南の風の竜

He couldn’t believe this. McCree had a mission, and this man was in the way. He could easily rip the damn thing out of his shoulder and slap down a handy-dandy biotic field, but no. Hanzo absolutely had to have his way, distract Jesse from the mission, and be the reason he’d get chewed out later.

Can’t wait for that lecture.

The second Hanzo tried that cute little move with the hand, though— McCree PROMPTLY bit Hanzo’s hand, his teeth aching slightly at how hard he had done so. No one shuts Jesse McCree up mid-sentence.

   “As I was sayin’. You keep on threatenin’ me like that, and    yer gonna have some real trouble. You best not mess with    the best shot west of Santa Fe, ya hear me? Best believe I’ll    be comin’ for ya faster than you can shoot one of yer fancy    little arrows there.”

Ungrateful dog. Hanzo recoiled with a sharp grunt, but rather than move or withdraw, his hand snapped lower, a palm finding the jutting curve of a throat, his thumb pushing against the heavy pulse humming below. The skin under it was warm, flush with life-- 

“You’ve a talent for barking.”

It was not beyond him to make this body grow cold.

Hanzo, tied up and beaten, is being held captive by enemies of the Shimadas. He had once been yakuza -- he knows full well what to expect, but he does not dare give them the satisfaction of seeing him fall. Wrists cuffed behind him and anchored to his chair, Hanzo is bloody and bruised and his anger burns bone deep. Welts blooms under cigarette burns. It aches to scowl, his lip split from a well-aimed punch. There is a throbbing pain in his scalp, and he’s no one to blame but the fool who’d yanked him by the hair, the one who’d forced him to respect them and revere them.

Then, asked to give up what he knows of the Shimadas, Hanzo nearly laughs. He may have left his clan, but he is proud and, above all else, cannot renounce the blood in his veins. 

The gang soon realizes that their efforts will not bear fruit; he is a lost cause for he will not budge. Luckily for them, however, Shimada Hanzo is worth far more dead than he is alive. However, they’ve miscalculated: they have missed their opportunity to slay the fallen heir. So, with the copper tang of blood on his tongue, Hanzo looks up and growls, “You should have killed me when you had the chance.”

Somehow, just somehow, this guy reminded him of his dad. Probably not a compliment. But then again, he wasn’t trying very hard to work at blending in. “You’d be surprised how subtle I could’ve been if I needed to.” Not that Desmond would follow up with actually making an effort, but it was more conversational than anything, since he wasn’t on a mission and presumptively they weren’t here to fight.

           Things were quiet in the base today. 

She was no regular here - her presence ebbed and flowed - but she had visited enough times since the recall to learn the names and faces of most. 

Though, some, she needn’t learn at all.

Leaving from the employee’s kitchen had her momentarily pause in step, all to allow her heel to catch the door an inch before its closure. Instead, she guided it, allowing the latch to gently slip into place - a whisper few would notice above the usual filtering of environmental stimuli, lest one be so enamored by their own paranoia that they need observe each and every sensory detail to an exhaustive extent. She knew well this life produced such broken souls.

         Her attempts at stealth were perhaps in vain however, for as she walked her boots met in audible rhythm with the tiled floor. She mocked herself internally, and almost smiled humorously at her own failed attempts at caution.

But she would not reconsider. 

On so few occasions were it convenient to speak with the man whose name she was already familiar with. - The world she lived in permeated the circles of his family’s empire, and he carried their name even if he desired no longer to associate with the reason it was so infamous to her. A fibrous scar he could not disassociate from. It was for these reasons there was caution in her step; for these reasons she did not want witnesses upon the eve of their meet.

She set a cup upon the table at the Shimada’s left side. A hazy, verdant liquid, emanating a steam which carried with it the smell of bitter, leafy tones, reminiscent of green tea. She hoped it at best a peace offering to better placate the man’s opinion of her disturbing his peace. 

                “You’re the Shimada, aren’t you?”

Spoken softly at least. She knew how coarsely this man could offer his responses, and how cynical he’d grown of the world.

It was simple: your eyes were prone to playing tricks on you.

So, back turned and lids shut, Hanzo sat blind to the motions of the world. But despite all appearances, this calm and vulnerability, Hanzo remained ever vigilante. Wary. Truth was, for men of his ilk – the spurned and the damned – paranoia was a lifeline. And abandoning sight, Hanzo had never been more aware, attuned to the static hum of his surroundings. 

From the click of her heels to her wispy exhales, she was never more real.

“You ask as though you don’t already know.”

He remained as still as stone, alone in the wash of the setting sun. Cast in the glow of dusk, the dragon under his skin burned to life, threatening and alive like the wake of a coming storm… This man wasn’t just the Shimada. He was Shimada Hanzo. 

“Do not play coy. My name is of no mystery to you.” Bluntly stated, though not hostile, there remained an air of formality in him, something regal in his danger. Sad, really, how he still wore the image of an esteemed heir so well. Old habits, however, were said to die hard. “And neither are the exploits of my clan.” 

Lifting his head, Hanzo moved to regard her, a subtle gesture in the slightest turn of his chin. Out of his peripheral, she wandered, eyes catching the cup she had brought with her. 

“The same could be said of you. ‘The Viper of Valenti need only strike once’.” With her family’s reputation, how could they not be known in criminal undergrounds the world over?

When he finally met her gaze, the look was cautiously sharp.

   he rolls his eyes again at the archer’s high-and-mighty attitude, shifting in his seat as metal fingers clink against glass.  what a surprise that the man would even hand him his precious drink, and accede to the cowboy’s invitation otherwise. mccree grins up at him, taking the gourd and gently cradling it as he tried to peer into the container. a pause, hearing hanzo’s challenge, before he tips his head up and chugs as much as he can in answer. he sets it down with an exhale, feeling the dry taste of the alcohol in the back of his mouth. “ jesus, ” he wheezes, making a face. “ that’s some sorta drink. sobered me up REAL quick. ”

     ❝ i–––er–––that was TODAY…? ❞ the young sparrow pulled a sheepish grin. ❝ i uh…–––ahem–––i took it upon myself to practice my free running, brother. i guess the time got away from me…. ❞

But Hanzo? Well, he came in and his last name must have sounded the warning bells immediately. Hanzo. Hanzo Shimada– The one and only brother to Genji Shimada. Perhaps it summoned old memories of their comrade and companion, the senior members recalling the state that Genji had been left in when he’d been found. The anger that sat heavy in his gut. The grief he’d been forced to endure and overcome. They probably remembered the moment when they learned what had happened to him, asking themselves what sort of man would do that to his own kin? Perhaps some, understandably, had decided that, no matter what, they could never forgive the person responsible for Genji’s suffering. He did not deserve it. After all, the man is no hero, and while many others entering Overwatch came from less than savory backgrounds, assassin Hanzo Shimada had also nearly killed his own brother. Their friend. Naturally, it made him a bit of a more “personal” offense.

    The woman could not help but grin at the challenge presented before her. She wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth onto the back of her hand, and she stood, straightening herself to her full height. 

    She positioned herself to fight. Her right foot in front with the left behind and to the side, and her bloodied fists up, like her feet, right in front of left, ready to guard quickly.

    Her icy blue eyes looked at her opponent without fear. If this is how she died, she would go down fighting.

But what was resolve without ability? Persistence without skill? It was noble of her to fight with such passionate conviction, but without the means to kill him, it meant nothing.

“Your contractor should have warned you of me – or did you think me so weak as to yield so easily?”

So, was this all for show, or could the dragon finally fall here? Fall to her? Hanzo circled her in measured steps, gauging his opponent before surging forward to strike. Twisting her wrists behind her, forceful and harsh, the bowman moved quickly to force her to the wall.

He always favored this position; those sent to kill him must fight to see his face.

It seemed, what had brought him to Japan in the first place had finally found him. He’d been warned, told to stay away as there was a man out for the bounty on his head, but when did Jesse McCree turn down a challenge? To say he could not feel the eyes boring into him would be a lie, he’d been aware of the archers presence for quite some time.

The cowboy stopped when, at last, the man approached him. Bow drawn, Jesse found himself face to face with the one he’d been warned of, his own lips turned upwards in a smirk. There was a small scratch on his temple, blood bubbled at the skin though never dripped, from the warning shot the archer had taken.

Mechanical hand came to rest on Peacemaker, though the weapon was not drawn yet, “Ya know my name, so, why don’t ya tell me yours?” He greeted, cocoa gaze dark under the light of the moon, it glinted with specks of red that never seemed to fully fade.

“I’ve a death wish just bein’ alive, darlin’. You’re nothin’ new,” Jesse gave a snort, mechanical fingers tapping lightly against the side of his weapon.

“And what have I to gain in satisfying the wishes of a dead man?”

He presented himself with a swagger, all threatening nonchalance and reckless arrogance. It was demeaning. Reckless. Smile curving his lips, roguish and daring, McCree goaded with honeyed words, taunts slipping from his lips with the same ease as his smoky exhales. Hanzo glowered at him as he tapped his revolver, smelled the nicotine in the air. 

Belittling him as he did… “You are fit only to bark.”

And where his eyes were dark as night, this target’s held a blooming crimson, wild and feral… It was decided: Hanzo despised them. 

“But if it is death you desire,” he remarked as he readied his bow, “you have found it.” 

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        “Self P I T Y will only make you weak…but why do I bother              telling you, you’re already so P A T H E T I C.” 

“Have you come to lecture me, or to have me grant you what it is you seek?” Death: the one thing that eluded him. Escaped him. 

Additionally: for why: rping with you on carla (EVEN THO IT WAS BREIF) was a blast and I look forward to continuing

Send 👍 if you like my character portrayal; please say why.