo raises an eyebrow, a slow smirk curling on his lips. Is that the game they're playing? “And who has the authority to see this information?”

Athena sounds just a touch amused as she answers, likely having caught onto his line of thought, “Unfortunately, you do not have the authority to know that either.”

“How can I gain such clearance?”

“The information is distributed on an as-needed basis. Currently, Agent Hanzo, your duties do not require access to this knowledge.”

Maybe a different tactic then. He supposes finding out who can see such information can come later.

“What can you tell me about the Cellar?”

If a voice could do the equivalent of an eyebrow raise, he's sure that Athena would be doing it. “Unfortunately, I do not have access to any information regarding the Cellar.”

“But you do not deny its existence.”

“...no. I cannot.” The relenting tone in her voice makes his stomach clench with some thrill. “However, I cannot condone spaces that I am unaware of. The safety of all agents and staff within the Gibraltar Watchpoint are my prerogative and data of this nature should be centrally managed.”

Hanzo’s mouth drops open slightly, the implications of Athena’s plea only semi-clear.

Is it possible that not even Athena herself has access to the floor plans then?

“Thank you, Athena,” Hanzo says slowly, trying to piece together the hints he’s been given, “you've been very helpful.”

“I am glad to be of assistance.”

Her voice fades, leaving Hanzo in silence to ponder and scheme.

The plans do not hint at a Cellar. Does it mean it was built after these plans were created?

He leans deeper into the chair, a little bit of a smile playing on his face. It should be laughable, the amount of thought and effort he’s putting into this operation. He tells himself it’s all in good fun, it’s a harmless brain-teaser where lives are not in danger and he stands to have a little something to gain from this. There is no reason to stop yet.

He thinks back.

You seem to come out of that door frequently. The boxes you brought seemed to hold produce and ingredients for an empty kitchen. When Athena summoned you, he heard the Cellar door open before you arrived even though you had nothing.

So it is a storage space, then? For more than just alcohol, it seems.

“.. .and there have always been reports of people filching food ...”

Stolen food. Perhaps that’s why the Cellar exists? To defend it? Then what is the point of having a kitchen?

Though, it’s implied that the other chefs were far more capable than you at defending it. Why need the Cellar at all? Is it because the previous Head Chef knew one day it would end up like this, with a single lone chef to defend the treasure that is the food?

“ I kind of wish they were here .”

If so, then why aren’t they here? You had mentioned that they were around, but you are here alone, catering to a base of criminals and defectors. Hanzo supposes they cannot be blamed. No innocent civilian would want to be embroiled into the political mess that is Overwatch and risk their lives just to cook. Though, you did mention an ex-convict.

Hanzo scoffs. Even he knows that a person’s past cannot dictate their future.

“ We wouldn't have been able to compensate them properly .”

Surely Winston could afford hire at least a single bot to guard the door or just one more chef off the streets (even if air conditioning wasn’t affordable). Is it because of the dangers of the job that the compensation is not comparable? But what dangers could you possibly be in? You do not risk your life like the agents do. You do not travel far. You do not put yourself out there to be recognized. You have no bounty on your head. You’re in a base staffed by at least two capable agents at all times. You should have very little to fear other than boredom.

Hanzo furrows his brows, musing idly on the cost it would require to get a civilian to agree to such a dangerous job when strangeness of those words—“ we ”—strikes him, forcing him to sit straight up.

What would a mere chef know about Overwatch’s finances?

“We lost contact with two more agents heading here,” Winston says solemnly. “I suspect more and more Talon agents are converging on Gibraltar.”

“They probably never left,” Soldier: 76 growls, tightening his fist. “Just lying low, waiting for us to split ourselves up and take us down one by one.”

Winston sighs, a wisp of frosty breath fogging his glasses momentarily. “I believe it may only be a matter of time until they decide to rally their forces for a targeted attack. Should we go in for a preemptive attack or wait?”

The former Strike Commander remains silent.

Athena’s icon lights up the monitor. “May I interrupt?”

Winston waves. “Go ahead, Athena.”

“Chef has forwarded an urgent message. Would you like to view it now?”

The two narrow their eyes at the AI’s screen. Urgent? From the chef? The two briefly exchange a glance with each other.

“Yes, please.”

It takes a few moments for the message to appear, too long to have been simply decrypting itself, but even so, it’s ridiculously short. 

'SENDER: OFFICE OF WILL B. PETRAS

RCPT: CŒUR D’ARTICHAUT

AMT: 30,000,000 CREDITS

ACH: XXXXXXXXX0987

RCV: XXXXXXXXX6750

BIC: UNCUUSNY024

MSG: TO YOUR CLIENTS, MY SUPPORT’

An air of sickening silence strangles the two, and Soldier: 76 could feel the words rocking him to his core. He reads it over and over, the implication of the messages turning over new waves of anxiety in his gut.

Winston turns his head to Soldier, looking pallid. “Is...is this the Petras?”

“Affirmative,” Athena answers instead, pulling up an image of the man who Soldier: 76 recognized as the reason for Overwatch’s persecution. It stares impassively into the room, that heavy-set scowl is too familiar to forget. “The chef would like to know how to proceed with this.”

Winston turns to the older man, voice quiet as though the image would hear them. “Do you think...he knows? By all accounts, he should be the last person to have found out—”

“I can't put it past him. That man has eyes and ears in places most people can’t touch.” Soldier crosses his arms, breathing out heavily through his nose. “'Clients,’ huh?” He laughs derisively to himself. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

“I thought...I had believed he hated Overwatch. Athena, are you sure this is meant for us?”

“Affirmative.”

“But why…?”

Soldier: 76 rubs his forehead, a deep sigh rumbling in his chest. There can only be two reasons. One, as a trap, and the other—

“Sometimes, what a person represents and what they personally stand for don’t fit.”

He’s seen it in his time: people who claim one thing for the vote or the money, but secretly do the opposite because that’s what they truly believe in. But Petras was another story. He was so sure, so certain, that Petras truly believed in the drivel he spewed about Overwatch: it was becoming too powerful, too autonomous, that Overwatch is not necessary in times of peace. History has shown what happens to organizations created for war; they either get dismantled or live long enough to take over the country.

Perhaps Petras believed it at one point and is now of a different mind. Or maybe he, too, was forced to play the role designated to him. If he was, he had played it well.

With another rumbling sigh, Soldier straightens up. “This is getting out of hand. We need to pull out of this before this blows up and takes us all with it.”

Winston gasps. “You can’t be suggesting to cut ties and leave the chef to deal with it, are you, sir?”

He shakes his head. “No.” He knows firsthand how that feels. “But this place is no longer safe. Chef is no longer safe. This has gone too far. We must end it. Now.”

“But without Chef’s help, we would’ve never been able to keep the current Overwatch running. We can't just—”

“This is for everyone’s protection.”

Winston was always a bleeding heart who cared more about the people than the mission. He made for a great comrade, but (in his opinion) made for a terrible leader. Leaders need to make difficult decisions all the time and often in opposing interest of the very people it will affect. Winston just doesn’t have the heart to do such a thing, and it’s a miracle that Overwatch has been operating for as long as it did under his instruction.

This only solidifies his concerns that recalling Overwatch was very much a mistake and there’s no telling how many people or lives it may take with it this time. Soldier: 76 knew what he was getting himself into when he begrudgingly answered, but not you. You are just here out of a foolish obligation that should’ve— everything should have —died with the old Overwatch. Continuing this any further can lead to the demise of an otherwise bright future where you could continue doing good without them. Time and again, your presence and involvement has been the point of several heated discussions between himself, Winston, and Ana. Nothing good happens when civilians get involved. While you seemed determined to make a place for yourself here—and doing a damn good job of it, winning everyone over by appealing to the most basic of human desires—he wanted you gone.

“Isn’t it safer here? I mean, just last week we received reports of two more former agents—”

“And they’re only targeting agents. Chefs are not an considered agents and not considered relevant. Before that happens, we have to end this because Chef as hell isn’t going to.”

Talon is dirty, but they should not be so dirty as to go after people who were not directly involved in the missions or other had limited information. Or so he hoped—it was a foolish hope, he knows. (He has never once forgotten Amélie, never once forgotten the promise he made to Gerard’s grave, never once forgot the arguments he had with Gabriel after what happened with Ana and Widowmaker.) Soldier: 76 can reluctantly imagine why they would go after you; you’d make a halfway decent hostage—helpless (compared to the current agents), well-liked, well-connected, and a vital part of Overwatch’s current survival. Your existence, no matter how well protected, cannot be ignored.

He looks to Petra’s impassive image and makes up his mind.

With stern determination, he says, “Athena. Call Chef up here. We have to talk.”

Winston looks lost for a moment, mouth agape and eyes searching the air for an answer as Athena answers, “One momen—”

“ No .” Winston raises himself up to his full height, face set in steely determination. “I will not allow you to jeopardize our relationship with the chef like this. Athena, cancel the call.”

His voice drops to a growl when he asks, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“We will regroup and attempt to make contact with Petras and determine his intentions. If it goes well, it will be a huge leap in re-establishing the legitimacy of Overwatch. We will use this to our advantage and bring Overwatch back from the brink.”

Soldier: 76 sneers, a flare of annoyance offsetting the chill of the room, the naivety of Winston’s words sparking nostalgic bitterness from a younger Jack Morrison who had no direction or help.

“You’re making a mistake. We need to stop this operation. Now.”

“Unfortunately, Soldier, I do not recall you volunteering to be the leader.”

Those words lodge a stone in his jaw, preventing him from retaliating. They both stare each other down for a moment before Soldier spits, “Think you can do my job, can you?”

Winston frowns. “Someone has to.”

Chapter 11>>

[overdrivels]

The Way to a Heart (2)

You all underestimate how much I love this character. I also want to thank @dickbutt-writes-again for listening to me freak out so patiently, and giving such concise advice. It’s really helpful.

<<Chapter 1

Your day starts whenever your customers demand it, whether it be seven in the evening for Reinhardt's warm milk or three in the afternoon for Ana's 'tea parties'. The three main meals of the day are also ad-hoc as the agents are always coming in and out of the base at unpredictable times, work through their mealtimes, and (perhaps the worst offense of all) just plain refuse to eat.

Your day ended whenever all agents have retired for the day (or night); those days are few and far between. It wouldn't do to be unavailable when an agent is going hungry, so the time in between orders are filled with other tasks: cleaning, prep work, checking inventory, attending and scheduling remote meetings, planning menus, updating ledgers, maintaining the kitchen tools, etc. The days of twenty chefs in the kitchen at its peak hours (six at its lowest), everyone with a specific responsibility, are long gone.

Sleep came in the form of naps that pass in a blink. A proper night’s rest was impossible with agents like McCree, who is constantly haunted by nightmares and seek the companionship of alcohol to keep them at bay, and Agent D.Va, who refuses to sleep at an appropriate time and wanders often into the cafeteria in search of a late night snack (and some interesting, albeit one-sided, conversations).

Mornings, however quick they come, bring about the need to double check inventory to ensure that no one has come into the kitchen and filched anything. While Athena keeps the place under close watch while you sleep and will alert you of any intruders, she's not omnipotent.

You bite your lip as you go through the numbers, slipping in and out of the walk-in freezer, counting up near-empty containers, meticulously labeled in blue tape and sorted by category.

It shouldn't surprise you so much since the growth of the organization would naturally come with the growth of appetites, but whenever Agent Hanzo orders, the food supplies deplete rapidly. At first, you had chalked it up to malnutrition from being on the run for so long and not having a proper meal, but it is beginning to wear on your limited resources. It’s lucky he’s not at the base often, having to get shipped off with other agents for various missions. (Though, the demands for seconds never fails to make you smile and your heart swell—nothing is better than to know your customers have a healthy appetite and enjoy your cooking.) Between him, Agent Zarya, Agent Reinhardt, and Agent Roadhog, it’s impossible to predict just how much food you’d need without over-ordering.

"Athena. Stats, please."

From one of the screens high above the kitchen, once (and still is) used to show the incoming orders, the statistics of how many calories each agent has burned and a rough estimate of how much they consumed (and lost) within the past twenty-four hours are posted for your scrutiny.

You thin your lips and pace the kitchen, tapping the notepad in your hand. Agent Soldier: 76 has been at the top of the charts lately, and returning his food only half-finished and cold hours later. (It’s painful in more ways than one when you have to scrape off the crusted remains; it makes sleep even more difficult to come by). There's also the matter of Agent Symmetra's dietary restrictions; Agent Mei’s lactose intolerance; Agent D.Va’s preference for spicy food; Agent Reinhardt’s health; the list goes on and on.

As disappointing as it is, it's also a blessing that some agents do not require food (like Agent Zenyatta, who politely passes by your window with a gentle greeting and a friendly wave that you would return shyly. Agent Winston, on the other hand, refuses to eat much beyond peanut butter related delectables and takes the combined effort of Athena and yourself to convince him to eat something different.

You flip through your list again, already mentally trying to piece together a menu for today's meals and snacks from the limited ingredients. There’s always an abundance of rice, so you may have to stick with that again. Maybe some congee for breakfast with some shredded ginger on top (extra ginger for Agent Solider: 76 to open up his appetite). That could help with the rationing, but it’s not necessarily something that all agents would enjoy. Maybe oatmeal should also be given as an option today. But then it’d require toppings that you don’t have.

You turn a page, pursing your lips.

Perhaps the flour reserved specifically for Captain Amari's cookies may have to find its way into everyone else's food. (It's a secret stash of ingredients specially ordered for the woman's afternoon tea gatherings. You took great joy in watching these sessions from the screens in your kitchen, oven still hot and kettle at the ready in case more provisions were needed. You had watched friendships forged over the buttery, crumbly treats, and several relationships mended from a single cup of tea.)

You shake your head of the thought. No, you could never do that to her. The old Head Chef would have your head (but not before Captain Amari did).

Perhaps from another source...

Your sigh echoes in the cavernous kitchen.

The notepad is placed onto an empty counter, and you roll up your sleeves.

It's four days until the next shipment, almost all agents are present. Running out to buy more ingredients is plausible, but risky, and funds were being allocated elsewhere at the moment. If you’re careful and creative enough, you can stretch the current inventory over these remaining days. 

And the health and well-being of the agents always came first.

You'll make this work somehow.

Two days have passed.

You chew some mint leaves, the soothing taste counteracts the slow burning in your stomach that is slowly crawling up into your chest that you steadfastly ignore.

‘Captain Amari prefers this without sauce and a lemon wedge,’ you remind yourself as you finish plating the fish. You reach into the garnish counter with shaky fingers and place the citrus slice beside the well-seasoned, pan-roasted sea bass fillet with blistered asparagus and grape tomatoes. Two slices of thick bread (no butter), her tea (dark like the night with mint), and her appetizers are at the ready on the tray.

You deliver it to the window where the woman waits—you didn’t even have to ring the bell.

The woman slides the tray over to the side, leaning in and down onto the counter. "Have you eaten yet?"

The insides of your stomach prickles and aches at the question, and you have to resist the urge to press down on it. Captain Amari is far too sharp for a woman of her years.

You thread your fingers together to disguise the trembling.

A thick french accent rises from your memories, sharp and loud, "Chefs do not eat until their customers have eaten." It echoes in your mind, stabbing itself into your stomach repeatedly.

"I will," you lie. "After, after I have served everyone." The paltry numbers of today's inventory flashes through your head.

She huffs, disbelieving. "In that case, I will not be having my cookies today."

"You...won't?"

Your mind betrays you and immediately begins concocting recipes that could make use of the eggs, flour, butter, and sugar that the sniper's cookies normally call for. Tortillas, pancakes, velouté sauce, pretzels, soufflés--the possibilities stream in like a torrent at the behest of your aching stomach. It's enough to make you salvate just a bit.

"No, I believe I've had my fill for now."

Integrity shocks your mind out of its gluttonous stupor of handmade pasta, puff pastry, vol-au-vent, and pierogi, and you slap your hands against the counter in alarm.

"Are the, the cookies no longer to your satisfaction? Do they require adjustment? Too much sugar? Too little sugar? Should I change the flour?"

She chuckles, one bony hand resting firmly atop yours. You jerk back, but her grip is too strong. She leans down and pokes her head through the window to peer at you with her single eye. You lean back and look away--her gaze is too sharp, she can likely see the weariness beneath your eyes and the crackling of your lips. You run your tongue over them self-consciously.

“Feed yourself,” she chides firmly, wagging a finger. “Do not make me come in there.”

It is against the rules for non-kitchen staff to enter this sanctuary, but even so, you took her threat to heart. “Yes, madame.” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

"Close the kitchen for an hour, and eat." Without giving you any room for argument, she picks up her tray and walks away, the tail of her jacket flowing behind her.

The quiet holds you for a moment before you look up at the screen. It's blank, but the clock is nearing noon. Closing the kitchen now would mean that the agents would have to wait until you're finished, and that wouldn't do. Maybe you could get by with chewing on some more mint until after lunch is served.

You suddenly grab your midsection when the fire in your stomach flares up angrily as if to protest your decisions, dry coughs disappearing into the sleeve of your elbow. It takes a few moments for you to compose yourself, but by then, your vision is swimming with dots of blues, greens, and whites.

Maybe you should heed Captain Amari's wisdom, after all.

When Ana comes for her afternoon tea, before you hand off her order, you ask again, “Arre you absolutely certain you would not like to have your cookies, Cap--Agent Ana?”

Granted, it would take half an hour to make them at this point, but the nagging in your mind remains.

"I'm very sure," she assures you. “Have you eaten yet?”

Embers still burn in your stomach, but it's bearable--not worth a mention.

“I have, thank you."

It’s the spare heads, fins, and tails of the seabass you have served everyone made into a broth over some leftover rice, but was still a meal that placated your stomach. (You had decided to save the ingredients Captain Amari so generously offered for another occasion—maybe make her some aish baladi—Egyptian bread. It’s not your strong point, but it was something you were willing to attempt for her.)

"Good. You must keep yourself in good health, we are counting on you.” 

“Yes, madame.” 

She scoffs, muttering something fond under her breath as she hefts the tray. "Now, I don’t suppose you could join us today?"

It’s not the first time she’s asked you to join her for tea. But what if someone orders and you're not there to receive it? What if they see you sitting around, joking, laughing, and making merry with the other agents while they stand at the terminal, waiting?

Your hands fly to your face and you inhale sharply. No, that won't do. Eating with your customers is something you can’t do. A chef does not eat before or during their customer’s meal times without someone there to cover.

“Thank you for the offer, but—I couldn’t.”

The older Amari hums contemplatively. "We'll get you to join us one day."

“Please enjoy your tea,” you say, pretending that her comment was just kind teasing and not a threat.

“Where are the cookies?” is the immediate reaction from Hanzo, who has started to become a regular member of these little get-togethers. 

"Why, is that all this old woman is good for? Are the cookies the only reason you keep me company?”

“I--no, you are mistaken.” Hanzo looks away, crossing his arms tightly against himself. 

“I’m just teasing,” she says warmly, placing the tray of cups and kettle on the table. Hanzo grunts, acknowledging the sentiment, but still indignant.

"Oh, let me." Mei is quick to lay out the cups and pour the tea while Ana takes her rightful seat. Hanzo looks irked that he would not be having Ana’s specialty cookies today, but a quick pat from the senior sniper on his arm changes that.

"Don't pout. We'll have some next time."  

"I do not pout. Do not be ridiculous."

She gives him a smug look over the rim of her cup that he tries to pointedly ignore with a loud slurp of his tea and winces at the taste--just a little too dark, doused far too heavily in sugar and mint.

From the kitchen, you stifle a laugh behind your hand as you watch Hanzo's reaction from the screens where the orders normally appear, jotting down in your notepad to make up for this lack of cookies, and that Agent Hanzo dislikes Koshary tea. 

Chapter 3>>