Chapter Text
Part I - Dragon
Thwak.
The sound of the arrow striking the straw target was muffled. Hanzo frowned, even though he’d hit the center mark.
The effects of his molting period were in full swing. It made his skin itchy, his senses dull, and his patience thinner than usual. Having to spend several weeks feeling uncomfortable in his own skin while his mythical half underwent part of its life cycle was always irritating. He became constantly tired, unsure of what he was seeing and hearing, and uncertain of his balance, stamina, and skill.
Hanzo was supposed to still be at Overwatch headquarters, attending a debriefing about the situation in London. But he simply hadn’t been able to stand being in a stuffy, sterile room listening to one of the Omnics drone about statistics and troop deployment in a standoff that he wasn’t going to be a part of anyway. That was the commander’s mission, and he’d already made it clear who was assigned to that team. Hanzo, along with several other members of Overwatch, were twiddling their thumbs on standby.
Hanzo didn’t like waiting. And he didn’t like being bored. And he especially didn’t like waiting around bored while his molting phase began.
Thwak.
The arrow shuddered in the target, just left of the bullseye. Annoyed, Hanzo shook his left arm and scratched at the dragon tattoo. “Stop it,” he muttered.
He pushed aside the feelings of restlessness, glad that no one was there to witness his mistake. The tiny practice range had once been a bunker, part of the original Overwatch headquarters. Since the new construction, some of the old buildings and storage hangars had been emptied and abandoned. This was one such area, not far from the active base, but distanced enough that Hanzo could set up his range and practice as long as he liked without being interrupted or gawked at by onlookers and trainees.
He reset his stance, pulled another arrow, and sighted down the shaft.
Thwak, thwak, thwak.
Three times in rapid succession the arrows hit their marks, not a single one of them off target. More satisfied, Hanzo drew another arrow, and this time closed his eyes.
Thwak.
Dead center.
A low whistle of admiration came from the side of the practice range. Hanzo whirled, arrow notched, ready to fire.
“Whoa, whoa! Sorry!” McCree held up his hands, a grimace of embarrassment on his face. He took half a step sideways, so that the arrow was no longer aimed at his chest. “Didn’t mean to intrude. I didn’t think anyone would be here.”
Hanzo narrowed his eyes and didn’t move. How had he not sensed McCree’s approach? His heightened dragon senses -- in their dull molting phase or not -- should have made it easy to hear anyone who tried to enter the space. And McCree, especially, should have been obvious. The man was practically defined by the stench of tobacco, leather, gunsmoke and sweat. But as Hanzo stared, still aiming his arrow, he couldn’t seem to catch any of those familiar scents. Instead there was an odd, unnatural tang to the air.
His hands still up, McCree broke the silence. “Sooo...that was a hell of a shot just then. Don’t even have to look to aim, do ya?”
Hanzo drew in a deep breath, trying to taste the air on the back of his throat. This scent was completely unfamiliar. He could feel the dragon stirring inside him, as if it were being drawn to the aroma. Usually the dragon spirits didn’t respond to anything other than their own kind. Hanzo and Genji could of course sense each other’s spirits and communicate, among other things, but that was only because both of them harbored a dragon. The fact that a human’s presence could have an affect on the mythical being was unsettling.
McCree rocked back and forth on his toes, averting his eyes awkwardly from the intense stare he was getting. “Alrighty then! Well, I can see I’m bothering you, so I’ll just be going…”
Hanzo abruptly straightened and relaxed, suddenly aware of how long he had been holding his aim and how he must appear. He schooled his face to an impassive expression. “No, you don’t have to leave. I...apologize. I was very focused, but I did not mean to be rude.”
McCree hesitated a moment, as though he were still debating whether or not to leave. Hanzo chided himself inwardly -- he must have really given off a bad impression of his mood.
But a moment later McCree seemed to take him at his word. The gunman turned to face him fully again, a half smirk on his face. “That’s all right. I get focused myself sometimes with training. I get it.”
Hanzo waved an arm towards the targets. “If you would like to use the range, please, be my guest.”
“Naw, I wasn’t aiming to take over your space. I was just on a walk and I heard somebody in here, so I came to see, that’s all. Besides, straw doesn’t hold up too well against bullets.” As soon as he said the words, they seemed to give McCree an idea. He straightened, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Although they do make a fun explosion with the hay. Wanna see?”
Hanzo had no particular interest in watching someone else play target practice, especially while he still felt the need to work on his own reflexes. But his arm itched and tremored again, telling him that whatever progress he had made would probably be gone again in the next moment. And besides that, he had just offered the range to McCree.
He nodded. “As I said. Be my guest.”
McCree practically skipped across the distance between them, revolver already twirling in his hand. Hanzo blinked, wondering how he had missed seeing the man draw the weapon from its holster.
McCree set himself in an easy but sturdy stance just a few paces away from where Hanzo stood in the center of the range. “Center target, top left corner,” he said, keeping his eyes trained unblinking on Hanzo.
The shot rang out, and Hanzo tensed at the sudden blast of noise, though he didn’t flinch. It did remind him of one of the reasons he disliked firearms -- the overwhelming sound of them could make a man deaf, and always left him bewildered as to how anyone could maintain their concentration while using them.
McCree’s grin died. “If ya didn’t really want to see any straw explosions, all ya had to do was say no.”
Hanzo blinked, and again realized he’d been staring -- directly at McCree. The two of them had stood there, gazes locked, while McCree fired. And Hanzo realized something else as McCree’s expression fell to disappointment -- the reason McCree had looked at him instead of the target was because he had been trying to match Hanzo’s earlier feat of shooting without looking. And Hanzo had completely missed seeing the shot.
“I’m sorry,” Hanzo apologized quickly, “I was...distracted.”
“A minute ago you were too focused. Make up your mind, Han!” McCree tossed the jab with a laugh to show he was joking, but looked nervous a moment later, as though afraid the tease might come across as an insult.
Hanzo tried to relax his expression, to put the man at ease. He turned to look down the range, and saw the upper left corner of the center target completely obliterated. “Please, continue. I will pay closer attention this time.”
“Well, don’t feel like you gotta take it too seriously, now, this is just for fun. But if you insist -- center low, right high, left bullseye!” With barely a flick of his wrist, McCree sounded off three rapid shots. The bottom of the center target blew out, making it jump and topple; the upper half of the right target vanished in a puff of straw; and the left target shuddered, spraying straw in all directions as a gaping hole appeared at its center.
Hanzo cocked an eyebrow, and sneaked a sidelong glance at McCree. The self-proclaimed cowboy was still staring straight at him -- he’d never sighted down the range at all.
While he was impressed, Hanzo was not one to ever admit to such, or give encouragement to others. Instead, he maintained his calm expression and said pointedly, “You have two shots left.”
To his surprise, McCree seemed not only to understand the challenge, but was amused by it as well. His eyebrows shot up and his smile turned up with mirth. “So I do,” he said. With a flick of his thumb, he set the bullet chamber spinning. As it whizzed around, McCree stared straight at Hanzo, smirked, and said, “Fletching.”
The shot cracked the air, despite the fact that McCree never halted the barrel’s rotation. And although none of the targets moved or showed any signs of being hit, instead -- and Hanzo could only see it because of his heightened vision -- the thin line of feathered fletching on one of his arrows, still stuck in the target, was shaved clean off.
This time Hanzo very nearly did say something. Just in time he tamped down the word of praise that rose to his tongue, but he eyed McCree with a new respect. If that was the kind of shot he came up with after a casual challenge, Hanzo wondered what else the man could really do. Carefully schooling his features, he nodded sagely at McCree. “You still have one shot left.”
McCree only grinned, and holstered the revolver. “Gotta save something for next time, don’tcha think?” He spun on his heel, casually waving as he strode away. “Thanks for lettin’ me join in the fun for a bit, Hanzo. See ya!”
As McCree turned away, his serape billowed with the movement. The air it displaced was minute; it couldn’t even be called a ‘breeze’ or even a ‘puff’ of air. But to the sensitive dragons that resided in Hanzo, it was enough to carry another hint of the strange scent.
Hanzo could practically feel the two spirits coiling, both of them interested. And although Hanzo couldn’t catch the scent as intensely as the spirits he carried, he could tell that it was decidedly not human.
Hanzo frowned as McCree walked away, exiting the target range and whistling as he went. McCree had never touted himself as anything other than a normal human, and no one at Overwatch had hinted at anything unnatural about him, either. All of his files were standard, and his skill set -- while impressive -- was still well within the range of mortal. But there was no mistaking it. Even if Hanzo hadn’t noticed the inhuman scent, the fact that the dragon spirits were responding to McCree with such interest was evidence enough.
The only other person Hanzo had ever felt the supernatural connection to was his brother. Seeing as they both harbored mythical beings in their souls, it was only natural. But while he and Genji certainly never flaunted their abilities, they hadn’t ever tried to hide them either. Everyone at Overwatch -- and the world, for that matter, since it was a publicly recognized organization -- knew that he could summon the spirits, and a large part of Genji’s martial skills was dependent on his own dragon.
So why had no one mentioned McCree’s mythical connection? And what was the connection, exactly?