Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"So? Feelin' any better 'bout all this?"

The cowboy's question came as they made their way back to Compartment 5, together this time. 

Before, it had been imperative that at least one agent made it to the supplies compartment to negotiate with Rutledge and Fawkes. Now that negotiations were complete, being discovered by a crew member or being shot by one of the other compartments' occupants was far less consequential. 

Dr. Ziegler was nearby. Even if fellow passengers caught them, so long as they did not get their brains blasted out and lost among the machinery and pebbles and dust far below, the mission could continue.

Nor would it be that terrible if they were caught by the crew. They would be reprimanded and they would apologize and most likely be escorted back to their compartment like naughty school boys, but it would not matter.

The alliance was sealed.

So while they were being careful--which, for a former Shimada kumichō and former black ops agent, was virtually undetectable--they need not pull out all the stops. Hanzo did not even have his camouflage suit turned on, since the cowboy was not cloaked in any way.

"Hup!" the cowboy grunted as he jumped over the meter-and-a-half empty space above the giant couplers connecting compartments 6 and 7. "Well?"

"Yes," Hanzo replied after making the same jump silently. 

"Good! That's--good!" the cowboy said with another grunt as he hoisted himself up a ladder that led to a maintenance hatch hidden among the giant mechanisms of the caravan. It allowed access to the undercarriage below the compartment itself, between the massive treads. The cowboy had rather triumphantly revealed the first of them to Hanzo when they started their way back. 

While it certainly explained his undetected passage down to the supplies compartment, Hanzo had felt somewhat put out that the cowboy had not shared its existence with him earlier, but, much like his assumptions about the cowboy forgetting or taking advantage of their partnership, his reaction was not justified.

"I guessed something like this would be here," the cowboy had explained with a touch of smug self-congratulation. "Didn' get a chance t'see if I was right 'til now, but it's just the same as some of the hypertrains back in the States. Still--stroke of luck for the more visible among us, huh?"

"It is not monitored?" Hanzo had asked, squatting to examine the hatch's edges for a sensor.

"Sure is, but what with all this dust floatin' around, a lot of it's settled down on every surface available, includin’--"

Hanzo nodded. It had been a gamble, but the steady march of technology had not quite bested the tools at nature's disposal, humble as they might seem. Even the highest-end detectors could often be defeated by a layer of fine dust, and radioactive dust likely only added to the problem.

In addition, At-the-Tready, impressive as she was, was not exactly cutting-edge. Smaller, more advanced electronic circuitry was often more vulnerable to radiation because more critical components were packed in a smaller cross-section, enabling a single radioactive particle or electromagnetic ray to wreak proportionally more damage. Obsolete tech thus often found a second life, or simply a longer one, out here in the radioactive wasteland.

Sure enough, when they had entered the first of the hatches and low accessways, which obligated them to crawl on their hands and knees, everything around them was absolutely covered with dust except for the trail of handprints and streaks the cowboy had left from his first passage. Their return kicked up more as they went along, but both men had put their masks back on long before they needed them.

The cowboy’s clothes, luckily, picked up relatively little contamination, much like Hanzo's camouflage suit. One of Dr. Ziegler's many, many precautions before entering the Outback was spraying as many of their possessions with coatings of dust and water repellent as could take it. It was not as effective as the nano-webbing of Hanzo's suit, but it would mean they could actually use most of those items when the mission was over instead of burying them all in a hazardous waste landfill.

The doctor had not foreseen this particular contingency, but her thoroughness meant they could make most of their trip undercover and with a great deal of privacy, enabling them to discuss many subjects before they returned to the rest of Overwatch--though they had kept to official business until this very last hatch and crawlway.

"D'you--feel better now because we're doin' something?" the cowboy asked.

"Yes," Hanzo said immediately. "It is not my first choice to ally with them, but we are potentially in a better position overall, even if they betray us."

"Takin' Song's view, then?"

"Yes. Either way, we have greater influence, which is preferable to none at all." 

"Ouch! We had none at all before? We just weren' doin' our jobs, were we?"

Hanzo rolled his eyes. "Comparatively little influence."

"That's better, I guess."

"What is your opinion on their dynamic?" Hanzo asked, pausing just before they reached the end of the accessway. 

This was their last chance to speak privately, as partners, before they rejoined Overwatch. 

"It's--interesting," the cowboy mused as he slumped over on his left side so he could rub his chin with his right hand-- or at least rub the bottom of his gas mask. "It's hard t'tell who's in charge, ain' it? Junkrat's supposed t'be an insane loose cannon, but he seems t'value Roadhog's opinion, in his own way. Roadhog, on the other hand, seems t'know when he needs t'step in and step out--or maybe it's not so much knowin' as bein' unafraid t'step in and out. Quite the--uh." 

"Yes?" Hanzo prompted.

"Quite the partnership, I was gonna say." 

Hanzo looked at the cowboy, surprised at his plaintive tone. The cowboy was not meeting his gaze, focusing instead on one of the dustprints he had left behind on his first journey through.

"You--wish to emulate them?" Hanzo asked, unable to keep a little incredulity from creeping into his voice.

"Well, yeah, kinda," the cowboy admitted. "I don' wanna copy 'em tit for tat, explosive rampages and all, but bein' able t'just--jump in. And know that each of us can just jump in and the other'll catch 'im. That's kinda the goal of every partnership, ain' it?" 

"I did go along with this plan with almost no questions asked," said Hanzo heavily.

"Yeah, but A: you didn' like it and B: I wasn' steppin' in. You thought I was steppin' all over you." 

"That was mainly an issue of communication," Hanzo argued, "which is to be expected. This is the first mission that has tested our partnership, and there will be issues. We must simply identify them and resolve them as they occur, and move on." 

Now the cowboy side-eyed him, looking almost shy, if such was possible at such an odd moment. "So you were--expectin' this t'happen?"

"Not this, specifically," Hanzo said slowly, though it was probably not what the cowboy meant.

"Yeah, naw, I just mean--you expected us t'have problems."

"Of course. I have said as much before."

"But you're willin' t'take 'em in stride and work past 'em."

Hanzo furrowed his brow. "I must. We must."

"Well, yeah, we gotta," the cowboy said, nodding vigorously. "'Course we gotta. I just--since--I guess I just figured you t'be more of a--a perfectionist." 

The cowboy stopped. And waited.

Hanzo had no idea how he was expected to respond.

"Have--" he asked at last. "Have I--been too inflexible?"

"No!" The cowboy blurted. "No, naw, no no. Not at all, actually. You've been-- real flexible. Maybe--a little-- too flexible?"

Hanzo blinked, furrowing his brow. "I--do not understand what you are trying to say." 

The cowboy shifted, the motion all-the-more awkward from being on his hands and knees and all but pressed up against Hanzo in the cramped space.

"It's just--you went along with this cuz you felt you had to. Were you--ever--gonna bring that up?" 

Hanzo thought for a few moments. "I do not know," he said with a frown. "This all happened extremely quickly. I was fairly--ah--"

"Annoyed? Pissed off? Second-guessin'?"

"Wary. Of what it might imply, both now and in the future."

"Ah."

"But whether I would have broached the topic later? I do not know. I was in the midst of the mission when it came up on its own--that is to say, when you brought it up. I had only fifteen or twenty minutes to analyze the situation, while distracted. Hardly enough time to decide what to do, if anything."

"True," the cowboy sighed, shuffling the weight on his elbows. "Guess we'll never know then."

Hanzo's frown deepened slightly at his pessimistic tone. "Yes, we do. Somewhat."

"Huh?"

"You checked in on our status and discovered the disagreement."

"Not in time to make a real difference, though. We were already committed."

"Not according to you. You wished to abort." 

"Well, yeah, but--didn' you feel obligated at that point?"

Hanzo tried to roll his shoulders back, but on his hands and knees like this, it was more of a shrug. "I admit I did not entertain the idea of abandoning the mission, but you gave me the opportunity, and I used it to modify our plan and objectives and make them more--palatable. Whether I would ever have been-- enthusiastic about it is doubtful."

"Yeah, no," the cowboy said with a weak huff of a laugh. "Don' reckon that woulda happened."

"I do not expect total agreement at all times during this partnership." 

"No?"

"No. Especially when time is lacking."

"But you know you can speak up, right? Even when time is lackin'? Cuz I don' want either of us to ever run roughshod over the other. I know you've said you might do that, but today it looks like I did. But I didn' mean to. Wouldn' ever wanna do anything like that." 

Hanzo considered his words carefully before he replied. "In this situation, when others were present," he said slowly, "I certainly did not feel I had the opportunity to state my opinion. As you said earlier, perhaps it would be wise to have a sign of some sort to indicate when it is permissible-- because there certainly will be times when it is not."

"Agreed," the cowboy said immediately. "How about--"

He paused, and even under his gas mask the sudden red flush--or blush--could clearly be seen.

He moved on hurriedly with an almost panicked glance. "How about a code word? Like, say--" He paused again, for only a brief moment, but his eyes widened momentarily as though he had been--caught. "--I'll say 'amigo' and you can say--uh, anything you'd prefer?" 

Hanzo observed his bizarre behavior with concealed bemusement. "Ah," he said musingly, "I believe I will say--'sir'." He was going to explain that it sounded innocuous and deferential, yet he was not in the habit of saying it--for which he fully expected some gentle ribbing--but the color quickly rose again in the cowboy's face, visible even to his exposed ears.

Hanzo could not help the furrow in his brow.

The cowboy, for his part, coughed and said with painful casualness, "Sounds good t'me. Now that that's settled, I just had one more question before we rejoin the others. You said earlier you'd been contracted t'hunt down Rutledge and Fawkes. What was all that about?"

Hanzo accepted the abrupt change in subject without comment, if only because he had no idea what could possibly be affecting Agent Cassidy in such a strange way. "An antique dealer lost some valuable historical seals to a bank heist they committed in Yokohama at the Bank of Japan. They were in a safety deposit box that they apparently only blew open incidentally--their main target was gold bullion. However, the seals themselves are made of gold and one is encrusted with jewels, so they thought nothing of scooping them up off the floor as they escaped. The client was able to send me as far as Australia to recover them, but she could not afford the expense of sending me to chase after them when it became apparent they were embarking on a world tour. That was the end of it."

"I gotcha," the cowboy said thoughtfully, but also with a twinkle in his eyes. "You didn' happen t'catch a glimpse of 'em in that big ole pile of theirs, didja?"

Hanzo rolled his eyes at the sudden playful tone. "No, and I would not be surprised if they have been lost somewhere along the way. Rutledge mentioned that Fawkes managed to misplace one piece of the British crown jewels. Obviously they, or Fawkes at least, is not overly mindful of individual pieces of treasure. The seals are physically small, and while historically valuable, are relatively inexpensive in terms of total gold content. They are not worth pursuing."

"Aw, well. I don' think we'll be able t'do anything about it. Was just jokin' around."

Hanzo nodded. That had been plain from the start. "Is there anything more we should discuss?"  

"Naw, nothing more on my end. How 'bout on yours?" 

"Nothing."

"Then let's get back before Angie blows a capillary or worse. She might after she finds out what we've volunteered her for."

"I doubt it. She has treated me with unfailing professionalism." 

The cowboy paused. "Was that your reasoning? 'If she'll treat me, she'll treat anyone'?"

"Precisely," Hanzo replied as he tugged at the hatch of the accessway. 

"She might have--a lil more reservation with these Junkers than with you."

Hanzo scoffed, but the hatch swung open and there was no more opportunity to speak, despite the fact that the cowboy apparently needed a reminder about Genji.

He doubted Rutledge or Fawkes, despite their infamy, had done anything even approaching his crimes. They certainly did not seem the types to hide it if they had.

Agent Reinhardt and Ms. Song were on the battle platform when they returned, but they did not acknowledge them further than with a look, relieved on his part, nonchalant on hers, as the two men appeared over the lip of the platform and immediately disappeared into the compartment hatch.

They stopped in the airlock to perform the duty it was built for: decontamination. Despite their best efforts, there was simply an unacceptable amount of dust accompanying them from the accessways. Almost all of the visible dust was on Agent Cassidy, but there was likely a good amount on the camouflage suit as well despite the nano-webbing. 

They waited for a few moments as a specialized system built up a static charge, then powerful blowers activated behind the grates in the ceiling and walls to try to blast the dust off so it could be both sucked and electromagnetically drawn into filters and exhaust ports in the floor.

Water with specialized solvents and binders, as shown in the media, would have worked better, but that was impractical in this climate. 

They did have brushes, though, with stiff bristles to scrub off as much dust as possible in the 'air bath'.

After the first sweep, they disrobed to leave their clothes in there for another pass or two under the blowers. This gave Hanzo a moment in relative privacy to check his right shoulder--the tight material of his camouflage suit might have done more to smudge or wipe off the concealer than the clothing he had hitherto worn on the mission--but nothing could be seen peeking through.

He still had at least one secret.

"Welcome back!" Ms. Oxton sang out as she whipped her pistols back into their holsters after seeing it was only them entering through the inner hatch. "So? What's the story, Lorrie?"

"All good, Ahmud," the cowboy replied. "Just a couple real small explosions. Easy peasy."

Ms. Oxton laughed, but Dr. Ziegler approached a grim expression. “And our new clients? Or coworkers?" she asked tersely as she began running what was little more than a handheld vacuum cleaner with a Gieger counter mounted on the end over both men, searching for any stubborn or hidden radioactive particles that had made it through decontamination.

"Willin' and able t'get us in," he replied with a tone intended to brace her for bad news, "in exchange for a round of nanites t'sweeten the deal." 

"I rather expected they would," she said heavily as the vacuum cleaner ruffled and tried to suck in Hanzo’s ponytail. "Do you think Fawkes will be receptive to some medical advice regarding a mask?" 

"Seems pretty easygoing t'me, but dunno how much he'd adhere to it." 

"That makes two habitual desert wanderers I know, then."

"Ouch, Angie. Ouch," the cowboy said, reeling back theatrically and placing a hand over his heart. “The New West ain’ radioactive no more, and I won’ tolerate any implications that it is.”

She sighed and managed a slightly contrite expression. "Sorry. At least you've mostly taken my advice about the cigars to heart. Mostly."

The cowboy agreed, though Hanzo could not help but wonder if she had spotted the cigar box hidden in his pack or just assumed it was in there somewhere.

"But yes, so long as they behave themselves, there are plenty of nanites to go around," she said, looking over at the enormous crate in the center of the compartment between the MEKA and the Crusader armor. "Depending on how long Fawkes has gone without a mask, I might have to break out the Caduceus, but that would bring us a little closer to exposing ourselves."

"For sure, but I think the payoff'll be worth it," said Agent Cassidy with a nod. "Especially if we foil whatever Fawkes is up to."

The first thing the two men had discussed as they had begun their journey back had been Fawkes' aborted comment to the chief conductor about using firecrackers for "firecracker soup", a discussion they now opened to the rest of Overwatch.

That comment, and the fact that not a single explosion had occurred, even as a bargaining chip while Fawkes and Rutledge had pursued the caravan or as a celebration after obtaining a berth onboard, suggested a larger plot was monopolizing Fawkes' explosives supply.

There were certainly several options.

"Deterrent, I reckon," Ms. Oxton opined, tapping her fingers on her knees as she sat on the edge of her cot and swung her legs in mid-air. "If anyone goes for their loot, ka-boom!"

"Or they truly are targeting the caravan," said Agent Reinhardt grimly over the comm. "Now that they're on board, they have a better chance at sabotaging us to their own ends."

"Or," said Agent Cassidy, as he handed the newly "cleaned" camouflage suit to Hanzo, "revenge on the Junker Queen, for exilin' 'em and obligatin' 'em t'go on this wild goose chase in the first place. It'll be our job t'figure all that out, but I'm hopin' for that one, personally."

"No better way to get on her good side than by saving her life, you mean?" said Ms. Song, her eyeroll evident even over the comm.

"Absolutely. Might even let us into the semi-finals without havin' t'qualify, and then we'd have a good solid week t'snoop around before actually havin' t'do anything. Best case scenario by far."

"Assuming we actually manage to stop them without getting maimed or killed."

"Oh, sure, but how hard could that be?" the cowboy said with a wink at Dr. Ziegler. "'Specially if our good doctor gives 'em what-for during their exam and scares 'em half t'death."

"Humph," was her only reply, though with a trace of a smile. 

They spoke about little else for about another hour as the extent of their agreement was fully laid out. Overwatch was to help keep watch over Rutledge and Fawkes' compartment, but never to actually enter it--that was a given, really, but Fawkes had freely shared that anyone who set foot in the compartment would "step in it," as he had so cheerfully put it.

"And that's why we wanted t'get a word in early," the cowboy had replied with a chuckle, which was promptly drowned under Fawkes' cackle.

"Smart! That's how you got a bounty that's more'n mine and Roadhog's put together!" he said with bizarre admiration. "Don't suppose you'd be up for swapping a few tips, wouldja?"

"Maybe once we get t'Junkertown," the cowboy replied. "I'm keepin' a low profile here. You're the first one t'see through me so far!"

"What?! No way! You're mucking about!"

Despite his words, one could easily see Fawkes' ego swelling.

"As far as you know," Rutledge had rumbled from across the room, almost too low to be heard. Hanzo was unsure whether Fawkes heard, but he himself acknowledged Rutledge with a measured look.

The enormous man had only grunted in reply.

Agent Reinhardt was not pleased to hear the description of Rutledge as a barely-social, taciturn character, because it presented an obvious course of action he did not favor in the slightest.

"Why? Why?” he groaned with melodrama that was excessive even for him. "Why did I decide to come across as a terrifying, silent hulk? People will expect us to be best friends. I must become his best friend!"

"I dunno if blokes like him ever look to be friends with anyone, much less besties, and even less so with anyone just like them," Ms. Oxton said with surprising shrewdness. "Still, you and I and Hana are the obvious choices. It's too bad we don't have you to rely on," she added directly to Hanzo. "I bet he isn't even the hardest character you've ever dealt with."

"You got me, y'know," the cowboy complained with a slightly bitter undertone.

"Well, yeah, that's true!" Ms. Orton said with a mollifying smile. "But you never rubbed elbows with those types of people like he has!"

She was not speaking at all in a derogatory manner--she had long since lost any fear of speaking of Hanzo's past once they had passed about two weeks of Hanzo calling her "Ms. Oxton", as though they were now entirely familiar with each other.

Ironically enough, she might be more familiar with Hanzo than she was with Agent Cassidy. He was now throwing a sardonic and even acidic look straight over her head at Hanzo.

"They don’t know what I did out there."

But they certainly knew what Hanzo had done. He had almost no secrets among them at all.

There was time between the end of this exchange and sunset for the cowboy to suggest that they attempt to catch a little sleep to make up for their spontaneous mission and to shore up their strength to fulfill their new agreement.

They would need everything they could spare. At-the-Tready would arrive at Junkertown tomorrow night after sunset, when no one could be admitted through the city gates.

City gates. In this day and age.

Hanzo had grown up in a literal castle, perched on a commanding hilltop with high walls and strong gates to repel attack, but the gates of Shimada Castle had not been shut against any enemy force for nearly three centuries. The days of that kind of warfare were long over.

Until now. They were about to be left begging for admittance before gates that had repelled at least twenty full-on attacks from bandits, wreckers, and Immortan Chodes.

Before they could even beg, however, they would have to spend one night outside the protection of At-the-Tready. She was available, for an extra fee, for accommodation in the three-to-four day turnaround period before she returned north to Darwin, but not to Rutledge and Fawkes. Chief Conductor Perrurle had made that plain when she agreed to allow them on board.

So they would depend, for at least one night, on Rutledge's hospitality. 

His residence was located on the edge of the small shantytown that had grown up around the sole entrance to Junkertown, in an identical manner to Hanamura and Shimada Castle. One could engage in somewhat freer commerce and industry while still in running distance of the protection of the city walls, and for whatever reason Rutledge had chosen to reside there as well, on the fringes of the fringes. 

Luckily for Hanzo and Agent Cassidy's peace of mind, it was apparently located on the edge of a rocky promontory so that it was only easily approachable from the front.

What was less certain was whether it was still available at all--their world tour had gone on for nearly fourteen months.

"Nobody'll be there," Rutledge had rumbled. "No one."

"Well, just in case they have--" the cowboy started to say.

"They. Haven't."

And that was the end of that. 

They would spend one night guarding several tonnes of gold in a rickety wooden shack, then tow it through a shantytown to the gates of Junkertown to present it to the guards, highly vulnerable to attack all the while as word inevitably spread from the other caravan passengers into Junkertown and beyond that Rutledge and Fawkes had returned.

It was becoming clearer and clearer why Rutledge had decided to accept their aid.

It was difficult, and ultimately impossible, for Hanzo not to turn and re-turn all of this in his mind after lying down in his cot in an attempt to sleep. 

Soon enough he had his comm out to re-examine satellite pictures of Junkertown, with Rutledge's residence highlighted. 

Junkertown itself was situated on a bluff rising above the surrounding plain. The Omnium that had preceded it had been placed there to take advantage of what had been one of the Outback’s largest water springs.

Predictably, the springs had been well-known--and sacred--to the Aboriginal peoples in every direction for hundreds of kilometers, but the United Nations taskforce that had picked this spot had only considered that with a single and easily exhaustible source of water, the Outback Omnium would find it impossible to expand beyond its original dimensions, especially if it were reliant on a nuclear fission power plant, which would be entirely dependent on large volumes of water for coolant.

So the water had been rerouted into the core of the Omnium before being expelled into the creek that had once drained a lake on the top of the bluff via an impressive waterfall, but all that had been incorporated into the footprint of the Omnium and then into the city that replaced it.

In the end, it meant that Junkertown had a highly dependable source of water--but at a price that could not be measured.

In any event, Rutledge's residence overlooked the worringly black and frothy jet of water bursting out of the former Omnium's wastewater outlet. With a current that strong and turbulent, it hardly mattered that the mix of heavy metals and radionuclides was almost instantly lethal to any organic life form that touched it.

Nobody would approach from that direction.

Which left the precarious cliff on two of the remaining sides. For Hanzo it would have presented few problems, so he was particularly preoccupied with the threat of an attack from those directions. 

It became even more likely when one considered the mechs and other large mechanical contraptions that had been constructed from the pillaged carcass of the Omnium or brought to fight in its vicious gladiatorial matches. A mech capable of quickly traversing cliffsides was well within the realm of possibility, especially since the Scrapyard tourney took place in a multilayered arena.

So while the cliffside offered limited protection, it was by no means invulnerable.

Then there was the shantytown itself and all its inhabitants. Hanzo was not dedicating a great deal of time or thought to them because even he could appreciate the advantages of a team from time to time--urban combat was one of Overwatch's specialties, and that had been demonstrated repeatedly in the training simulations they had conducted in the lead up to this mission.

Ms. Song and Agent Reinhardt would form a mobile barrier between the trailer and the attackers. Agent Cassidy and Hanzo would pick them off from ground level and the rooftops, respectively, and Ms. Oxton would infiltrate and pick off the backline and periodically return with intelligence on their attackers' movements, while Dr. Ziegler stayed under cover as much as possible until she was needed. 

Simple. 

Hardly worth repeating, though they had, many times, while reviewing and marking points of interest on the satellite photos.

But Hanzo went over them again for good measure, because it was pointless to attempt to repress his paranoia.

All that was left was the wide open sky.

It was a shame Agent Pharah was not here to provide air support, but the steep hills looming over Dorado meant her Raptora suit was the fastest way to literally rocket up and down the slopes in pursuit of enemy nests planted on the hillsides.

Or Agent Torbjörn, for that matter, to provide a turret to zero in and dispatch targets approaching from the air.

Drones were Hanzo's greatest preoccupation. Not only were they almost ubiquitous in Junkertown, but all the barriers the landscape provided were meaningless to them.

It did not help that Hanzo was likely the only viable countermeasure in their group.

"I mean, I have shot down plenty of drones in my time," the cowboy had said earlier, running his fingers through his blonde hair. "But they gotta be fairly close before it's alright for me t'get cocky. Would be better for all concerned for you t'take care of 'em ASAP." 

"Of course," he had replied with crisp confidence. "Most will likely not present any problems, but there is a high possibility of both armored drones and drones specifically built to avoid projectiles."

"Oh, sure. Don' worry about gettin' all of 'em down by your lonesome, but y'know. Get as many as you can."

So Hanzo would, though with a private inner mandate that he must indeed get every single one--everyone on the ground would have their hands full, and it was up to him to down all drones before they became an additional problem.

As he studied his comm, going over all this for the twentieth time, a reminder, silent, meant to be seen when he woke up at sunset, flashed on the top of the screen.

"Day 10” 

He only barely suppressed a groan, recollecting just in time that he was not in his quarters in the Watchpoint.

It was time to write a letter.

In some ways, it was fortunate to see the reminder now. There was likely to be no time at all in the days ahead.

But that meant he must act now, so sleep would have to wait.

He slunk out of the cot, making no sound as he went, and gathered his writing supplies. Once, while he had been delivering one of his own letters, Genji had joked he was surprised Hanzo was not using a fine calligraphy brush and mulberry paper. 

Hanzo had bitten back a retort that it was already pushing it to demand that Genji use paper and pen, even though that had been Genji's own idea.

As it was, Hanzo needed only a hard binder to protect the sheets of paper and a small cardboard box of a dozen pens to be ready. A writing surface was slightly more difficult to find, but he quickly made a makeshift desk out of some of his luggage, his soft duffel bag providing an unsteady foundation for the hardshell suitcase on top.

He could only be thankful that all of Overwatch was either occupied or sleeping. He did not know how many people Genji had informed beyond Agent Zenyatta of their arrangement, but Hanzo had mentioned it to nobody.

They knew almost everything about him. There was no need for them to know absolutely everything.

Now, however, that meant the faster he completed this task, the less chance of discovery. That meant there was less time to plan out exactly what he would write, right when he had most reason to be concise.

Before now, he had simply wished to get the uncomfortable experience of writing an overly familiar message to the brother he had attempted to murder over with. 

At the moment, he had the excuse of a limited supply of paper. Who knew when and where he would run across the next stationary store.

He settled more comfortably in seiza before his improvised desk as he tried to think--the letter need not be too long, as Genji himself had assured him the night before they had flown to opposite sides of the planet. They would both be busy, and any number of things might interrupt them.

But it should be long enough to honor Genji’s intentions for this endeavor, unsuccessful as it had been thus far. 

Finally, he put pen to paper.

Dear little brother,

The sweltering sun is generous with both its light and heat.

At this time, our conveyance is drawing near to our destination. It was a fairly monotonous journey until three days ago, but you will hear the details after we return. For now, suffice to say that the situation is more complex, but we are rising to meet the occasion and increase our chances of success.

There is little else to report. The other agents and I adjusted to our circumstances with relative ease, despite the environment. It is incredibly hot here, enough to make one question why anyone at all would live here. However, the inhabitants of this land treasure it greatly, so I should not malign it simply because I am not accustomed to it.

We have heard nothing from your group, from which we draw the conclusion that all is well.

Forgive the brevity of this letter, but after we have reported back I will be able to report details, especially about the aforementioned complications.

May we continue to enjoy this land of endless sun.

Sincerely,

Hanzo

Despite his mental preparation, Hanzo critically reviewed the letter once he signed his name. Perhaps it was too brief after all.

Whether it was or not, however, became moot as Dr. Ziegler's alarm went off. 

She began to swat at it while cursing under her breath, giving Hanzo time to quickly stow the letter in the binder and secret it away in his suitcase.

"Oh! Agent Shimada, I apologize," she said as she sat up, stretched and spotted him sitting on the edge of his cot. "You shouldn't be subjected to such blue language so--early? In the evening."

"Not at all, doctor," he replied. "I understand very little of it.” 

"Thank goodness. I'm afraid none of it was worth repeating." She swung her legs out and stood, but to his surprise she cast a rather conspiratorial glance at both the cowboy and Ms. Oxton, who slept on solidly and fitfully respectively. Then she drew near to Hanzo. "How are you sleeping?" she asked in a low voice. "Have you experienced any symptoms since the procedure?"

"No. None."

"Good, good. I just wanted to be sure it was ‘only’ pre-Junker jitters keeping you awake," she said with a small sardonic smile.

She had kept her word about the limited neuromatricectomy. Importing her equipment from Switzerland had gone without a hitch, and soon after the New Year, she had strapped Hanzo into a contraption that resembled a downsized MRI machine, but one which required its subject to remain even more absolutely still, so the gurney had been brimming with restraints.

That had been only to begin mapping his nervous system, however. The actual neuromatricectomy had taken place weeks later, once Dr. Ziegler had pinpointed the exact bundles of nerves within his brain and his stumps responsible for his phantom pain. Then the procedure had been simple indeed: a few focused bursts of radiation, and case resolved.

Now Hanzo was left only with phantoms of phantoms.

"There will likely be at least a few more episodes, particularly when you are exposed to the former phantom pain's triggers," she had explained in the lead up to the final procedure. "Your brain will be expecting some kind of response and may manufacture one when it doesn't occur on its own. Anti-anxiety exercises will help manage them, but if they persist, that may indicate I've overlooked a nerve or two, so please take note of and report any occurrences."

Hanzo was inclined to think she was showing her habitual cautiousness. He had not experienced so much as a twitch from the long-gone muscles of his lower legs since the procedure.

It had left him with a bizarre melancholy, truth be told. Those phantom pains had been the last echoes of his original legs, back when he had been completely flesh and blood.

Now he would never feel them again.

He really was entirely too sentimental if he was mourning debilitating pain, but he had been aware of that particular weakness for a long time.

"Yes," he said to her now, pulling out his comm and showing her the satellite images he had been examining. "This alliance will be taxing, but the next two days particularly so. I do not suppose you have any knowledge of protecting gold shipments?"

She looked puzzled for a moment, then she let out a startled laugh. "Oh! Because of all the Swiss gold?"

Hanzo nodded. It was only a half-serious question, but one never knew.

"No, I'm afraid I don't, but perhaps I should look and see if UBS has any pointers for our current predicament. I think one of the main strategies is to have a decoy, though--that might be worth pursuing."

Hanzo nodded thoughtfully. That depended entirely on whether they could find another trailer that looked or could be modified to be more or less like Rutledge and Fawkes' current one, but if so it very well could be a viable option. "That is a good idea, doctor." 

She smiled and would have said something more, but Ms. Oxton suddenly bolted upright in her bunk.

"No! No!" she cried out, her eyes wide open and wild. "Not again! Not--!"

Then she blinked rapidly, drew in a deep breath, and burst into tears, burying her face in her hands.

"God, no," she said between heaving gasps. "God. Fucking hell."

Dr. Ziegler was already at her side and reaching out, though not touching. "Lena?" she said quietly.

Ms. Oxton looked up, her face red, sweaty, and tearstained. "O-oh, Angie," she said in a trembling voice. "Not to worry! Just a--just a nightmare. Just a really bad nightmare. Nothing to worry about, honestly. I'll be right as rain in a moment."

"Good," she replied, nodding. "That's good. Would you like to talk about it? Get it out of your system?"

"No, that's alright, it was just--oh! Cheers," she said with a short, nervous laugh as she accepted a bottle of water from Hanzo. He nodded and immediately withdrew, leaving her to speak with a trusted friend without someone as questionable as himself eavesdropping. He could hear her noisily gulping the water down as he silently retrieved Storm Bow and his gas mask and headed for the hatch, swinging it loudly open and closed to signal the two women could now speak privately.

"Greetings, my friend! You're early! Again! Don't tell me we have more Junkers to befriend, haha!" Agent Reinhardt boomed, taking his sunhat off and waving it at him. "We still have to meet our existing new friends before you go off making more!"

"No, I am not," he replied as he made his way over to the giant man, the heat of the sun and dryness of the air already drawing out and vaporizing his sweat. "I came to check on the situation. It is still possible that they are merely the vanguard of a larger attack on the caravan." 

"Ah, only too true, too true," said Agent Reinhardt, shaking his head. "Alas! If I had the freedom to choose the allies to allow us into Junkertown, they would certainly not be my first choice. I'd choose Matvey, to be honest. He seemed quite pleased with you--and he looks just like me!"

"Except twenty centimeters shorter," Ms. Song called over. She had not left her post on the other side of the platform. "And twenty years younger. And blonder. And with two eyes."

"Those were the days," he said fondly, his blue eye slightly lost in recollection. That was another difference--Matvey’s eyes were a coffee brown, much more like the cowboy's than the Crusader's. "But I don't doubt I've kept up in the gym. I defy him to win a wrestling match against me!"

"Too bad you'll be too busy making nice with Roadhog instead. How about a wrestling match against him? How would that go?"

"He would obviously employ some kind of roguish trick to ensure he won," Agent Reinhardt said with a sniff and a frown. "I doubt he would ever give me a fair fight!"

"Tee bee atch, you don't know that Matvey would, either."

Agent Reinhardt opened his mouth to reply, but he stopped in mid-syllable with his mouth hanging open, though his expression was otherwise thoughtful. "You know," he said after a few moments, "you're right, I don't. I give him so much credit and Roadhog none at all. That's not right."

"For sure," said Ms. Song, glancing at them from scanning the horizon. "We still don't know anything about any of those Russians, except that they like music."

"Nor do we know anything of Roadhog and Junkrat."

Hanzo and Ms. Song threw identical quizzical looks at him, which he returned with a steadfast eye.

"No, my friends, I'm serious. Giving credit where none is due is a mistake, but so is giving none when some may be."

"Uhhhh," said Ms. Song with a raised eyebrow.

"We don't know," he continued somberly, "why they travel this road, and we don't know if they chose it. Think of how many of the bandits that plague this land do so out of desperation, because their homeland was taken and destroyed."

Ms. Song snorted. "These guys aren't trying to get by on a bad hand, Rein."

"We don't know that. Or rather, we don't know it didn't start like that and then snowball out of anyone's control."

Ms. Song shook her head and shot Hanzo a bemused, if slightly exasperated look. "Once you're stealing crown jewels, you're not really snowballing. You're rocketing downhill fullspeed on a hoverski. A hoverski you totally stole." 

"Oh, yes, do not doubt me, I'm aware," said Agent Reinhardt, but with a tone that was oddly entreating. "But it matters how the snowball started. It truly does. When you get to my greatly advanced age, you tend to have seen a few snowballs roll all the way from the top to the bottom of the hill. It makes you--conscious. Of how many of them never wished to start in the first place."

Agent Reinhardt was now looking at Hanzo.

He returned the look coolly. 

"And many," he said heavily, "set themselves rolling, and are quite pleased with the results."

"True. But not all of them."

"No," Hanzo conceded, fighting back a sigh. "Not all of them. But how much that matters is debatable. At another time."

Agent Reinhardt looked dissatisfied, but he allowed the subject to drop, and they discussed preparations for the night for another few minutes until Ms. Oxton appeared at the hatch door.

"Wotcher!" she called out to them. "It's about that time, eh, chaps?" 

"Finally!" Agent Reinhardt roared back. "Enough talk! It's time for action!"

Ms. Song gave Hanzo another expressive look, a mixture of amusement and irony.

"Right-o! I’ll let you get to it, then!"

She stepped aside to allow Ms. Song and Agent Reinhardt past her through the hatch. Hanzo remained since Dr. Ziegler had not yet arrived, but it seemed her late arrival might have been deliberate. Once the hatch shut, Ms. Oxton quickly flitted over to him and said in a remorseful tone, "About earlier--"

But then she paused.

Hanzo waited a few moments to see if she would continue on her own, but he had noted that she usually had trouble expressing any emotions that were not at least somewhat bubbly to anyone but her closest friends--which he certainly was not--and so he had become accustomed to helping move such conversations along, though strictly speaking that was inappropriate. She did not seem to mind it so far, but he still had a bit of trepidation in his heart as he said, "If you feel you have inconvenienced me in any way, Ms. Oxton, I assure you that you have not."

"I know!" she blurted, the more flexible parts of her gas mask bulging out from the force of the outburst. "I know, it's just--I know you were giving me a bit of space, and that was quite nice of you, so thanks--but I just. Don't want you to. Worry." 

Hanzo blinked. "Worry?"

It was difficult to get a firm reading of her mood through the gas mask--she was normally so overly expressive that it was like reading a billboard--but he had only her eyes and her body language to work with, and they were telegraphing a level of discomfort and anxiety that was entirely out of proportion with the situation, even for her. He wondered if it was a lingering effect of the nightmare that had woken her.

"I just don't want you to worry--I'm still up to the job!" she said, dancing a little in place and holding her hands together, though she was not wringing them. Yet. "I'm not--bothered or anything. You can count on me!"

"Of course," he said lightly.

She did not look at all confident or reassured, and he searched for any words that she might want. Before he could, after an awkward pause of several moments, she spoke again. 

“They happen a lot! The nightmares. Sometimes. It’s not because we’re about to work with Roadhog and Junkrat. That’s what I’m trying to say. They just happen when they happen.”

“I see.”

Silence, with Ms. Oxton looking more and more unhappy--now the handwringing had begun. 

He repressed a sigh. If it were Cahaya or Matvey or even Andrews, he could simply demand to know what on earth was happening and what they expected or wanted, but Ms. Oxton was a senior member of Overwatch. The relative freedom of expression for the past few days had been far more on par with what Hanzo had been accustomed to for much of his life, both in his days as kumichō-- with his underlings, at least--and in the past ten years, especially since he was almost always a transient, anonymous figure.

Overwatch and its personnel, on the other hand, were much more like the elders of the Shimada-gumi. With them, he had to hold his tongue, defer to their wishes, and adhere as much as possible to his subordinate role. There were enormous differences between the two, of course, which required a great deal of adaptation and tailoring on Hanzo’s part--neighborliness in Overwatch’s case, and a long, steady plot towards elimination in the elders’--but in the end it was only the question of who was the superior and who was the inferior that really mattered.

But neighborliness could only go so far. Here, where a member of Overwatch was speaking on far more egalitarian terms than was appropriate, it was useless.

So, for a brief moment, he must suspend the rules.

“May I speak frankly, Ms. Oxton?” he asked.

Her eyes widened, but she nodded vigorously.

“You said this has happened before, correct?”

“Y-yeah.”

“And you say that it will have no effect on your performance?”

“It won’t!” she said with a short, almost breathless laugh. “I swear!”

“Ms. Oxton,” he said heavily, “you know yourself far better than I do. If you say it will have no effect, then it will not.”

She blinked in surprise. “Easy as that?”

“Yes. You have experienced this before and have noted no effects on your performance? Very well. You are the person who would know--I have seen it once, and thus can offer no substantive opinion. If it did have a negative effect, you would tell me--or Dr. Ziegler, or Agent Cassidy, or whomever, correct?”

“Yeah!” she said, visibly perking up, a trace of relief in her eyes.

He raised his eyebrows emphatically. “Then there is nothing more to say.”

“Right!” she said--her voice had regained a good portion of its usual enthusiasm and volume. “Right! Good! Glad to have that cleared up!”

Hanzo nodded, trying not to show his own great relief at resolving the situation, and made to turn away in order to perform some perfunctory duty such as scanning the horizon or inspecting the battlements in order to reinforce the ending of this strange and uncomfortable interaction.

But it had not ended quite yet.

“H-hey, hang on a minute!”

Now she approached him, uncharacteristically slowly, and made an abortive gesture like she was going to put a hand on his shoulder, but she did not--which was strange, because she had done so many times by now, alongside many other Overwatch agents. 

"These past few days," she said, speaking almost as though she was likely to spook an animal, "have been a--surprise." 

He knitted his eyebrows together. "Oh?" he said, not bothering to hide his bafflement. He truly had fallen into old habits, he reflected darkly. It would be a relief when the mission was over and he was no longer bouncing and adjusting between strangers and Overwatch.

"Yeah," she said, with a trace of sadness, of all things. "I--I've been wondering. H--how much of it is an act? When you're with the rest of the caravan, I mean."

His eyebrows could not possibly draw any closer together, but they were trying. "I am simply--" he started, but he stopped immediately because more than a note of self-defense had surged into his tone. He moderated himself quickly, and began again. "I am acting in the best interests of the mission," he said, keeping his voice as bland as he could. "Appearing sociable is the best approach to obtaining the most information from a large group of people in the shortest time. I realize that it is inappropriate--"

"'Inappropriate'?" she interrupted, eyes widening. "Unusual, maybe, but only because--" She paused for a moment before she let out a short laugh. "--because we've only seen it once, during this mission. But 'inappropriate'--do--do you think it's--inappropriate to be--friendly?"

He grimaced. He did not wish to discuss this at all. There were so many conflicting philosophies, cultures, and preferences at play now, and no time and nothing to be gained from laying them all out. He could not help but glance at the hatch, hoping someone would walk through and interrupt, but there was no indication he would be so lucky.

"'Yes,' is the short answer," he said, thinking quickly, "I do not think that should be any surprise, however." 

Ms. Oxton studied him for a moment. "No," she said, very slowly and very reluctantly. "It's sort of obvious why, isn't it?"

Then someone finally interrupted.

"Howdy," the cowboy said, plopping his hat on his blonde hair as he stepped out. "Well, wouldja take a look at that sunset! You guys seein'--" 

"Heya, Cass!" Ms. Oxton all but yelped as she zipped instantaneously in front of him, leaving a blurry afterimage. "Wow, you're right! What a sight! Can’t believe I missed it ‘til now!"

Hanzo turned to solemnly regard the layers of crimson, orange, and golden light gathering around the setting sun, with the Belt of Venus, the Earth's shadow, and Venus itself hanging low over the horizon to complete the scene.

Then he turned away.

If Cahaya or Matvey or someone else were here, he would have an excuse to enjoy such beauty.

Now he must leave it to Overwatch.

It was not even a question of allowing himself too much, as he had in the first few weeks of his stay at Watchpoint: Gibraltar. With the other caravan passengers, he was obligated to enjoy what they enjoyed, and it could not be helped when his interest coincidentally happened to be genuine.

With Overwatch, anything was too much, but compromises had to be made, and the price of compromise was constant vigilance.

"Roll call! Roll call in thirty minutes!" came Chief Conductor Perrurle's voice on the PA. She sounded far less casual than on previous announcements, a tone that continued as she added, "As a small reminder, anyone who causes trouble of any kind is liable to be asked to leave the caravan. We're only a day's journey from Junkertown, so we won't feel anywhere near as bad about it now. Please keep that in mind on this, our last full night together. That's all."

A small reminder to anyone planning on being extra rowdy when released at last from their compartments after so many days on the run--or planning on taking undue interest in their new traveling companions.

All of Overwatch looked fairly grim as they filtered out onto the battle platform--except--

"Ahhh, back into the fray!" Agent Reinhardt boomed as he slouched his way through the hatch, almost having to crawl to get through, carrying his war hammer awkwardly until he could stand up straight and sling it across his shoulder.

"Pew pew!" said Ms. Song as she followed. Her MEKA had to do a strange kind of shimmy to get through, especially with all the hazard bars and blades sticking out all over, but at least she did not have to carry anything.

The battle platform groaned under their combined weight even as they stepped as far apart from each other as possible, but it held firm. They had been assured by the crew that it most likely would not collapse--but there was always the risk of neutron-induced degradation.

The rest of Overwatch thus kept fairly close to the wall wherever there were convenient handholds.

Everyone but the cowboy, who had ducked back inside for a moment to speak to the chief conductor on the intercom.

It would not pay for Agent Reinhardt and Ms. Song to head directly for the supplies compartment in their mechs if the crew did not know what their intentions were--especially if any other caravan passengers did the same, which was not outside the realm of possibility.

He was inside for nearly the full thirty minutes. 

When he came back out, he was grinning and shaking his head. "Think I managed t'surprise her," he said with evident satisfaction. "Flat out refused t'believe it 'til she spoke with Roadhog himself, but yeah. Now she knows." 

"How did you explain it?" Dr. Ziegler asked.

"Told her we snuck through the maintenance tunnels t'talk to 'em," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Gotta pay for such a big surprise somehow--now she knows the sensors down there ain' workin'."

"But now you two can't use them!" Ms. Oxton protested, glancing at Hanzo.

The cowboy shrugged again. "It's our last night. If it was our first day out I might hold that closer t'my chest, but hopefully we won’ need 'em again in the time we got left." 

Hanzo nodded. It was also an explanation that kept his camouflage suit a complete secret, which he approved.

"Alright," came the voice of the chief conductor, speaking slowly. To the other compartments, she probably sounded surprisingly subdued, but it was plain to Overwatch she was merely pensive and still digesting the news of their new alliance. "Roll call. Compartment 1?" 

Once they had gone down the long line--including a shrieked "Heeeeere!" from "Compartment 11", the chief conductor paused for a moment, as though weighing something, before she said, "Just so everyone knows, Compartment 5 has entered into an--understanding with Compartment 11, so they'll be helping them out in the short time before we get to Junkertown."

It was completely impossible, but Hanzo imagined he could hear the murmurs of the other caravan passengers. 

Some would suspect they had been allied with Rutledge and Fawkes all along. 

How else could they possibly have formed such an alliance? The two Junkers had not even been allowed on board until a few scant hours ago. The chief conductor would almost certainly not reveal the weakness of the maintenance tunnels, leaving the exact method of forming their alliance a mystery, so there would be some curiosity at best, and perhaps hostility at worst.

This would be a difficult evening.

Especially since Hanzo would most likely be dropping his outgoing facade.

He would be minding Rutledge, after all. 

At first, it had been his assumption that Rutledge simply would not tolerate exuberance--but his mistake had almost immediately been pointed out by Ms. Song during their earlier team discussion.

"He tolerates Junkrat, doesn't he?" she observed shrewdly. "For thousands and thousands of kilometers, all around the world. If he hasn't killed him by now, he never will."

"Never say never, especially in this crowd," the cowboy had said, "but he almost certainly's got a high tolerance and maybe even a secret craving for shenanigans."

Ms. Song, Ms. Oxton, Agent Reinhardt, and Dr. Ziegler--everyone but the cowboy--had shot Hanzo what they clearly thought were furtive looks.

Another reason that it was past time to return to more restrained, acceptable behavior. 

At-the-Tready took a hard left to encircle another low, concrete bunker enclosing a freshwater wellhead. In another few minutes, the circle was complete, and a relative silence descended as the great engines finally shut off after so many days of continuous heavy operation--but it was short-lived. Everyone was only waiting the few minutes it would take for the dust to finish settling on this windless evening, then the rattling and whining of the various compartments' stairways being extended would echo across the newly formed protected space.

Agent Reinhardt’s Crusader and Ms. Song’s MEKA could not take the stairs, of course, so when the all-clear was sounded, they simply stepped over the platform railing and dropped to the ground, much as Hanzo had done earlier. Like Hanzo, they had shock absorbers built into their legs, so the drop jolted but did not delay them. 

They were soon striding across the enclosed circle in an almost straight line since they were almost in the middle of the caravan, while the supplies compartment was on the end.

"Coincidentally", that meant the supplies compartment now sat directly opposite the nose of the bridge--and its cannon. 

Normally it spent the night pointed at the darkness outside, but tonight, predictably, it was pointing straight ahead. 

Hanzo, following behind the Crusader and the MEKA with Dr. Ziegler and the cowboy on his left and Ms. Oxton on his right, kept a close eye on the small crowds already spilling down each stairway into the inner circle. Almost all of them stopped to mill about around the bottom steps, talking excitedly amongst themselves and pointing as they watched what was their first glimpse of Compartment 5's entrants in the Scrapyard tourney. It was potentially an intelligence coup, especially when the Crusader exposed a great weakness while the MEKA revealed a huge advantage--Ms. Song took a firm grip under Agent Reinhardt's arms and fired her boosters, lifting the half-tonne exosuit bodily into air and onto the supplies compartment's battle platform with ease.

The trio following them took the more conventional stairway.

“G’day!” came the high-pitched shriek of Fawkes. He stood at the top of the stairway with his arms spread wide in welcome, his sunburnt face framed by his blackened blonde hair and beaming with a toothy grin. “C’mon up, new best friends! C’mon and meet Roadie! He’s almost as excited as I am!”

Rutledge was standing a few paces behind, one hand on his hip, the other resting “casually” on his gatling gun. Fawkes sent an entreating look over his shoulder, and he sighed and waved, once, with his free hand. “Hi.”

“Hello,” came the grunted, monotone response from Agent Reinhardt, his hand also on his giant warhammer. “Where?”

Rutledge considered for a moment. “There,” he said, pointing to the left side of the hatch.

Agent Reinhardt only grunted in reply and moved into position.

Rutledge titled his head and grunted, too, but it sounded thoughtful--and possibly even approving.

He refocused his attention on Hanzo and Agent Cassidy before there was time to analyze his action, however. "Nobody goes in except us," he rumbled.

"Not unless you wanna get blown sky-high!" Fawkes chimed in with a cackle. "I've got aaaall my concussives laid out inside, and only I know how to properly defuse them or how to tip tip tiptoe around them, heh heh!"

Hanzo felt his stomach drop as the Overwatch agents around him stiffened and glanced at each other. Agent Cassidy was the one who spoke up. "Uh--good. Sounds good. Are they--sensitive t’strong vibrations?"

"Sometimes!" came the cheery reply. "Handmade, you know, so each one's got its own personality!"

"Do they now?" Agent Cassidy replied with a raised eyebrow and a significant look.

"Yep!"

The two of them simply stared at each for a few beats of silence.

Fawkes' eyes bulged.

"H-H-Hey, stop that!" he shrieked at Agent Reinhardt, who was standing stockstill with one giant metallic boot hovering in mid-air. "D-D-Dontcha know you could blow all our gold sky-high?!"

"And us, too?" Ms. Song prompted, her eyeroll visible due to the absent windscreen.

"Yeah, yeah, us, too, but the gold!" Fawkes blubbered as he clattered over to the hatch. "Lemme just check and make sure you didn't shake anything loose!" He stopped dead at the hatch and very, very slowly inched it open, heaving a heavy sigh of relief once it was halfway open and he could peer inside. "That's a good sign!" he called over his shoulder. "Be right back! Nobody vibrate while I'm in there, okay?"

He disappeared inside without waiting for an answer, his pegleg clanging on the deck and audibly reverberating through the metal plating long afterward.

There was another silence, marked mostly by Agent Cassidy visibly working on something reassuring to say.

He was cut off by Rutledge advancing forward a few heavy paces towards them and motioning to Dr. Ziegler. "You the doctor?" 

"Yes," she answered crisply. "Let's get your examination started. When was the last time a physician checked you for radiation exposure?"

Rutledge stared at her for a moment, then gave a loud bark of laughter that ended in a hacking cough. "Where do you want me?" he asked, completely brushing aside her question.

"Here, if you're comfortable sitting on the ground," she said with a resigned expression.

"Yeah," was his only reply as he sat down with a thud solid enough to prompt a muffled squawk from somewhere within the supplies compartment. 

The doctor’s examination was thorough, so it took some time. Fawkes returned about halfway through and immediately started chatting with the cowboy. At first Hanzo listened with hackles raised, lest Fawkes should inadvertently--or inevitably--let Agent Cassidy’s true identity slip out at a volume that would surely be audible to the surrounding compartments.

Fawkes showed a surprising amount of vocal restraint, however--though he did not seem capable of suppressing literal winks and nods.

“So! What’s life like where you come from, Mr. Bookwood?” Wink. “We mighta passed through during our little tour in the States!”

“A little similar t’here, actually,” the cowboy replied with a smile. “Minus the green glow.”

Rutledge growled under his breath.

“Oh yeah, we never made it down to those parts, the really dry parts!” Fawkes said, apparently unbothered. “We should have! Woulda been nice to see if it’s the radiation that makes my mouth so dry or just the heat! You never know!”

Dr Ziegler paused for a moment to make a note on her comm before she continued with Rutledge, scanning him with a device that was essentially a piece of her Caduceus minus the biotic field projector. Whatever was on the screen leant a strong red tinge to her frowning face.

“Unfortunately, New York and Kentucky are pretty far from there, and then we headed straight down into Mexico. Shame! A real shame!”

"Sure is!" the cowboy replied with a grin and a shake of his head. "Whereabouts in Mexico did you end up?"

"Dorado!" came the unexpected reply. "Y'know what 'dorado' means? Golden! And it sure was, huh, Roadie? Got a nice pile from the bank there, courtesy of Lumérico!"

"Didya now?" the cowboy said lightly while the rest of Overwatch tried to hide their perked attention. "What about 'em caught your attention?"

"Oooo, they got those new fancy fusion plants, don't they? Valuable enough that they deal directly with governments, and y'know what's the worst thing about government money? Government protection! Not all bad though--that tank at Fort Knox blew up real pretty! But that meant I only had enough C4 for three of the vaults there. Worth the trade, in my humble opinion, but not Roadie's, haha! Anyway, Lumérico's gotten some pretty fat government contracts so lucrative that they paid in gold, but those muntyheads deposited it all in a regular old bank! No tanks in sight! Couldn't be easier!"

"Sure couldn'. How long ago did you hit 'em?"

"Oh, what would you say, Roadie? I'd say four months, myself," Fawkes said without waiting for Rutledge to answer. 

Hanzo could see everyone working this information over in their heads.

In all the preparations and research Overwatch had done for the Dorado mission, nothing--nothing at all--had mentioned a break-in by two of the most notorious criminals in the world.

How had this been so completely silenced?

Why had it been so completely silenced?

"Easy in and out for you two, then, huh?" the cowboy pried, just a little.

"Yep! Just blew a hole right through the courtyard wall next door right into the main vault!" 

"Good thinking," Agent Cassidy said, and while Hanzo could tell he was preoccupied, Fawkes preened under the praise.

Dr. Ziegler finished up with Rutledge, administering a shot of nanites as she quietly listed off a series of ailments--it was apparent he had had a great need for medical attention, if the number of words that ended in "-oma" were any indication.

It was difficult to tell how he took the news through the pig snout mask, but the fact he was accepting the shot--when it could easily contain anesthesia or a paralytic--implied he either believed her or thought it was worth taking the chance. A single dose of nanites could potentially extend his life by decades.

He did, however, take one precaution.

"No shots for him until sunrise," he rumbled as he stood up, towering over the doctor like a mountain.

She did not accept that he had that authority, however. "Do you wish to delay your dose until then?" she asked, turning around to address Fawkes as she nonchalantly dropped the needle into a small portable sharps bin.

"Sure do!" came the cheery reply. "If he conks out, I'll know who could do with some blowing up!"

"Must violence always be the answer?" she retorted with a scowl.

"Maybe not, but it’s always the best answer!"

"Questionable judgment," she muttered, but she gestured for him to sit and she began the examination while he kept up a constant stream of chatter.

Her words seemed to have an effect, however--Rutledge's shoulders relaxed, ever-so-slightly. Then he went so far as to ask, "Where's the grub?" as he lumbered towards the stairs.

“Oo, yeah, grub!” Fawkes shrieked as he leapt to his feet. “Whoop, ow! Ow, ow, sorry, doc, sorry!” 

“I haven’t completed your exam yet,” she said icily, not removing what looked to be an iron grip on his shoulder.

“No, you haven’t, of course you haven’t,” he said hurriedly, glancing with alarm towards Rutledge--but while Rutledge had paused and looked back at Fawkes’ yelp, he only grunted and continued on his way, clunking heavily down the stairs. “G-Grab me some of the good stuff, Roadie! If there is any!” Fawkes called rather plaintively after him. “I’ll be down soon!”

“Sooner, if you remain still,” Dr. Ziegler said coolly, pushing Fawkes down until he was sitting, wriggling uncomfortably, but sitting, before she released his shoulder.

“S-Sure, doc, sure.”

Hanzo was already following Rutledge, but he threw a flat glance at the cowboy before he began descending the stairs, with Ms. Oxton following closely behind. 

Perhaps Fawkes was not nearly as difficult and recalcitrant as his reputation claimed, but they could not count on that.

All eyes within the sheltered circle formed by At-The-Tready were on Rutledge and his escorts as they made their way to the portable grills set up in the lee of the concrete structure housing the freshwater wellhead.

All eyes, except--

Where were the occupants of Compartment 10?

Since they were "next door" to Fawkes and Rutledge's compartment, Hanzo was not afforded a chance to squint in their direction until Rutledge had reached the grills and the nervous-looking crew who had drawn the unlucky lot of cooking that night, but when he got a chance to casually look back the way they had come, he could not help knitting his eyebrows together.

They had not yet even extended their staircase to the ground--though when he squinted he could see many of them on their battle platform.

Had they decided to take no chances and spend the night holed up there?

Hanzo would not be too disappointed if that turned out to be the case. If they intended to play strict defense, then they would keep themselves out of everyone's way.

A loud grunt captured his attention. "Here," Rutledge said, shoving two almost overflowing plates of grilled chicken into his hands. "I only got two hands. Need more."

Ms. Oxton already had two of her own.

Then he shoveled yet more chicken onto two more plates.

"I'll be back," he told the kitchen staff--warningly--then he set off back towards the supplies compartment, with Hanzo and Ms. Oxton in tow.

Ms. Oxton caught Hanzo's eye, nodded at her load, then gestured as best she could towards their comrades up on the battle platform--though most likely at Agent Reinhardt in particular, if he read her meaning correctly.

Rutledge certainly had a similar body mass to maintain, though how much opportunity there had been to eat, much less eat well, while they had been tracking and chasing At-the-Tready was difficult to determine.

Hanzo could not help but wonder how much of Rutledge's current taciturn and minimalist mood was due to running on an empty stomach, and how much that might change once he was sated.

The same question could apply to Fawkes, though the fact that he was likely as starved yet still so highstrung was not comforting.

Rutledge did not return up the stairs to the battle platform. Instead, he sat heavily on the ground and leaned his broad back against its side, making the metal creak slightly.

He set his plates of grilled chicken on his own bulging stomach, which made a convenient and non-sandy, though slightly unstable, shelf, and reached out wordlessly to Hanzo, who handed over both of his. Then he took one from Ms. Oxton and jerked his head at the stairs. Taking the hint that the last plate was meant for Fawkes, she headed up.

"The longer he stays up there, the better," Rutledge commented in a low voice as he cracked apart a drumstick and thigh.

Hanzo nodded slightly.

"Go grab some for you and her."

Hanzo raised his eyebrows.

"Let's see if anyone is feeling 'friendly'."

Hanzo narrowed his eyes, but it was a good idea, not only on the face of it but also to demonstrate that he was not afraid to leave Rutledge to his own devices--whatever those devices might turn out to be. So he nodded and turned away.

It did not occur to him until he had nearly finished filling two more plates that Rutledge might have a much simpler intention.

Ms. Oxton appeared at his side and said with her assumed downbeat persona, "He sent me to get grub for everyone else. I don't think he wants anyone near him while he eats. What, is he territorial or something?"

"That's fairly lik--" he began to reply, but he happened to look back towards Rutledge at that moment. He was sitting alone at the foot of the stairs and wolfing down mouthfuls of chicken--with his mask tipped back.

It was still as low as it could possibly go without obstructing his mouth, but even from this distance it was possible to see the starkly white stubble covering his cheeks, which set off the angry red lines where the mask must usually lay tight and uncomfortable for days--weeks--at a time.

They soon disappeared, for even with such a short time exposed to the cool night air, he was already finishing up his meal. With one last bite and a swallow that made his throat bulge, he quickly wiped the grease off his mouth and pulled the mask back down, rumbling--or possibly groaning--as he settled the unforgiving plastic firmly back into place, right on top of those red lines.

"Oh," said Ms. Oxton quietly at Hanzo's side. 

They made their way back, each pondering Rutledge's eccentricity.

By the time they made it back, however, more eccentricities were afoot.

The Russians were on the move.

Their staircase shuddered as it extended to the ground, its belated appearance drawing everyone's attention--and it was caught and held by what could only be called a procession.

Two by two they descended, each dressed somberly all in black. Some wore veils over their faces or black headscarves over their hair. Each uncovered face was grim, and at least one person was weeping, their face buried in a handkerchief--nearly everyone else, however, was carrying what looked to be lumber, an enormous amount of it, much more than they had used for their previous campfires.

"You have any idea what's going on? Did someone die?" came the voice of Chief Conductor Perrurle. Hanzo had heard her footsteps coming up, along with two flanking crewmembers--she had always been unaccompanied until tonight--and he shook his head without taking his eyes off the solemn spectacle next door.

"Not that I know of. They all seem to be there."

They stayed silent as the Russians began to drop and arrange their lumber into a low, flat-topped pyramid destined to be a modest bonfire. They seemed to have carefully planned and arranged all their roles beforehand--hardly a word was being said as each piece was put in place, with kindling and paper arranged throughout.

The entire circle within At-the-Tready was silent. Each compartment's occupants seemed almost transfixed. The usual noise and bustle had presumably been dampened by wariness of their new fellow passengers, but what little there was faded in the same way a busy street might as a solemn funeral procession passed by.

"What's happening?!" 

Everyone at the foot of the stairs--even Rutledge, to Hanzo's infinitesimal comfort--jumped at Fawkes' high-pitched, overexcited, and extremely sudden question. He began giggling uncontrollably as he noisily clunked his way down the stairs--they had reacted exactly according to his intention. Agent Cassidy followed with a quick smile when Fawkes looked back at him and pointed at them, but it fell into an apologetic look as soon as he turned away to continue cackling.

"Ah, bewdy!" he choked out. "But, eh--heh--but they--heh heh heh--they're really going off over there, heh, in the quietest, fastidiest way, and that just ain't right when you’re making a fire that size! What's gotten them all stung?"

"Dunno," Rutledge said in a low voice, "but we probably don't want them to think we're taking the piss over here."

"Oh, why not? For all we know, they could be gearing up for some kind of BS&NBS night. Let's just go over and ask what they're doing and--" 

"My vinovaty!" 

"My vinovaty! My vinovaty! My vinovaty!"

"Eis polla etē!" 

"Eis polla etē! Eis polla etē! Eis polla etē!"

"Vechnaya pamyat'!"  

"Ah," said Hanzo softly, as he listened to the portly woman he had spoken to at length many nights ago chanted to the assembled crowd, her arms outstretched towards the cold, bright bridge of the Milky Way overhead. Her black-clad audience chanted back, "Vechnaya pamyat'! Vechnaya pamyat'!   Vechnaya pamyat'!"

If he had remembered the date, he would have instantly understood what was happening, and it was confirmed when the woman continued, speaking in Russian as she intoned, "On this notorious, shameful day we remember."

"We remember."

"On this day, when we watered fields with innocent blood and burned cities with hellfire, we remember."

"We remember."

"On this day, we apologize with no possibility of forgiveness."

Net vozmozhnosti.

No Possibility Day.

"Are you alright?"

"Hm?" Hanzo said distractedly. "What? Yes. Yes, I'm fine." 

Ms. Oxton's tone was dangerously close to being normal rather than the disinterested, antisocial one she had cultivated for the mission, so he quickly pulled himself out of the mire of thoughts and feelings that had surged through his mind like a mudslide and said, "It is a Russian tradition to commemorate the crimes committed by the Russian state before democratization, specifically the acts of war against its neighbors. It roughly translates to 'No Possibility Day' in English."

"Oh," came her quiet reply.

"Estoniya!"  

"My vinovaty." 

"Latviya!"

"My vinovaty." 

"Litva!" 

"My vinovaty."

"Pol'sha!"

"My vinovaty."

"Sounds like a long list," observed Fawkes as they continued, and the shock of his thoughtful tone was almost physical. "So it's the Russian Sorry Day, then?"

"What?" asked Hanzo and Ms. Oxton in near-unison.

Fawkes giggled, apparently finding their simultaneous befuddlement entertaining, and the chief conductor stepped in.

"It's one of many demos that try to 'reconcile' the Aboriginal peoples with the settlers," she said smoothly but with a slight undercurrent of something that was hard to define but was plainly negative. "It's--a gesture. Defo a gesture. That some appreciate. I prefer the Day of Mourning myself, but since that happens on Australia Day, I usually get accused of spoiling the mood." She shrugged a little, then continued, "'No Possibility Day' is a bit of a dodgy name, though. What do they mean by that?"

Hanzo swallowed.

"They take great care to apologize, but not to ask for forgiveness. Too much was taken. Too much was lost. Forgiveness may even lead to forgetting what crimes were committed, which would allow them to repeat, becoming even more unforgivable in turn. So they offer their apologies while recognizing--insisting--there is no possibility of forgiveness."

A short silence. Ms. Oxton looked at Agent Cassidy, most likely to avoid looking at Hanzo, but the cowboy himself watched him with a mild expression.

"Crikey," said Fawkes softly. "That's one way to cop it sweet, that's certain."

"A good way," said Chief Conductor Perrurle with a vigorous nod. "A good way. And all Russians do this?"

"No," Hanzo replied, thinking back to the Russian mobsters the Shimada-gumi had dealt with. While there had been a surprising number amongst them who had treated No Possibility with great reverence--one of whom had even taken it upon herself to explain it in some detail to his mother while he had stood by listening--there had been others who openly mocked it.

They likely had little knowledge of Japanese apology customs when they did so, because that had only served to alienate both his mother and Hanzo. Anyone who mocked a sincere apology--especially one that left the apologizer so open and vulnerable--was not to be trusted.

And Japanese apology customs also recognized, Hanzo thought dimly as he listened to the Russians list country after country, that many crimes were beyond forgiveness.

"Ah, well," said Chief Conductor Perrurle when Hanzo failed to elaborate on his one word answer, "not everyone is empathetic or brave enough, I'd wager, and fewer still could do it without trying to knock back any personal responsibility. Still--that's all of them what's traveling in that compartment. That's impressive. Or peer pressure at work."

They all fell silent again as the wording changed. Hanzo was the only one who could understand Russian, but even a fairly undiscerning ear would notice the shift.

"What's that they're saying now?" asked Fawkes, tilting his head like a quizzical dog. 

Hanzo shook his head. "I do not know. I have heard of this tradition, but I have never witnessed it firsthand."

"Georgía!"

"Eis polla etē! Eis polla etē! Eis polla etē!"

"Krimaía!"

"Eis polla etē! Eis polla etē! Eis polla etē!"

"Oukranía!"

"Eis polla etē! Eis polla etē! Eis polla etē!"

"Many days," the portly woman intoned, switching back to Russian, "to those who still live to enjoy them, despite our best efforts. 

"But to those whom we sent to eternal rest long before their time, with our bloodstained hands--" 

"Aiōnia ē Mnēmē! Věčná paměť! Thikruhu muabbadan! Sauk'uno Khseneba! Mäñgelek häter! Vichnaya pamyat'!"

"Vechnaya pamyat'!"  

"Vechnaya pamyat'! Vechnaya pamyat'!   Vechnaya pamyat'!"

Memory eternal.

The Russian gangster who had educated Shimada Rumi and Hanzo so long ago had said this was the true purpose of No Possibility Day. "Memory Eternal" in the original Orthodox tradition referred to the dead being afforded recognition and salvation by their deity, but now it held a more literal meaning amongst those people in Russia who wished to prevent any recurrence of the events they commemorated in this ritual.

They could never forget.

They must never forget.

You are right, brother. You were cruel. I have not forgotten. I will never forget.

And forgiveness was not possible. 

And it should not be sought.

But--

Hanzo's thoughts were interrupted by the sudden, absolute silence as the last cry of "Memory eternal!" faded into the night air. 

The crowd stood still for a few moments, leaving each person time to process their thoughts or offer their prayers.

Then, their leader--and this whole process had plainly revealed the level of authority she held and had tried to disguise from Hanzo--suddenly struck a large match, the spark and flame lighting up her face before she strode forward and bent to allow the flame to spark the bonfire.

She stepped back and watched as the fire spread through the kindling, steadily brightening until with a sudden whoosh, several of the logs caught the flames at once and set tall, brilliant tongues of flame spiraling and reaching for the sky.

Rutledge leaned forward and snapped one enormous hand over both of Fawkes', stymying an attempted burst of applause, though he could not prevent a squawk of indignation.

Meanwhile, the Russians began moving to form a line that passed by the bonfire. All of them produced something from their pockets or bags--something palm-sized and vaguely humanoid, though it was hard to see from the extreme contrast between the bright flames and the darkness and the somber black mourning garb.

Whatever they were, however, were thrown with great vigor into the inferno.

Matvey was near the head of the line, easily visible with his tall stature and blonde hair flashing brightly in the firelight--and a simple throw was not enough for him and a small number of his compatriots.

They slammed their objects to the dusty ground, crushed them under their heels, spat on them, and finally kicked them into the flames.

"Crikey!" exclaimed Fawkes, wrestling his hands free and stumping forward. "Whatever those are are sure as welcome as barkers eggs! What are they, mate?"

"I do not know."

However, Fawkes got a better answer soon enough. After making room for others to come forward and toss their objects into the fire, Matvey looked around, spotted Hanzo, and immediately came striding over, taking more objects out of his pockets.

"Good evening, my friend!" he said to Hanzo, though with a nod to the people surrounding him, looking wary as his eyes passed over Fawkes and Rutledge. "We've concluded the more solemn part of a sadly necessary Russian tradition, but would you--and your friends--like to participate in the more satisfying part?"

And he held out several dolls in his big hands.

Or rather, they were effigies, once Hanzo got a good look at them. They were made out of paper, crudely cut and stapled together in very basic human shapes with a few minimal features drawn on their heads and faces.

Some sported black hair and a thick black mustache.

Others had a few yellow hair lines scribbled around an otherwise round, bald head.

"Can we burn 'em? Is that what he's asking? Is he saying we can burn them?" Fawkes all but shrieked excitedly, standing to his full height and revealing, to the visible surprise of nearly all present, that he was a bit taller than Matvey. "Is it? Is it?"

"Ah--yes, he is inviting us to--"

"Last one there is a rotten egg!" Fawkes called out, having already grabbed every effigy in Matvey’s hands and begun clunking away to the bonfire. He paused, looked over his shoulder, and asked, "Can we make more?" 

Hanzo relayed the question to a bewildered Matvey, who nodded but added, "So long as they look like these degenerates."

"Aw, no worries, mate! Ta!" replied Fawkes to Hanzo’s translation. And off he went.

Agent Cassidy followed at a more sedate, casual pace, but he threw a short, neutral, but questioning glance at Hanzo.

Hanzo returned it with equal neutrality and no other undertone, so the cowboy continued on his way.

"Are you familiar with this ritual at all?" asked Matvey once Hanzo returned his attention to him.

"Yes," Hanzo said heavily, then, internally chastising himself for now failing to maintain his assumed persona, he added, "I have been answering a few questions, but there are some answers I do not know."

"Ah, such as?"

"Oh--well--" Hanzo stumbled a bit, somehow caught flatfooted though it was the natural line of conversation.

His mind truly was elsewhere, among ancient timbers and cherry blossoms and a single bloodied wall scroll.

"Our--our new friend," he finally said, gesturing to the now-dark figure of Fawkes silhouetted against the raging flames as he threw one effigy after another into them--the other Russians appeared willing to provide him with plenty more fuel. "He was wondering who these represent." 

An intensely bitter look twisted Matvey’s face, but his voice was tinged with satisfaction when he said, "You do not know them? Good. Let them remain nameless. Suffice to say that they were megalomaniacs who used both our blood and our neighbors’ to sate their thirst for power--and convinced too many of us to drive in the dagger for them. Though," he sighed, looking down at his broad, empty hands, "it may be a sign we are failing."

"Failing what?"

Matvey did not answer immediately. He stood there, flexing his fingers slightly, as he pondered for a few moments. "We have been a powerful nation for a long time," he said at length. "And we, as a people, have sacrificed, and been sacrificed, to make that possible. So there is a tendency towards pride--though we like to believe that it is tempered by a kind of--resigned exasperation. You won't find a country that is so proud yet so annoyed as ours! We have achieved so much, but there are so many stumbling blocks and absurdities in our daily lives, and we are taught from a young age that they are inevitable as winter and can only be endured, for once one problem has been dealt with, five more pop up, and that is Russian history in a couple of words, and there is nothing that can be done about it. And so we become jaded, and believe there is much to improve, but it will never, can never happen, and we resign ourselves to it--and absolve ourselves of it.

"That is how most Russians think. Famously, I think you'll agree. But there are plenty in our country--and in every country--who prefer and insist that only the great--or only the grand-- exists, and everything else is not worth thinking about, or, better still, lies and slander, and not even true at all.

"Both of these groups can be exploited, and have been exploited many, many times throughout history--but it's rare for them to be used on such a widespread and tragic scale as Russians have. We are not quite singular in that regard, but--our neighbors bear many, many scars, at our hands."

"As do the Russians themselves," said Hanzo softly.

"Oh yes!" said Matvey empathically, clenching his hands into fists. "Yes, we do! I threw two degenerates into the fire tonight. One starved fourteen out of thirty-two of my great-great-grandparents to death, and sent three of the others to work hard labor in Siberia. He was bad enough, but we either shrugged our shoulders or even praised him to the skies, and three generations later his successor was free to send three of my great-grandparents to their deaths in 'glorious' battle. So glorious, that we do not know to this day where they are buried-- if they were buried and not left to be carrion by their own comrades. They gave their lives for Russia, and the degenerate was so grateful for their sacrifice that he denied for years that they had died at all. We can only hope that their enemies were kind enough to bury them for us.

"And because of him, they weren't there when their country had real need of them.

"But," he said, recollecting himself and taking a deep breath. "Today is not the day to discuss our losses. We have other days for that, and we mourn ourselves and our own dead and give them their due many times each year. Today--today is dedicated to our victims. The only day we mourn our victims." 

"One day is often all that we can bear."

Matvey blinked down at Hanzo. Hanzo fought back a grimace at the inadvertent moment of naked honesty and, clumsily, rerouted the conversation by saying, "I imagine the Siberian Omnium complicates matters."

Matvey scowled. "It does. It does. Not only in terms of living through the nightmare of another Crisis, but it opens the door for a third degenerate, ready to hijack our honest desires to defend our people and our motherland. There are many who desire to take up the mantle, and they use the same methods and language that have deceived us before. You would think that we would learn, but it worked well enough even when there were flesh-and-blood people beneath our boots. Now that it is another species entirely, it seems to be easier still."

"Another species?" asked Hanzo, frowning.

Matvey looked disappointed and more than a little wary as he said, "The Omnics. They would classify as another species of life, yes?"

"Ah, I see," said Hanzo, berating himself--his brain must truly be mired if he was not putting something so simple together. "Pardon me, I have never given much thought to that particular question. For me it suffices that they speak and think." 

"And feel, and struggle to survive, as we do," came the unexpectedly earnest reply. "They have as much, and more, to lose from a resurgent God AI as we do. The degenerates in our history have always sought to chain our minds, to make us believe exactly what they wish us to believe, and how is that any different from what the God AIs did, except in a far more literal, horrifying sense? So there are many Omnics who aid us in our fight against the Siberian Omnium, but good luck finding anyone in power who acknowledges them," he said bitterly, dangerously close to ranting. "Instead, we flirt with repeating the mistakes of the past by fomenting rumors and prejudice, which too often--"

He suddenly stopped dead and, with a fearful glance at Rutledge, leaned forward and whispered, "Does the Junker speak Russian?"

"Nyet," came the heartstopping reply from Rutledge. "But I heard 'Yunker' and 'Omnic'. We got a problem?"

"No," replied Hanzo smoothly. "Merely political opinions. He wants to be sure he is not inadvertently offending anyone."

"What kind of 'political opinions'?" Rutledge growled, sitting up and training the black lenses of his gas mask on Matvey in a remarkably unfriendly way given their inexpressiveness.

Hanzo raised an eyebrow. "He does not understand why anyone would live here, given the dangers."

"He doesn't, huh?" Rutledge said with a dangerous tone. "He doesn't have to stay."

"No. He does not." 

And Hanzo took Matvey by the shoulder and steered him around to escort him back to his compatriots.

It was a slightly comical sight, given how short he was compared to Matvey, but it was worth avoiding any further escalation.

"I'm sorry," Matvey said quietly once they were a reasonable distance away. "I forgot myself." 

Hanzo squeezed his shoulder. "Think nothing of it, though you may wish to avoid speaking of your surprisingly pro-Omnic sentiments while you are on this continent. That was likely what he overheard and did not appreciate."

"Yes," Matvey acknowledged, looking chastised. "It is dangerous enough to speak positively of them back home, but the custom there is to start shouting instead. The rules here are somewhat different." 

"Somewhat."

Matvey fell silent, but Hanzo could see he was side-eyeing him with trepidation. "Are--is--is it necessary for you to--for you and your teammates--to ally with these Junkers, even for so short a time?" he asked, and Hanzo was surprised at how fretful he sounded. 

"You know that we need entry into Junkertown," Hanzo replied with a raised eyebrow. "I am only sorry that we snapped up this 'sponsor' so quickly, before you had a chance to make any proposals. You will be stuck at the city gates while we are ushered inside."

It was meant as a joke--partially because it was highly likely Matvey’s people were already assured entry, based on Hanzo's impressions from their earlier conversations, but instead he provoked a troubled and almost guilty look to flit across Matvey's face. 

"Ah--if that is your only concern--" he began.

"Matvey."

The portly woman had cut him off with a swift word and a severe tone. He clicked his mouth closed, but he clenched his fists again. "Remeslennitsa, please, I--" he tried to say, using a term Hanzo was not familiar with.

"What do you think of our ritual, hmm?" she interrupted, addressing Hanzo. "I'm told that Japanese find it very easy to apologize over trivial matters and nearly never apologize for anything consequential. Is that correct, or an oversimplification?" 

She was very aggressively redirecting the conversation, perhaps even trying to be so offensive as to make it impossible to continue. Matvey looked appalled at her tactics, but on the off-chance that he might reveal their true connections to Junkertown, Hanzo replied, "That is somewhat of an oversimplification. Our public officials, for example, often accept responsibility for the failures of their underlings and resign as a way to admit failure, but a direct and verbal apology--that is rare enough. To do so while precluding the possibility of forgiveness--that is rarer still."

"Ah! Then you already know something about this," she said with a small smile. "Good. Tell your countrymen of it, and your political leaders, and anyone who will listen. There isn't a nation in the world that doesn't have blood on its hands, and nearly none acknowledge it. Your nation's crimes against its neighbors have passed out of living memory by now--though they may yet continue in some lesser known fashion--but it is never too late. Some of my first memories are of the Obmanamor, but though I was merely a child I apologize, and I hope that my children will continue to apologize when I am gone, and my grandchildren, and so on. Others, you see, have no children or grandchildren at all because of us. There are undoubtedly some who do not because of you and your ancestors. Has anyone taken responsibility for that? Have you?"

It was a moment or two before Hanzo could reply.

"No. Not in any way that matters."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "I didn't expect such an honest answer," she said with a mixture of respect and a shrewd curiosity. "But, of course, if you are aware of that, then you must be aware that there are responsibilities." 

"Yes."

She narrowed her eyes at how heavy, how exhaustively heavy the single word had been. Hanzo, for his part, was mortified he had let so much slip in a mere syllable. He made to turn and more-or-less flee the conversation altogether since it had rocketed so far out of control--and he could even see that Matvey was fretfully opening his mouth to intervene--but he was stopped by an immensely gentle hand on his shoulder, which belied the sharp glance that shut Matvey’s mouth.

"That is good," she said softly, squeezing his shoulder. "That is good. But now that you have taken on the burden, you must learn how to carry it. Some would say you must stoop under its weight, and allow it to run you into the ground, in order to show true regret, true shame. But that is not the way to live life, to waste away until still more precious life is lost. Regret should be a reminder and a lesson. Shame should be motivation to avoid repeating the mistakes of the past. But neither should necessarily be a death sentence." 

"Should they not?" asked Hanzo bitterly, and he cursed the unfortunate openness he had cultivated during this journey that allowed the question to slip past his lips.

She actually rapped his temple with her knuckles, with a well-calculated small burst of pain. "Of course not! It accomplishes nothing, either for our victims, or," she said, looking intently into Hanzo's face, "in our own minds. What does accomplish a great deal is rehabilitation. Rehabilitation has often been mistaken for punishment because it is rarely a pleasant process--but the difference is that rehabilitation is both necessary and effective. That is what we aim for with No Possibility Day. Not forgiveness. Not punishment. Rehabilitation, of ourselves, our culture, and our nation. We invite others to join us." 

Then she let go. "When they're ready," she said. Then, with a twisted smile, she added, "If they're ever ready." She stepped back, put her hands in her pockets, and adopted a more conversational tone. "But that's a great deal of talk you never asked for. Now, you tell me--what has possessed you all to ally yourselves with--what do they call themselves? Rat and Pig?" 

"Junkrat and Roadhog," he said dully, thankful for the change in topic but already at the end of his wits, tolerance, and goodwill towards others and himself. "Perhaps I can explain at another time. I must get back immediately."

"There likely won't be another time,” she observed. “We arrive at the gates of Junkertown tomorrow."

"With luck, our paths may cross," he said, and, bobbing his head in farewell and to forestall any further conversation, he turned and walked away, faster than necessary, but slower than the outright fleeing he had contemplated earlier.

Forgiveness. Apologies. "Rehabilitation". 

Nonsense.

None of it addressed the root causes, the true source of the problem: the deed had been done, and nothing could redress it. 

Rutledge acknowledged him with a grunt when he returned, while Ms. Oxton gave him a furtive look that was equally curious and pleading-- she had been left alone with Rutledge for some time, and he doubted that had been to either's comfort.

It seemed to Hanzo that Ms. Oxton had either tried to break the ice in some fashion or wished to--she kept glancing at Rutledge when she was not stopping herself from fidgeting with the metal studs and spikes on her sleeves--but Rutledge had either shut her down, did not notice her frequent looks, or was ignoring her entirely. 

And, because the silence suited Hanzo's mood perfectly, he did nothing to break it as the strange trio sat at the base of the staircase, and time began to crawl by, marked by the brilliant night sky slowly turning above their heads.

Rehabilitation.

As impossible as forgiveness or redemption. The woman herself had admitted it.

Impossible.

Hanzo could not ignore, however, that this was not the first time this concept had been broached. 

"You’ve apologized before for things, so I know you have it in you. But sometimes the person is just a little too out of reach. So why try at all?"

"And what if they have rejected all attempts at reparation?”

Sometimes, forgiveness short-circuited redemption. Sometimes, forgiveness prevented justice. 

Sometimes, it should not be granted.

But what if it was too late? What if there was no possibility of forgiveness--but it was granted anyway?

What then?

Hanzo should have been scanning his surroundings, analyzing the occupants of the other compartments, watching for anyone who might be taking undue interest in Overwatch's new allies and charges, but his mind was in a state of confusion, and, worse still, he had accepted the reality of associating with Overwatch to such an extent that his "crocodile brain" was satisfied with leaving the matter to them while it pondered useless matters of philosophy it had no hope of resolving or even understanding.

But at least he suppressed a startled jump when a loud stomping noise erupted from above. It was only Agent Reinhardt, anyhow, who immediately called out, "Just me, only me."

He looked like he wanted to say more, but in Rutledge's presence he also had a persona to uphold, so he kept quiet as he descended.

Once he got to the ground he turned to them and said, "Gonna try a ploy," in a low voice. Hanzo and Ms. Oxton nodded and Rutledge grunted as Agent Reinhardt settled cross-legged on the ground, his back still to the caravan and forming a circle with the rest of them.

With only a single guard--next to the MEKA, Dr. Ziegler would not really count as one to a casual observer--now would be the time for someone with an interest in a large pile of gold to act.

But while they waited for anyone to do so, Agent Reinhardt had an act to maintain, so, if only to prevent himself from seeking conversation, he took out his whittling knife and a small chunk of wood.

Rutledge stirred.

And spoke.

"What's that?" 

Agent Reinhardt looked up, gestured, and with very credible acting on his part, said, "Wood."

Rutledge grunted--or possibly laughed. "What will it be?" 

"Kangaroo." 

"You any good?" came the unexpectedly interested question.

Both Agent Reinhardt and Ms. Oxton blinked in surprise, and Agent Reinhardt considered Rutledge for a moment before he slowly reached into his pocket and took out the wooden emu that he had started but Hanzo had finished. "Take a look," he said, tossing it deftly across the small space. 

Rutledge caught it with care, quickly cupping his huge hands together so it could safely land in the soft cushion of his palms. 

He leaned forward and brought his face down close so he could inspect it closely though the featureless black lenses of his gas mask.

Hanzo braced himself for a sudden sharp snap as Rutledge broke its head off its long neck.

Instead--

"Cute." 

Then he moved to toss it back, with both hands, carefully.

Agent Reinhardt raised his hand to stop him. He looked at Hanzo, raising the eyebrow over his bright blue eye.

Hanzo nodded.

"Keep it," Agent Reinhardt said, holding back the delighted smile unquestionably threatening to break across his face. Then, quite unnecessarily, he added, "I'm just starting out. He finished it," nodding at Hanzo. 

"Hmm," came the reply--but Rutledge looked closely at the emu, tiny amid his enormous fingers, and looked at Hanzo. "Nice."

"Thank you."

Then, mercifully, silence returned--but both Agent Reinhardt and Ms. Oxton settled down far more comfortably then before, and though Rutledge quickly stowed his unexpected gift in a side pocket, he, too, seemed more relaxed than before, though equally stoic as before.

Meanwhile, Fawkes was embarking on a tour. 

After throwing several--maybe even a couple dozen--effigies into the Russians' bonfire, he had quickly tired of the language barrier and began stomping on to the next compartment over, the cowboy following closely behind. His chatter was often high-pitched enough to carry back to their quartet, but, evidently finding nothing to occupy him there, either, he kept going, soon on his way to making a complete circuit of the "wagon train." 

For the quartet--minus Agent Reinhardt, his tongue poking out as he concentrated on whittling--keeping a close eye on him, it was another test of their fellow travelers. If any of them made a wrong move, Agent Cassidy would prevent a fait accompli, and then the rest of Overwatch would arrive.

Though whether to rescue Fawkes or prevent him--or Rutledge--from blowing things out of control was an open question.

But Fawkes completed his tour without incident, and when he returned he plopped down unceremoniously next to Hanzo. 

"So! How long have you known old Konsulova?!" he asked excitedly. "Can't believe you needed our help to get in when she's around! Or were you just pullin' our legs?" 

His excitement took on a completely unexpected, distinctly unfriendly tone.

"Cuz if you were just planning on dobbing us in to the Queen before we even get a chance to see her--"

"Konsulova is here?" Rutledge rumbled, sitting up. "And you were talking to her?"

"I have spoken to her. She has not told me her name," Hanzo said calmly, though he was already managing an adrenaline spike. "Who is she?" 

Fawkes squinted at him, leaning as close as Rutledge had to the emu--their noses nearly touched, and despite the abruptly unstable situation, Hanzo still wished Fawkes did not quite so desperately need time with a toothbrush.

But he did not waver, and he kept his gaze cool and collected.

"Boop!" Fawkes giggled, brushing the tip of his nose against Hanzo's before leaning back. "Aw, alright, I'll take your word for it, then, but I'll blow you sky-high if it turns out you're telling porkers! Konsulova! She's only best mates with Meri, Tinker-in-Chief of ole Junkertown! Sure, she keeps a low profile, but Roadie and I nearly stopped by her mansion while we were passing by, and it probably would've been a nice pleasant teatime, too, unless she had something worth grabbing, eh, Roadie? Ha ha!"

Rutledge had settled back, but a jerked nod did not seem particularly promising.

"She’s always in and out of Junkertown--I'm gobsmacked you lot don't know who she is! I'm absolutely chuffed she's back, tho-- this'll be the first time against K-NG! Best fighter we've had since the Queen herself, which is probably why Konsulova's back--she's gotta few titles to defend!" 

Agent Reinhardt had long since stopped working on his kangaroo. "A few?" he repeated. "Then--does she sponsor--"

"Haven't you been listening? She doesn't 'sponsor' Meri, she's Meri's personal supplier!" Fawkes interrupted, though nothing he had said had even hinted at that revelation. "Whatever the Scavengers can't find--or won't sell, heh heh--Konsulova brings to Meri! That's why that lot haven't got a mech or a pilot with 'em--Meri's already waiting for them in Junkertown!"

"I see," Hanzo said gravely. "That answers many questions. Thank you."

"No worries! But, uh--now I gotta question for you." Now Fawkes scooted awkwardly closer to Hanzo's side, so that now, in addition to his halitosis, the mixture of sour body odor and burnt hair surrounded them both. "Why're you so cranky?"

Hanzo blinked slowly. "Excuse me?"

"I just thought you were a quiet, glowery kind of standover man. But there're a fair few people around here thinking you look a lot less stoked than usual--and blaming me, even though I'm an absolute delight!" Fawkes placed a hand on both of Hanzo's shoulders and physically rotated him to look towards Compartment 7--and directly into Andrews' tightlipped, reddened face, visible even at such a distance. "Just look at that dag! He looks even more off-kilter now than when he warned me to keep my distance!" Fawkes said, laughing. "Is it because I'm touching you? Let's see!"

He dramatically lifted his hands off Hanzo's shoulders for a few moments, then thudded them down, repeating the experiment a few times as Andrew's face got redder and darker. 

Then Andrews moved to jerk to his feet--but a companion on either side took a hold of his arms and forcefully kept him in his seat.

"Ho! Touched a nerve, it seems!" Fawkes crowed, patting Hanzo one last time and then, mercifully, drawing back a little. "Don't suppose that, uh--you and him were--"

"No." 

Fawkes raised his eyebrows at the short, brusque answer, and Hanzo belatedly realized his mistake when he leaned in again. "'No'? Are you sure?" he asked with no little excitement. "Did--did we interrupt a courtship, a mobile courtship, two souls unexpectedly finding one another, a sweet flower of blooming attraction in the middle of the harsh desert?!"

"No," said Hanzo with a voice as flat as freshly pooled molten glass, as ineffective as he now knew it would be. 

Fawkes blinked, and Hanzo had a moment of crystal clear prescience that, like Genji or Ms. Song, one-word answers were an absolute goad to the Junker and he would now embark on an all out campaign to annoy him until words furiously burst out of him.

He suppressed a sigh as he waited for the onslaught.

He was not surprised when Junkrat scooted closer, nor when he placed his arm around his shoulders.

"What's on yer mind, mate?"

His words were rough, a little petulant and exasperated, but surprisingly entreating. Then, with a little of the same perception that had pierced the cowboy's disguise, he glanced at the bonfire and the crowd surrounding it, and asked, "Is it the Russians? Are they bumming you out?"

Hanzo glanced at him from the corner of his eye, weighing his response.

It was difficult to pin Fawkes' character down. He was notorious because he was a shockingly violent and unpredictable criminal, though with an undeniable streak of genius if all his audacious yet successful heists were not the result of an absurd amount of luck. Even after he had seen through Agent Cassidy, however, it was tempting to attribute the genius to the silent hulking figure of Rutledge, who, in that scenario, had somehow managed to harness Fawkes' explosive but directionless potential.

But even the research Hanzo had done on the two Junkers before he joined Overwatch had revealed Fawkes had been a force to reckon with before he teamed up with Rutledge--though their partnership had proven extremely successful, to the surprise of nearly all observers.

It should not be such a surprise, then, to learn that part of Fawkes' success might be due to his perception. There had been several attempts to entrap the duo during their world tour, but all had failed, with plenty of injuries and property damage in their wake. Again, it was tempting to ascribe that to Rutledge, who was obviously untrusting and calculating--but it seemed that Fawkes might have the supremely terrifying gift of simply seeing things for what they were.

Well. Hanzo had encountered that gift before, and the solution was also fairly simple: avoid lying, but avoid volunteering information.

"Yes," he admitted, grateful, for once, for the constant physical contact various agents had subjected him in the past few months--it made enduring the arm on his shoulders that much easier.

"I knew it!" crowed Fawkes, patting Hanzo's shoulder once more. "I knew it! C'mon mate, we're all friends here until--uh, unless- -one of us tries to bail the other up--but before then, we're all friends! So tell ole Jamie what's wrong! Better out than in!"

Things were infinitely better in than out in Hanzo's experience, but he did not voice that particular opinion. Instead, he took a moment to pick out an appropriate answer--which Fawkes awaited with remarkable patience-- before he said, "The Russians are commemorating great losses. They have put me in a similar frame of mind. I am thinking of what I have lost."

This was a dangerous admission, but the truth was always dangerous. The key now was that if Fawkes asked for details, Hanzo could start out as vaguely as possible and then advance by centimeters until the Junker either tired of his recalcitrance or was satisfied.

It did not seem he would require much of either, however.

"Lost?! What, your keys, arrows? Snacks!" he asked and then shouted, digging into his pockets. "I've got snacks! No, not here, I put 'em in the--sit tight, I'll go grab some and we can bog in and cheer up a little! Be-are-be!" 

And he leapt up and stumped off and up the stairs, making Ms. Song thud over to the edge of the battle platform to see who was coming. "Just me!" he called up to the black profile of her MEKA silhouetted against the bright band of the Milky Way above. "Just coming to get snacks!"

"Snacks, huh?" she called back down. "Well, share and share alike. Someone go get mine out of our compartment!"

Ms. Oxton and Agent Reinhardt both rose to her summons as Fawkes nearly crowed out in sheer delight.

Her snacks were likely to be fresher and less contaminated than his.

That left only Rutledge sitting with Agent Cassidy and Hanzo.

He was still observing Hanzo with what might be a critical eye behind the inscrutable black lens of his gas mask. Hanzo did not bother to meet or avoid it--he simply gazed straight ahead at the ground, breathing in the sweet night desert air as Fawkes' trail dissipated. 

"Lost, huh?"

Rutledge was more likely to be satisfied with single-word answers.

"Yes." 

"Hm. You look--rich."

Fawkes may be surprisingly astute--but it was no surprise at all that Rutledge was, too.

"I was. No longer." 

Rutledge grunted. "Hostile takeover? Bad investment? Bad blood?" 

Hanzo had apparently celebrated his good luck with Fawkes' inattention too soon. Rutledge was there to pick up the slack.

"I was my own undoing." 

"Huh. Do tell."

Hanzo looked up. Rutledge's posture was relaxed and his tone more bored than anything--but the black lenses of his mask were insufficient to hide his intense interest.

Hanzo did not understand nor like it.

"My family once held an empire, but I gave it up."

"All of it?"

Hanzo narrowed his eyes--then suddenly he understood. "Yes. Along with their fortune."

"Shame," Rutledge replied, dragging the word out. "Mighta been worth settling the score of sneaking into our compartment if we could get a little money out of it, too, but. Too bad." 

Hanzo steeled his gaze. "I would say--fortunate."

"Yeah. Me, too," the cowboy added, leveling a nearly identical look.

"You would." And Rutledge lost himself in great, heaving, hacking laughter while Hanzo and the cowboy looked on in grave silence.

After a minute or so, Rutledge began to recover, and, thumping his chest with a giant fist, commented, "Doctor's good. Lungs haven't sounded so clear in a while." 

Hanzo and Agent Cassidy exchanged a look. 

"Eh. I guess you two will do."

Their heads swiveled back to him with identical narrowed eyes, but Rutledge continued before they could say anything. "When we get to Junkertown, nobody but me and Junkrat go in my house. Nobody but him, me--and you two." 

"Us two," the cowboy repeated with a raised eyebrow.

"Uh-huh. I'll send Junkrat out to lay mines or something stupid. Then we can talk."

"Talk about w--"

"Here we go! A few packs I picked up while we were blowing up--uh, through Sydney! They're all melted together, of course, but there's no sense knocking 'em back over that! There's for you, and there's for you, doc!"

"Thank you," came the faint voice of Dr. Ziegler, though her apprehension was clear.

"Aw, no worries, doc! I dusted them off real good--that's what took me so long! Hardly a sievert or rem to be had, I promise you! Anyway, you aren't opposed to a little of your own medicine--for some reason--are you?"

"It's better not to need medicine in the first place," the doctor chided. "But we've come this far."

And the crinkling, ripping sound of her opening a foil packet floated down, amid Fawkes' giggles. "Good on ya, doc! Don't let the Outback dictate your life, no matter how bright it's glowing!"

He banged his way down the stairs and held out a colorful array of packages to Hanzo. "Here ya go! Now cheer up!"

"Thank you," Hanzo said, reaching out to take three--but, predictably, Fawkes thought he needed many more than that, as he unceremoniously dumped all of them into his lap, forcing Hanzo to scramble to corral them all.

"We got more coming from your compartment, so garn!" he said with an exaggerated wink. "Though--if sharing would help warm that heart of yours--?" 

Hanzo spread his arms, giving access to his lap.

"Cheers!"

And Junkrat swiped five or six packages back and tore all of them open in one go, tipping his head back and shaking their contents into his wide open mouth.

He began to choke, thumping his chest like Rutledge had earlier, but he powered through while determinedly chewing throughout.

The rest of the night passed with Hanzo quietly reflecting how lucky he had been that, despite their tiring exuberance, Agents Lúcio, Reinhardt, and Pharah and Ms. Oxton and Ms. Song were, by and large, respectful of personal space and, to greater or lesser extents, empathetic enough to sense when Hanzo had expended his admittedly limited patience.

Fawkes, on the other hand, had no regard whatsoever for personal space. However, he proved to be remarkably astute when it came to Hanzo's emotional state--he just didn't care.

Or, more charitably, he had no idea what to do, and, specifically, when to stop.

Hanzo wished he would at least change tactics.

"Aw, c'mon, mate, don't act like you're just seen a bush oyster!"

"Go on, have another snack, your physique can take it!"

"How about another try at 'I Spy'? I spy with my little eye something beginning with--four!"

"Crikey, are those shoulders or rocks you got under there? Lemme just feel--yeah, defo shoulders, but man are you tense! Here, just a little rub right here and one right there'll put everything right!"

"I know! How about a nice rousing rendition of 'Beds Are Burning'?! That might--"

"Excellent idea," Hanzo said, shooting to his feet. "There is a keyboard being shipped to Junkertown. I will go and borrow it."

"Nice!" Fawkes squealed, pleased to have broken through at long, long, long last after hours of non-stop chatter. "Need a hand or--"

"Everyone will need to warm up," Hanzo said firmly, as he ignored the other Overwatch agents slowly settling back down. His sudden movement had caused all of them--even Agent Cassidy--to start, and Ms. Oxton had jumped halfway to her feet. "You shall see to it. I will return shortly."

He turned and marched off, and it was mere coincidence that he headed off in generally the correct direction.

Fawkes needed to learn the value of silence. 

That was not Hanzo's responsibility--

--but, oh, if it was--

Once he was an appreciable distance away--and after he was sure Fawkes had not begun following him anyway--he slowed his steps as much as possible, in order to prolong this badly needed break from Fawkes' incessant, unending, piercing, handsy--

He stopped his own thoughts and took in a deep breath.

He would not sabotage himself.

He could not afford to. The deck was already stacked against him. 

In any other situation, this would not be a problem, because Ms. Oxton or Ms. Song or Agent Reinhardt would have easily and gladly taken charge of Fawkes and his inane chatter.

Agent Cassidy had tried to do the same--repeatedly, and getting rapidly more assertive with each attempt--but, unfortunately, for whatever unlucky reason, he just could not hold the Junker's attention for more than a few words.

It had even seemed like he was avoiding him.

"Hey now--how about you tell us a little bit about your little vacation. What was your favorite--"

"London," Fawkes cut him off. "Defo London. Now, c'mon, surely you haven't got that much tension in your shoulders!"

Later on, the cowboy had tried again.

"You ever hear about a guy named Bruce Connolly? Thought I heard he--"

"Blew him up somewhere in Kentucky, ka-boom! Heh heh heh heh! Say, these look good enough to put a smile on any face! Carn, have some!" he insisted as he shoved some of the snacks Hanzo had won in the talent contest several nights earlier in his face.

He tried a few more times, and while Hanzo appreciated each and every attempt, he could only tolerate failure for so long--thus he was forced to abandon his own charge and leave Rutledge to the cowboy and the rest of Overwatch.

So he could not stretch this break out too long.

But he was going to stretch it out regardless.

The leader of Compartment 9 was, unknowingly, happy to oblige him.

"Naw, mate. No way. What do you think this is, bush week? That absolute nutter's either gonna break it over your head, set fire to it, or both. I gotta get it to Junkertown in one piece, y'know."

"He will not take kindly to being denied entertainment," Hanzo said quietly.

"Whatever you reckon," she said dismissively. "There's a thousand more just like 'em in Junkertown, and they won't appreciate it either. You threw in with those two, now you gotta stick with 'em, no matter how many bombs they throw at you. Answer's no."

Hanzo stayed put and offered token resistance--and it was possible she actually was conscious of his true purpose, because she showed very little true impatience or hostility to his "persistence".

The time came, however, much sooner than he wished, for him to inopportune her no longer.

Miraculously, however, when he turned around, Fawkes was not burning a hole in the back of his head or stumping over to check on or "assist" him-- 

He was sitting with his arm thrown over the cowboy's shoulders, and they were belting out a song at the top of their lungs.

"How can we sleep when our beds! Are! Burning!" Fawkes screeched, stomping out the rhythm with his peg leg. The cowboy was actually singing, but his voice suffered from trying to match Fawkes' sheer volume.

He sounded worlds better though.

What was undeniably better still, however, was that he had finally succeeded in capturing Fawkes’ attention.

Fawkes seemed to have forgotten Hanzo completely.

Hanzo was willing to put this to the test by slipping back towards Overwatch's compartment, and ultimately disappearing into the shadows under its battle platform.

It was a bad idea for many reasons--being out of sight, in a spot with contaminated dust still drifting in the air, leaving Rutledge to the continued care of Overwatch instead of his own as he had agreed--

--but he simply had not recovered yet. 

Fawkes was so much like a long-disappeared Genji.

The constant pecking, the inability to stop, the inexplicable obsession with cheering up a sullen, near-silent Hanzo--

That had not been the Genji he had cut down though.

He chased away that Genji years beforehand.

"Well. Fancy meeting you here."

Hanzo suppressed a sigh as he broke out of his reverie. The break had been nice while it lasted.

"Hello, Andrews."

"You look exhausted," came the blunt reply as he leaned against At-the-Tready two or three paces away, pretentiously close for Hanzo's liking.

"Thank you for the report. I will take that under advisement."

Andrews' pinched expression hardened. "Haha. Now, speaking seriously for just a tick, what the fuck are you thinking? Palling up with Junkrat and Roadhog? Have you all gone cracked?"

"Yes. We have absolutely no idea what we are doing and are heading for certain disaster." 

Andrews scowled. "I'm gonna offer to help, you bung-brained idiot." 

"I know. I am preemptively declining. We will not require assistance."

"Fucking listen, will you?!" Andrews hissed, slamming a fist into the unmoving mass of At-the-Tready with a belittlingly small thump that completely undermined any authority he was grasping at with the gesture. "You don't need to take up with those Immorton Chodes! Kick 'em out and come in with us--we've already got entry into Junkertown, alright? You can get in with us."

"Do you?" Hanzo said disinterestedly. "You had not mentioned that before."

"Well, I'm mentioning it now. So garn and tell Junkrat and Roadhog you don't need them anymore."

"Certainly. On the word of a single member of your group, and not even that of the leader, I completely trust that you are unilaterally able to make this offer. I will also trust that this isn't a ploy to trick us into abandoning our ticket into Junkertown so that you can snap it up and-slash-or rid yourself of competition, or achieve some other goal since your purposes in Junkertown are completely unknown. Mr. Fawkes and Mr. Rutledge have one advantage over you in that regard: their purpose is plain to see." 

Andrews' face had steadily darkened--in better lighting it would most likely be red--but at the last moment confusion stole over it. 

"'Fawkes'? 'Rutledge'? Who the hell are they?"

Hanzo sighed. If he was not going to find any solitude here, he might as well return to his duties. "No one," he said placatingly, setting off to pass Andrews at a brisk pace. "Thank you for your kind offer."

"Now hold on a minute!" And, straightening, he pretentiously, forwardly, grabbed Hanzo's shoulder. Hanzo was stopped less by astonishment at his brazenness and more by the need not to break a fellow passenger's fingers one-by-one to reward their insolence, as much as he desperately wanted to.

"Just--hold on, alright? I'm--I got--there's more to this than I'm letting on."

"There had better be," Hanzo said, keeping his voice level but allowing a clear note of warning to pass through.

"There is! I'm--well, I'm--I actually am the leader of my group. I'm in charge. I can make this offer, and I can make it happen!"

"Can you?" Hanzo said, silently counting down the seconds to when he could throw off the hand on his shoulder with the least chance of its speedy return.

"I can, I swear!"

"Why? How?" he asked drily.

Andrews hesitated.

Hanzo snorted at his muddled, befuddled expression. "Fine, a less broad question: why tell me this now?"

Andrews apparently found that easy to answer. "Because you're making a shonky decision." 

"Why does that concern you?"

That was, apparently, a much more difficult question. Andrews seemed to be struck speechless by it. He gaped like a fish, his mouth opening and closing several times, and Hanzo could only observe with a miffed raised eyebrow. Finally, he said, haltingly, "B-Because--" 

Frustratingly, he stopped.

Hanzo had only the patience to wait a few more seconds before rolling his eyes and making to finally shake off that odious hand and leave.

Andrews had other ideas. In response to Hanzo’s sudden motion, his grip tightened and he actually spun him around so they were face-to-face.

He had the barest advantage over Fawkes in that he had brushed his teeth recently and wore a reasonable amount of deodorant and cologne, but otherwise he was almost equally unwelcome.

He stared into Hanzo's eyes with an earnest expression, which he returned flatly, held in place by sheer willpower and the need not to be thrown out of the caravan by the chief conductor for eviscerating a fellow passenger.

"Because I--because I think you're--because you're--"

"You let walk, yes?"

With a huge hand on each of their shoulders, Matvey gently pushed Hanzo--and shoved Andrews--apart. "Ah! So--eh--stupid! I'm so so sorry!" he exclaimed as Andrews stumbled and swore.

"You're gonna be sorry, you giant piece of--" he began, instantly recovering and grabbing Matvey’s hand in one motion, twisting it in a surprisingly competent wrist hold and making Matvey squawk in surprise.

Fortunately, however, before things went too far--

"G'day, boys. Anything I can help you with?"

They froze at the ice-cold tone of Chief Conductor Perrurle, except Andrews, who wisely and immediately released Matvey's wrist. 

"G'day, ma'am. No, ma'am," he said hurriedly, his eyes downcast like a schoolboy. "Just a--misunderstanding, ma'am."

"Doing alright, there, Andrews? Sounds like your record's skipping with all those ma'ams I'm hearing," the chief conductor said, her hands in her pockets and looking completely relaxed, though her two bodyguards made no attempt to hide their glowering faces. "Well then. Doesn't seem to be a good reason for you three to be here, out of sight of everyone else. Call it conductor's prerogative, but I'm happier when all my passengers are out where I can see them. Shall we?"

The three men filed out after Matvey shot Hanzo a questioning look, having understood very little. Andrews, on the other hand, kept his head down, but his exposed neck was bright red, and he was breathing heavily. Whatever his response to Matvey would have been, it would have been powered by a significant amount of adrenaline.

Hanzo, out of annoyance and spite, almost wished he had been allowed to attempt to fight giant Matvey. If his success rate against Hanzo were any indication, the result would have been laughably short, and Hanzo could have used a laugh.

As it was, he was forced to be thankful the chief conductor had intervened when she did. She and her bodyguards followed behind them, and she all but shooed them in different directions, still the picture of nonchalance, but firmly brooking no argument.

He returned to the supplies compartment, attempting to smooth his expression as he approached the knot of Junkers and Overwatch agents gathered there. He could see Fawkes and Agent Cassidy still singing, arms over each other's shoulders, and he prepared himself to face the intense focus of Fawkes' attention once more, and his demands for why he had taken so long and where the keyboard was and this and that and everything else--

--but it never came. Hanzo rejoined them and sat and stared into their campfire, but he was acknowledged only by Ms. Oxton and Agent Reinhardt. Fawkes was too busy singing.

"Oh, however and whatever and wherever and away! They shot and punched and skirmished and they fought day after day! And though for weeks and months they went to e-ve-ry stronghold, the sheriff and his posse never ever found the gold!"

Fawkes' singing voice was as expected--scratchy, tone-adjacent, and voluminous.

The cowboy, however, could add yet another skill to his already fearsome repertoire: he could sing.

Not only that, but he could do the single most cowboy thing Hanzo had yet witnessed: a very capable American country western falsetto.

"A-we-we-we-weh, a-we-we-we-woh!" he belted out, full-voiced and strong, so that even Fawkes stopped to listen, his eyes shining. "But the sheriff and his posse never ever found the go-o-o-old!" he finished in a rising crescendo that did manage to strain his voice, but only slightly. 

Their little circle broke into applause-- but, given that one of his audience was a taciturn rogue and two of the others were attempting to playact as taciturn rogues, it was fairly muted. 

Fawkes made up for it.

"Wow! Smashing! Bonzer! An absolute beaut!" he cried, wrapping his big lanky arms around the cowboy's neck and shoulders and hugging him tight. "You are a real cowboy after all!" 

"Born and bred from the finest Western stock," the cowboy replied, reaching up--with some difficulty getting past Fawkes' arms--to tip his hat.

"Garn, let's have another! Y'know Wyoming Sage, dontcha?!"

"Course I do! How do you know it, though?"

"Karaoke bar in Kentucky, der! Now, c'mon, everyone! A-one, a-two, a-onetwothreefour--"

Hanzo's momentary alarm that he would suddenly be roped into this singalong proved unfounded. Fawkes did not actually insist on everyone present joining him--he was well-satisfied with Agent Cassidy.

And he remained well-satisfied, all the way through the rest of the night.

"Wrap it up, songbirds!" the chief conductor said over the PA, her voice echoing between the compartments. "Alright, everyone, one last haul! Don't let your guard down just because we're almost there--there've been plenty of wastelanders arsey enough to try to trip us up at the finish line. All aboard!" 

"Crikey, is it that time already?! Feels like the sun just went down, but there she is coming up again, the biggest, most beautiful bomb of all!" Fawkes said, standing on tiptoe as though he could see the horizon over the towering bulk of At-the-Tready. Though it could not be seen, the sky was unmistakably lightening, and the softest pinkish tinge was coloring the deep blue of night. "Ooo, I wish this night would never end! But it ended." 

He punctuated the sentence with a great exaggerated sob as he buried his face in the cowboy's shoulder. Agent Cassidy patted his spikey, burnt hair in consolation. "I'm sure we'll have time for a tune or two once we get into Junkertown. We'll have lots to do when we first get there but then nothing but wait for morning." 

"Oh yeah, true!" Fawkes exclaimed, his head shooting up. "You always know just what to say to cheer a friend up! You and Roadie really are two peas in a pod!"

"You think so, too?" Agent Cassidy said, glancing at Rutledge, who had hardly spoken five words since his equally promising and ominous pronouncement.

"Oh, sure! Cut from the same cloth, wholesale!"

"C'mon," Rutledge grunted. "Half of your mines will go off if we get moving before you disarm them."

"Ooooo, yeah! I forgot! Scuse me, coming through! Got an appointment with some lov-er-ly and magnetic stunners, heh heh!"

Finally, at last, at the end of a long, long night, he scrambled up the stairs and out of sight.

Rutledge followed at a far more sedate pace, nodding at Hanzo and Agent Cassidy in a surprisingly friendly manner as he went. Agent Reinhardt went with him to retrieve his Crusader suit, and Hanzo, the cowboy, and Ms. Oxton evacuated a safe distance away so he and Ms. Song could drop down from the battle platform.

Hanzo could not help raising his eyebrows when Dr. Ziegler came with them--by the same route. 

"Phew! You were right! Completely smooth, all the way down!"

"Told you," Ms. Song said smugly. "Those new hydraulics are top-notch."

There were, in fact, no new hydraulics. Ms. Song was clearly flexing her MEKA's capabilities while it was out in the open for all to see. Hanzo could not say if that was useful or not--but it was done.

Hanzo and the Overwatch agents escorted the two mechs back to their own compartment, and Ms. Song flew Agent Reinhardt up while they followed up the stairs. 

Then, after what seemed an eternity, they were under cover.

Hanzo took in a deep breath and silently and slowly let it out. A part of him was bracing for the burst of noise and activity as everyone else burst into a flurry of discussion as they analyzed the long strange night they had just endured, but it was expected and relatively benign, like the gentle misty drizzle that follows a torrential downpour.

But it never came.

It took Hanzo a few moments to catch on to that fact, however. Part of his "bracing" was to zero in on his "evening" routine: getting an MRE, sitting down in his bunk and detaching his legs, and eating bites of tinned cheese on crispy crackers while brushing dust and sand out of the joints, careful to avoid accidentally flicking any grains into his food with the stiff bristles of the brush.

So focused was he that almost all the cheese was gone and nearly all the joints free and clear before he stopped short and looked up.

The compartment was eerily quiet.

Dr. Ziegler, Agent Reinhardt, and Ms. Oxton sat together eating their own MREs, their similar disguises making them look like a family of punk rockers. Ms. Song was also multitasking, a chunk of pita bread clenched between her teeth as she also brushed desert contaminants out of mechanical joints--though her task was harder, given the size of her MEKA.

Like Hanzo, the cowboy was sitting and eating on his bunk, but he was single-mindedly focused on his meal--and also balefully, his expression pinched with a pronounced frown.

"What has happened?" Hanzo asked urgently, setting aside his MRE and reattaching his legs.

Everyone looked up. "Happened?" asked Agent Reinhardt slowly, almost carefully. "What do you mean?"

Hanzo frowned. "You are all--so--silent."

They all stared at him for a few seconds. Then Agent Reinhardt tried to suppress a laugh--a choked snort managed to escape. "Ah--and if we of all people are quiet, it must mean someone has died--or worse! No, no, my friend, we are merely thinking of you." 

Hanzo kept his expression neutral, but his eyebrows tried to knit together. "Me? I apologize--have I done something to offend you all?"

Besides the obvious. Besides the heinous. Besides the--

"You? No, nothing lately!" Ms. Oxton chimed in. "But Junkrat?! He about talked your ear off, and you looked like you were about to take his off! Cor, he just never shuts his gob, does he? And if he annoys me, then, well--let's just say you would probably appreciate a little peace and quiet, right?"

Hanzo blinked in surprise. He glanced at Ms. Song and the cowboy--she had not stopped scrubbing at the MEKA's joints and might not be listening at all. He, on the other hand, was looking at Hanzo with an apologetic look.

"I tried best as I could t'get him off your back."

"But you could not," said Hanzo heavily, "despite your best efforts."

He meant the words as a simple statement of fact and even an acknowledgement of the cowboy's concerted effort--but it was almost as though he had slapped him. He actually flinched, and cast down his eyes, and his shoulders drooped a little. "Yeah. Didn' do much good, did I?"

Ms. Oxton, Dr. Ziegler, and Agent Reinhardt all began to say something, but Hanzo beat them all in speed and volume.

He often made this mistake--he was a cutting and biting man, with sharp edges lashing out even when he wanted the complete opposite. This was, by far, the biggest problem in their partnership.

"Once I was out of reach, however, you captured and held his attention for the rest of the night. Thank you."

"Heh. No problem," Agent Cassidy replied with a slight smile.

Hanzo tried to bite down on a surge of frustration.

The cowboy never seemed to really believe his words.

But then, why should he? Why should anyone? 

After everything he had--

Hanzo shook himself. He had lost sight of the more immediate problem. He could focus on the largest problem later.

"It is unnecessary for all of you to mute yourselves, especially solely on my account," he said, hoping that changing the subject would lessen the cowboy's discomfort. "This is the only opportunity you have to decompress."

"Are you saying you don't need to decompress? After all that?" asked Ms. Oxton, laughing a little as she waved her hand. “Besides! It’s not like you wouldn’t do the same for us, if one of us just so happened to need a little time and space to, you know, mellow out, right?” 

She shot him an exceptionally unsubtle look, while Dr. Ziegler smiled slightly. Agent Reinhardt hammered the point home as he added, “What, you mean like he does every single morning and evening, when he’s literally sealed into a box with the likes of us? What a grim fate, ha ha!”

“No,” said Hanzo quietly, but he was less inclined to fight this battle now that he knew Ms. Oxton’s motivations. She was paying him back for his gesture this morning.

She did not think he was a time bomb.

Though, perhaps she should. After--

He again pushed that thought away. It could wait until he was outside serving as lookout. The cowboy would be there, but he was comfortable with silence, and Hanzo could safely stew in every action that could never be forgiven.

“Thank you,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “Do not feel obligated to total silence, but I--I appreciate your forethought.”

“No worries, mate!” came the cheery reply in a casual imitation of their new, hyperactive charge. Hanzo shook his head slightly at it, which prompted a few giggles and chuckles from the Overwatch agents, but everyone turned back to their own business, slightly louder than before but in an atmosphere that was more like a library than a recreation room.

It was more beneficial than Hanzo cared to admit. He rolled his shoulders back and they actually loosened somewhat, lifting a small measure of the stress that had accumulated all night long.

The volume did gradually increase as At-the-Tready grinded back into motion and everyone but Hanzo and the cowboy prepared for bed. 

There was no way to tell if there was a sudden explosion of noise and talking once Hanzo stepped out of the airlock into the glaring morning sun--even Agent Reinhardt’s voice could not be heard over the grinding treads of At-the-Tready--but it was likely.

Hanzo sighed, not bothering to suppress the sound as it was muffled by his gas mask protecting him from the clouds of dust kicked up by the caravan as it sped across the Outback as though the two Junkers were still pursuing them. He scanned the bright, bleary distance for a cursory few moments before he was finally, finally able to allow the dark swirling mass of his thoughts overflow--

“I’m sorry about Fawkes. I shoulda done a better job.”

Hanzo’s head snapped around. “What?”

The cowboy had taken off his hat, and was holding it contritely to his chest. “I agreed t’be his handler and I couldn’ handle him. So I just wanted t’say sorry.”

Hanzo snorted instead of huffing a breath, because the former would be audible through the mask, and he waved for the cowboy to put his hat back on, if only to hide that blond hair. “Agent Cassidy, if there were anything you could have done to capture and hold that maniac’s attention once he was hyperfixated on me short of a solid blow to the head, I will tell you the moment I think of it.”

That prompted a short bark of a laugh from the cowboy. “Well, I did think of that, but I didn’ think it was allowed.”

“It was not,” Hanzo agreed, turning away to scan the horizon again. “If the situation ever does allow it, I trust you will take the first opportunity.”

“I trust you will. There’s probably a line at least a hundred people long waitin’ t’take a good solid swing, and you’ll beat ‘em all to it.”

Hanzo shook his head. “There are several law enforcement agencies and militaries that most likely have a missile lock on him as we speak. If he is ever out of range of the billions of dollars of loot he has amassed, I will be the first to run.”

“Oooo, good point. Guess we should have a contingency plan for what to do if the law ever shows up--though unless they get here right here right now, that’ll be Junkertown’s problem, not ours.”

“That would almost be convenient. With its occupants fending off an attack, we could scour the city for our objectives unhindered.”

“Well, c’mon then, let’s get on the horn to MI6, the CIA, and all the other stakeholders in that little cart of theirs. We could have this whole shebang buttoned up by sundown tomorrow.”

After another deliberately audible snort, Hanzo leaned on the railing. “That is a serious question to consider, however. If they are not being tracked right now by the authorities, it will not be long before they discover where they are. What should we do if they launch an all-out attack or attempt to infiltrate and recover their loot?”

“I hope they do, t’tell the truth.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah! They all know about the Hokkaido Omnium, but so far they’ve taken a hand-off approach to Overwatch, which is both annoying and par for the course for these kinds of people. If we happen t’cross paths in the field, though, we’ll have a chance t’work through some understandings, maybe get some things movin’ in the background, like we did with Lúcio and Korea and Ms. Asai and so forth.”

“Hmm. I see. But the strike commander took the lead in all of those negotiations. How are we to proceed if we make contact without him?"

"Ah, well, in that case, I'd suppose it wouldn' be too different from what we did with Junkrat and Roadhog."

The conversation continued in that vein for a while, and when they eventually drifted into a comfortable silence, Hanzo continued thinking of all the possible permutations of making contact with a legitimate government authority in the middle of a mission. Frankly, he had expected a raid on Watchpoint: Gibraltar by now, and that such contact would take place in holding cells and via defense lawyers and the courts. For whatever reason, however, neither Gibraltar itself, the UK, the UN, nor any of the countries Overwatch had operated in had taken any action, and their silence and inaction was somewhat baffling.

From a political standpoint, Korea could take much of the credit due to their efforts behind the scenes to support and obscure Ms. Song's participation, but that in itself required an explanation that Hanzo was not owed but had occasionally obsessed over. How and why an active service member of the ROK Armed Forces, and arguably their most famous member, had come to work for Overwatch had never been explained to him, and though it perplexed him, it was also not strictly necessary for him to know, so he had not yet asked.

It was, in a way, the last major burning question he had, though. Everyone else currently serving in Overwatch had openly declared their reasoning except for Agent Soldier: 76, but there were enough clues and insinuations to build a fairly solid and convincing theory why he had returned.

In Ms. Song’s case, there was nearly nothing to go on.

At any rate, Korea's international influence may have gone a fair way in delaying a response from the UN, but after the events in India and Japan, it became harder to explain how they, especially as members of the Security Council, had not overruled Korea's efforts and, at the very least, forced an investigation into Overwatch’s activities.

On that point, it was likely Vishkar exercising its influence in Indian politics that might help explain its inaction, but if so that was a highly volatile and untrustworthy situation. If Ms. Vaswani proved to be a double agent, India might lash out at Overwatch at any moment.

That left Japan--as far as Hanzo's personal experience went, that is. Overwatch had conducted other missions without him, of course, but he had no idea how obviously they had gone about it.

As it was, though the Ainu had done much to hide Overwatch's activities post-Omnium, the Omnium itself should have provoked some kind of forceful response from Tokyo. During his time as kumichō, Hanzo had personally interacted with many, many politicians and bureaucrats at all levels of the Japanese government, most of whom were still in service a decade later, and he knew that many of them would not sit idly by as unknown foreign forces battled over the Omnium that had nearly exterminated the nation.

Yet--

--that was exactly what they had done, relatively speaking.

It was almost disappointing. One of the officials Hanzo had met multiple times was now a member of the Prime Minister's Cabinet, and her presence there was one reason Hanzo was unlikely to be able to return to Japan for many years--if a Minister of State recognized him as part of an illegal paramilitary force, he would have expected a stronger and even a personal response.

Apparently, however, he was no longer important enough to merit one.

Perhaps he had never been important enough.

"Whaddaya think ole Roadhog has in store for us?" asked the cowboy musingly just as Hanzo’s thoughts began to darken. "Seems like even in a 'gang' as small as theirs, there's plenty of room for intrigue."

"Indeed. Rutledge has not demonstrated as much management as I expected, but they would not have gotten as far as they have if he never has." 

"Huh. Then you're attributing all of their success t'him? I'm willing t'give Junkrat a bit more credit after last night. He's got a good eye--for certain things. Not so good for others."

"No," Hanzo agreed. "Though even then, I believe it is his failure to admit or even entertain defeat that is his greatest weakness." 

"Is that what it is? That's mighty charitable."

"After a period of respite, I am more inclined to be charitable. I may now recommend only a gutpunch in lieu of a blow to the head."

"Oh ho! Progress!"

"Until he tests me again, at least."

"Which he almost certainly will, unfortunately. Y'think maybe from here on out I should go ahead t'head him off at the pass, never give him a chance t'sink his teeth in you?"

"Yes."

"Alright, then, I won' fail t'honor our deal again."

Hanzo raised an eyebrow. "You have never failed to honor it. I do not and will not hold you responsible for the actions--and idiosyncrasies--of others."

"Well, you kinda do when you assign someone as a handler."

"I do not."

The cowboy's eyes widened behind the clear lenses of his gas mask. "Alright, alright. You don'."

Hanzo nodded decisively.

There was a short and slightly awkward silence after that, but the cowboy struck up another line of conversation, and a couple of others as the sun climbed higher into the sky, quickly intensifying into its usual laser-like brilliance and heat.

Hanzo began to avoid looking at the cowboy--he was perspiring freely now, and unfortunately he seemed to be conjuring images of summertime advertisements of sports drinks or vacations or even antiperspirants, with muscular men throwing back sweatsoaked hair to peer up at the unforgiving sun before kicking back with whatever product they were shilling.

The cowboy tossed his blonde, sweatsoaked hair away from the lenses of his gas mask and glanced upward, raising an arm with a sleeve draped wetly over every contour of his muscular forearm and defined bicep. "Sure could use something with a little lemon and a lot of ice right about now."

The gas mask would have made it a surreal advert, but everything else was nearly picture perfect.

Damn his libido.

And damn the fact that it was already testing him when a far more difficult task was about to--

"Shift change! Get inside and wash up, you filthy degenerates!" Ms. Oxton sang out as she popped out of the hatch with Dr. Ziegler following behind. "How was your very last shift on this grand old behemoth? Are you going to miss her?"

"Like I do my own grandmas, both of 'em. Just as slow, just as tough--dunno who would come out on top in a fair fight!" the cowboy said fondly, patting the handrail before he turned to head in. "How about you?"

"I'm not going to miss all this sun, I tell you!" she declared. "Send me to the cloudiest, dreariest place you can find after this, I don't want to see the sun again for months!"

"Just send me somewhere wet," Dr. Ziegler said, shaking her head. "A week in a spa on Lake Geneva, perhaps, where I can soak in water like a sponge."

"Oh, that sounds nice!" Ms. Oxton agreed fervently. "I'd definitely join you there!" 

So would Hanzo, honestly, though he might prefer the old ryoken and onsen at the foot of the Akaishi Mountains in the middle of winter. 

Even now, under the blazing heat beating down on his head, he could almost feel and smell the chill breeze emerging from the fragrant pine trees to cut through the clouds of steam wafting over the pools, could almost see the snowbound peaks rising up behind the inn, a perfect oasis of peace and healing in a fraught and hostile world.

It helped his memory considerably that that particular ryoken employed a handsome, smiling bath attendant and masseur, with big hands and the perfect touch.

Control, Hanzo reminded himself as he headed inside. Control.

The cowboy's hands were rougher, but they were bigger still, and soon they would be physically upon him. It made no sense to allow his libido to prime his body for a highly embarrassing situation with long bygone memories.

It was slightly too late, but he willed his erection to settle in the short, short time he had walking into the compartment as quietly as possible to avoid disturbing the soft slumbering noises of Agent Reinhardt as he snored away on his inflatable mattress on the floor.

Seeing him shirtless and completely sprawled out did not help Hanzo in the least, but he did his absolute best to ignore the masculine tableau as he stripped off his own sweatsoaked compression shirt and pants. He then seized the opportunity to have the cowboy face away for a short while longer by saying, "I will do your back." 

"Oh! Thank ye kindly. I'll get yours, too, of course."

Hanzo suppressed a grimace. He was imagining the cowboy’s subtly relieved tone. He was imagining it.

"Thank you."

Hanzo's hands were not as big as the cowboy’s, but his fingers were thick and firm against the cowboy’s brown skin and white scars and ample muscle, soft and pliant and firm and unyielding in turns as he subtly flexed under Hanzo's touch.

Damn it all.

But the time, short and precious as it was, was well-spent. By the time Hanzo wiped away the last of the suds, tapped the cowboy's shoulder, and turned to present his own back, his exterior was back under control.

Control, though, was only skin-deep. 

The cowboy's hands, large, rough, precise, gentle, spread across his skin in grand sweeping motions, but with a far lighter touch than he had ever used before.

There was no question why; Hanzo's muscles were close to spasming no matter where the cowboy touched.

And he seemed to already know very well why, to Hanzo's chagrin.

"Andrews," he muttered disdainfully under his breath.

He likely meant it to be inaudible, if he meant to say it at all, so he froze when Hanzo sighed and said, "Yes. Andrews."

He would have let the single word completely pass by if the thought of Andrews did not so effectively extinguish his libido.

If he could avoid dwelling too much on Matvey, he had a chance at maintaining decorum.

"We, uh--well, I saw him slink in after you. Dunno about everyone else. Woulda come and, uh--well, dunno if you woulda wanted me t'come and give ya a hand--"

"Certainly not with Fawkes in tow," Hanzo said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Andrews came to express his displeasure at our arrangement. Coming over would have worsened the situation."

"Yeah. I figured. Sorry about that, though."

"For making the correct decision?"

"Heh, no. Just that you had t'deal with someone like m--like that."

"Well. I had some assistance in the end."

"Saw that, too. Poor Andrews wasn' expectin' a giant t'back you up."

"I was referring to the chief conductor. Matvey was an unneeded complication." 

"Ouch! I'll remember that next time I see you in a sticky situation," the cowboy said with a tap on Hanzo's shoulder that might have been the equivalent of a wink.

"You would judge the situation better. Matvey may have intended to be helpful, but he interrupted Andrews' attempt at seducing me, so he took the intrusion badly."

The cowboy's hands stilled on Hanzo's back once again. "His what now?"

"Yes," said Hanzo gravely. "It potentially explains much of his obsessive behavior, if he was being genuine."

"You, uh--have reason t'doubt him?" 

Hanzo threw a sardonic glance over his shoulder. 

The cowboy cracked a crooked smile. "Coulda just been bein' honest."

"Certainly. I am allowing for the possibility," Hanzo said, rolling his eyes and his shoulders as he faced forward again. "But it is far from the only possibility."

"Sure, sure, that's true enough."

"I believe it to be the strongest possibility, however. I do not credit him with the acting skills to blubber as he did while attempting to confess his feelings."

"Blubber, huh? Not as forthcoming or confident as you'd prefer, then?"

"I would prefer nothing when it came to him."

"Yowza! Poor guy!"

Hanzo snorted. "Should I have entertained his advances, cowboy?"

"Naw, not at all, but, y'know. It's hard t'see a tender young love that's doomed from the start."

Another snort escaped him at the cowboy's wording. "Perhaps he will learn not to allow his tender young love to run rampant based on looks alone." 

"You figure him for the shallow type? Only got eyes for a pretty face and bulging pecs?" 

"Most likely."

"You don' think you enticed him with your sharp wit, your battle prowess, and your musical skills at all?"

"Then why has he not fallen for you?"

The cowboy's hands paused again. "Well, dang. Maybe he fell for your silver tongue, then?"

Hanzo rolled his eyes. "I am merely pointing out you satisfy the same criteria."

"Why, thank ye kindly. But I don' think I've had them quite as on display as you."

Hanzo sighed, "Yes. That is true.” His eyebrows knitted together as the night’s events and all their implications rolled back into his mind like a squall line. “Too true."

Agent Cassidy clapped both hands on his shoulders, but gently, most likely to minimize the noise and avoid disturbing their sleeping teammates. "Hey, now. You've been pullin' out all the stops in order t’do your job, that's all. One lovesick fool doesn' mean you went too far."

"No. But--"

He stopped himself. The conversation was welcome as a distraction, but the cowboy did not need to know the extent of his indulgences during this mission.

But he had always been damnably perceptive. 

"But it's also just been plain fun, huh, and you shouldn' have fun."

Hanzo grimaced. Too damnably perceptive.

The cowboy patted his shoulders twice before he withdrew. "Sorry. I got an unfair advantage right now--can feel when you tense up, and it's pretty much like havin’ a bug on you."

Hanzo rolled his shoulders back as he turned around. "I suppose I should be thankful you prefer a level playing field."

"Only with an honorable opponent. Otherwise I'll take any advantage I can get."

"I am not--"

He clamped his mouth shut, but anyone could have finished that sentence.

The cowboy certainly could. He did not finish it for him, but he did say, in an oddly pleading tone, "I'd say you are."

Hanzo suppressed a sigh as he searched for an acceptable escape from this topic. "I--it is--I have demonstrated enough. For the current circumstances. What do you think of combining Dr. Ziegler's supplies with Fawkes and Rutledge's loot to gain access to Junkertown? Is there any advantage to that?"

He had pulled it out of nowhere, but the cowboy was apparently willing to discuss the complete non-sequitur, even though it simply meant shooting it down.  Hanzo was not surprised--it was a terrible idea.

It served its purpose as an escape, however. They finished cleaning themselves up, dressed, and clambered into their bunks, though the cowboy lingered a few moments too long, looking as though he wished to discuss something else--but whatever it was could apparently wait. He lay down in his bunk and his breathing soon mimicked the other two sleeping agents', and then there was nothing more to do.

Nothing more than to think. 

No possibility of forgiveness.

Rehabilitation.

One was a brutal fact of life.

“It wasn’t enough, Hanzo. Nothing could ever be enough.”

The other was imposs--

“I don’t want you to torture yourself.”

The other was--

“Now that you have taken on the burden, you must learn how to carry it.”

The other was--

“I used to want the same as you, you know.”

The other was for people like Genji.

People who had been maimed and torn apart and who had to pick up the pieces of a suddenly much harsher and difficult life.

His body had been rehabilitated with Dr. Ziegler’s assistance. His mind had been “rehabilitated” by his “master”, which, for better or for worse, Genji seemed to have welcomed.

He was certainly not the same as before. During the months of training before these missions, as Hanzo had rehoned his skills after his long convalescence and participated in team training to find how to best integrate into Overwatch’s structure and strategies, there had been ample opportunity to observe Genji.

He was certainly not the same.

There was still brash and foolhardy showmanship, even in the context of training simulations--Genji would dart forward, under Agent Reinhardt’s mighty warhammer, through the branches of the strike commander’s arcing lightning weapon, on Ms. Song’s MEKA as it soared through the air--

“Aw, come on, Winston! Hanzo did it, too!”

“Well, uh--because it was absolutely necessary, in an emergency situation.”

“And he was fine! And, if we need to do it again, better that we know how, right?”

“I--”

“We could even--hey, what’s the carrying capacity of your jump pack? We could--yeah, we could! Here, let me climb on and we can see--aw, c’mon Winston, you’ve carried me up there before, no need to be so shy!”

There was still that relentless charm that could pierce through almost all objections, often with sheer audacity.

It was tempered, however.

Genji listened.

“Genji, no. Just--no. Please.”

“Oh, all right. But maybe you could install a handstrap or two on your armor? Just in case?”

“Well--that’s reasonable. But let’s get back to the sim, okay?”

“Of course!”

He listened.

“Oi, Genji, stop that! I almost shot you!”

“I thought I could provide cover!”

“Well, that’s sweet of you, but I was going for a spread to immobilize them for Rein!”

“Oh, I see--and I was in the crossfire. My apologies.”

“Aw, don’t worry about it!”

He apologized.

“Hanzo! Down the center, and I’ll clean up the periphery!”

“Ha-cha! Perfect! Forget the rest of the strike team, us two are all you need!”

“Hey!”

“Oh, don’t be so upset, Hana--when you’re not needed, you’re not needed.”

“I’m going to shoot a booster rocket right up your ass.”

“Try it! I’ll send it right back, and Hanzo will have your MEKA on its knees while you’re distracted! We are unstoppable!”

He--

He--

Hanzo curled up in his bunk, his eyes shut tight.

He needed to stop.

And he needed to stop thinking about this, or he would be compromised for what might turn out to be the most critical phase of the mission.

He tried.

He was--modestly successful, to his own surprise.

This entire business was an old problem now, and his brain was not quite so adamant to sacrifice sleep to it.

He dozed. Fitfully, but he dozed, and the day passed by much faster than he had any reason to hope.

“My dear passengers: we are approaching the outskirts of Junkertown,” came the chief conductor’s voice. “We will arrive at the disembarkation station in about one hour. Please prepare accordingly, and let the crew know if you need any assistance with your cargo. It’s been a pleasure having--most of you--along with us, and we hope you survive long enough to require our services in the future.”

“Now there’s a veiled warning if ever I heard one,” the cowboy groaned as he attempted to sit up. He fell back onto his cot with a soft bump and a muttered curse.

Overwatch had been roused by their comms a half-hour before, and while the rest of them were busy checking the antigrav carrier and strapping Dr. Ziegler’s cargo onto it, he was only now approaching an acceptable level of consciousness. 

He spent the next few minutes slowly muttering an incomprehensible mix of English and Spanish curses--and he may have attempted one or two Japanese ones as well, if Hanzo’s ears didn’t deceive him--before he tried to sit up again, this time successfully.

“Alright, I’m up, I’m up. Status report?”

“The medical cargo is stable and all the antigrav carrier indicators are green,” reported Dr. Ziegler as she crouched next to the carrier’s instrument panel.

“MEKA and Crusader suits fully functional,” bellowed Agent Reinhardt from across the compartment.

“All supplies accounted for,” said Ms. Oxton with a smart salute, palm outwards.

“Then lemme just take a piss and splash some water on my face and I’ll be ready, too.”

Despite his slow start, the cowboy was ready along with everyone else when the chief conductor gave a fifteen-minute warning to her passengers. In reality, At-the-Tready was already nearing her berth, but it would take about that long for her to sidle up alongside the disembarkation station, which was actually a series of loading bays that were a mix of dock, container crane, decontamination hanger, and bunker. Each compartment had its own loading bay, but a fairly complex series of maneuvers was required to correctly align At-the-Tready before she more or less broke apart, with each compartment dashing madly into its loading bay at this, the most vulnerable moment of the whole journey.

The authority of the Junker Queen was near at hand, but it did not extend quite this far out from her fortress city. Technically speaking, they were still in the lawless territory of raiders, pillagers, and Immortan Chodes.

Even the loading bays themselves were somewhat suspect--they were guarded, but by a very small number of either desperate or foolhardy caravan employees, which was why they had to be individually inspected before the chief conductor allowed the caravan to break up.

The minutes ticked by as At-the-Tready repeated slowed and sped up, turned left and right, came to abrupt stops and reverse course only to stop again and go on, but eventually, the chief conductor came back on the PA and announced, “We believe the loading bays are safe. With that, we thank you for your patronage and welcome you to Junkertown. Good luck.”

With a bone-rattling vibration and a roaring sound, the decouplers connecting them to the compartments ahead and behind disconnected, and Compartment 5’s engines revved up as it lurched forward, gunning it for about thirty to forty seconds before abruptly shutting off. The treads slowly ground to a stop, and what little light still filtered through the windows was cut off completely.

There was a moment of silence.

“Passengers of Compartment 5, welcome!” came the cheerful voice of a young man. “This is your bay manager! Do I have your permission to open the loading ramp?”

The cowboy, standing by the intercom, pressed a button and said, “You sure do. Thank you.”

“No worries!”

The loading ramp hissed, creaked, and then shrieked as it dropped and caught itself, lowering slowly to the ground and opening up a panorama of bleakly utilitarian concrete lit by enormous banks of LEDs in the high ceiling. There was an appreciable amount of sand and grit on the wide expanse of the floor, except for a small area that had been swept clean around a small cubicle tucked into one corner, where a young man of about twenty years old was standing and waving his hand.

“G’day!” he called over to them, staying firmly in his cubicle. “Do you need a hand, or do you have everything already?”

“I think we’ve got everything, thank you,” the cowboy called back as Overwatch descended the ramp. Hanzo, Agent Cassidy, Dr. Ziegler, and Ms. Oxton walked at the corners of the antigrav carrier like an honor guard as Ms. Song’s MEKA pulled it and Agent Reinhardt kept a firm grip from behind in his Crusader suit, just in case any radiation had damaged the antigrav’s electronics or automatic brakes. Most of their supplies were strapped onto it, but nearly everyone, except Agent Reinhardt, whose hands were currently full, were fully armed for the short walk to the shantytown at Junkertown’s entrance, complete with night vision goggles, or glasses, in Hanzo’s case. He was the only person who was not openly armed, but his cello case was on his back, with Storm Bow fully assembled, cleaned, and primed inside.

Once they were on level ground, however, Agent Reinhardt released the antigrav platform and took out his giant hammer.

“Well, looks like you’re already fit to get a move on!” the bay manager said cheerily. “You have any questions? Need any directions? Need to stock up on any ammunition, at a reasonable cost?”

“No, I think we’re good.”

“Gnarly. Well, alright, then, mates, I’ll just go ahead and open the bay doors and let you go, then! Hooroo!”

He pushed some button or lever that was out of their sight and a giant roller door to their right slowly and noisily slid upwards, allowing the harsh light of the loading bay to spill out into the inky darkness and the cool night air to spill inwards.

Outside, the concrete cubes of the other loading bays stood scattered in a roughly circular pattern. One or two of the other loading bays were already open, but the others sat cold and dark as though no one and nothing at all was inside--these were likely the passengers who had paid extra for one more night’s protection.

“Hey, heeeey! Over here!”

Fawkes was waving at them from about fifty meters away. He and Rutledge were silhouetted by the bright light of their loading bay, and Fawkes was apparently standing on top of the immense pile of gold so they could see him better--though, thankfully, it was covered up by the canvas sheet once more.

“C’mon, mates! Let’s get a-move on!” Fawkes screamed at the top of his voice. “We got no time to piss-fart around!”

Overwatch made its way over to them as quickly as the antigrav would allow. Rutledge briefly raised a hand off the handlebar of his hover bike in greeting as they approached, while Fawkes leapt off the gold pile and thumped up to Hanzo.

Hanzo observed him coming with cold acceptance of his fate, but at least his night vision glasses would hide a small part of his annoyance.

“Nice bit of kit you got there!” Fawkes declared, completely bypassing Hanzo to slap the side of the antigrav. “Right! Roadhog won’t say it, but he’s antsy to be nice and cozy in his own bed for the first time in forever, so let’s stop chitchatting and get going! C’mon, you lot! This way!”

He stumped off, almost immediately disappearing into the night.

Rutledge groaned, then revved up the engine of his hover bike--and headed in almost exactly the opposite direction. The members of Overwatch and Hanzo looked amongst themselves, but the cowboy shrugged and followed after Rutledge.

After a few minutes, they could hear Fawkes squawking over the loud thrum of the hover bike engine. He appeared out of nowhere alongside them, shouting, “Thunderbox! Just had to take a trip to the thunderbox! Couldn’t hold it in any longer!” as he passed by and then hopped into the hover bike’s sidecar.

He had to speak loudly to be heard over the engine, so of course they heard him petulantly say, “If you’d let me light up that loading bay as a proper goodbye, then I would’ve seen I was going off into the bush, but no.”

They had little attention to spare for Fawkes, however.

The shantytown was in sight.

Their small party had come to the bottom of a rise that led up to a dim island of light perched atop the towering bluff and silhouetted against the bright Milky Way beyond. There were no streetlights or traffic lights--the only illumination came from either powerful spotlights trained on doors and entrances or from tiny, barred windows that glowed like pinpricks in thick construction paper. A few of the buildings were clearly industrial, with three or four tall chimneys reaching up into the night sky like skeletal metallic fingers, but the rest were indistinguishable in the darkness--they were likely to be both homes and businesses, their occupants living and working in the same perilous space on the edge of “civilization”, if one could call it that. 

The breeze bore aloft the smell of sewage, rotting food, smoke, and exhaust. 

The exhaust was the true indicator of how desperate life was here--solar panels and photovoltaic roofing could be found, but photonic batteries and hydrogen fuel cells, completely ubiquitous in the outside world, were in short supply here, so after the sun set, biodiesel was the fuel of choice, despite the nitrogen oxides, sulfur dioxide, and unburnt hydrocarbons that had been all but forgotten elsewhere. The lack of rare earth catalysts, long since requisitioned from fossil fuel catalytic converters for other purposes, made the problem worse. 

This meant that the shantytown could be thought of as one of the last remnants of a bygone era, when city dwellers had had to deal with noxious air quality on a day-to-day basis.

Breathing in those fumes now, it was difficult to believe that whole generations had lived and survived in such conditions as the motor vehicles all around them belched out ever expanding clouds of poisonous smog--but that perception may have been amplified by the accompanying smell of raw sewage and other waste.

As they made their way up the rise, Hanzo kept a sharp eye for any drones or onlookers peering down at them. The shantytown’s buildings crowded right up to the sheer cliff that overlooked the rise, and now would be the perfect time to scope out Fawkes and Rutledge and their unprecedented loot before either using the advantage of the high ground to attack them then and there or to rush off and prepare a trap in the streets of the shantytown itself.

There were about a dozen people up there, bright green humanoid splotches that switched to white splotches when he tapped his night vision glasses to take a look in infrared. If they were interested in the new arrivals, however, they were going about it extremely casually--two of the figures were walking together along the cliff’s edge, while the rest were scattered among the buildings in positions that suggested they were sitting in chairs or on porches, the very picture of average citizens enjoying the cool night air before turning in.

It was certainly the time to do it--the temperature had reached 46°C earlier that afternoon.

Hanzo kept a close eye on them all, though the couple soon turned away from the cliff’s edge and disappeared. They could very well have simply completed a walk with an admittedly spectacular view--the brights stars above curved down to meet a panorama of dark shapes dimly lit by a rising quarter moon over the distant horizon, a panorama that only expanded as they climbed higher and higher--but Hanzo would assume they had gone to prepare the trap.

He shifted his cello case on his back slightly. Storm Bow could very well see use in a very short few minutes.

They reached the top of the rise. The thunder of Rutledge’s hover bike, somewhat contained and reflected the cliff face, suddenly burst out over the rooftops and echoed off and among the wooden walls and chimneys. To his dismay, Hanzo could see a few lights blinking on and a few bright rectangles appearing out of dark walls as people came to their doorways to investigate the sudden onslaught of noise.

Rutledge turned on his headlights just as he crested the rise.

There was an immediate effect.

A disconcerting, immediate effect.

The lights began to disappear.

Not just the newcomers, either--every light, from the spotlights to the doorways to the pinpricks, they all cut out one by one by one.

Soon, every single building was draped in darkness--the island of light, dim and weak as it had been, had been snuffed out.

Even more worrying was the fact that every person Hanzo had spotted on the way up had disappeared from sight. From this angle, he should have been able to see at least half of them still, but they were gone. He switched from night vision to infrared and back again, but all of the heat signatures he could see were clearly mechanical in nature, mostly the cooling extinguished lights. All the humanoid signatures had vanished, and, of course, it was hardly worth looking for any Omnic ones, but Hanzo did all the same, and found nothing.

He glanced at Rutledge, illuminated by the ambient light thrown back by his headlights. He was, of course, inscrutable under his mask, and his body language revealed nothing, except perhaps that he was not particularly worried or stressed. His hands were gripping the handlebars, but his knuckles were not white, and he was leaning forward in a relaxed manner.

Fawkes was not the least bit worried. “There’s Old Widow Torrence’s place, and over there is the general store, and over there’s the Immortan Chode Embassy and over there’s the distillery and over there’s the pub and over there’s Burt’s repair shop and over there’s the toy factory and over there’s the auxiliary office of The Junker Daily and over there’s--” 

It was unclear who he was speaking to as he shouted out the shantytown’s amenities and establishments, his voice getting progressively more raw as he struggled to be heard over the roar of the engine. “And over there’s Crazy Bailey’s Souvenir and Gift Shoppe, and over there’s the diesel refinery, and over there’s the hotel, and over there’s the drunk tank--”

They had fully entered the shantytown now, passing through what might pass as its fairly wide but crooked and badly laid out main street. If Fawkes could be trusted, most of the important buildings faced this street, with shops on the main floors and residences above, which might represent the most well-to-do occupants of this place, relatively speaking.

“And there-- oh, and there and there and there!” Fawkes chanted, standing up and stretching his arms out, “There--is home sweet home!”

Rutledge’s residence stood at the very end of the street, a ramshackle, sunbleached structure that had clearly been built to be a warehouse or a large storefront judging by its size and large main entrance with a single long sliding door opening onto a wooden porch. It was at least three stories tall, with a rooftop walkway cut into the footprint of the second story over the main entrance.

It would have seemed dark, deserted, and ominous, but the entire shantytown shared those qualities at the moment.

Rutledge drove straight toward it, and Fawkes leapt out of the sidecar with an whoop. “Home sweet home!” he cried out, actually rushing up to the sliding door and laying an enormous kiss upon it. “Mmmmmmwah! Hello beautiful! Long time no see! Alright, Roadie, hand me the keys and I’ll open her up for you!”

Rutledge dismounted the hover bike, leaving the engine loudly idling, and walked up to the door to unlock it himself.

“Or you can,” Fawkes giggled. “Homeowner’s prerogative! Alright, there we go, and a heave! Ho!”

The door ground to the side, vibrating violently and loudly and getting stuck several times, necessitating several strong pushes from Rutledge or Fawkes or both. Finally it yawned fully open. The hover bike headlights revealed a wrap-around vestibule, disappearing into darkness on either side. 

“Stay here,” Rutledge rumbled to Fawkes, Overwatch, and Hanzo. “I’ll check it out.” 

“Don’t be too long!” Fawkes said cheerily, wiggling his fingers in farewell.

Rutledge disappeared inside, and Fawkes turned and stumped back towards them. “He’s probably so nervous about any mess that might be inside,” he said in a shouted whisper over the din of the hover bike right next to him. “If there is anything feral in there, don’t mention it! He hasn’t had a visitor since I first came here, and he’s a very sensitive host!”

“This is probably the best house this side of Alice Ruins,” the cowboy said with a reassuring smile. “And even if it ain’, we’ll still act like it.”

Fawkes beamed at him, but Rutledge came lumbering back before he could say anything in reply.

“It’s clear. Let’s get it inside.”

“Grand!” Fawkes shrieked as he jumped back in the sidecar for the incredibly short journey. “Take it slow, Roadhog! Showboat a little! We’re crossing the finish line in first bloody place!”

If Rutledge sighed, then it couldn’t be heard. 

He did go slowly, letting the hover bike mount the porch with barely a bump or jostle.

Then billions of dollars’ worth of gold ploddingly disappeared from view into a dilapidated, rundown wooden warehouse thousands of kilometers from any decent civilization.

Hanzo could not help but shake his head a little.

How had his life’s journey led to this?

Overwatch prepared to keep watch, huddling to the side of the medical cargo as they peered around at the obscure shadows of the buildings around them.

“Me and Agent Shimada will check the back of the house t’make sure nobody’s been building a secret access back there while Rutledge’s been away,” the cowboy said in a low voice. He was squinting at a neighboring structure that also featured a large sliding door, though it was a single-story shack more than anything. Hanzo understood his concern, though--that door might fly open to allow a large number of attackers to pour out at any moment. “You four stick around here and guard the--oh.”

“Weeeeeeeeee’re back!” Fawkes announced, entirely unnecessarily as the hover bike reappeared in the entrance. “Gotta get your stuff undercover, too, don’t we?”

The cowboy blinked. “Well--weren’t we gonna park it around--”

“Yeah, about that--” Fawkes interrupted with a crazed, highly nervous giggle. “Uh--looks like--some pranksters --have turned the back garden into, uh--into a--”

“Latrine,” Rutledge said, his voice flat. And deadly.

“Yeeeaaaaah,” said Fawkes, rubbing the back of his head and looking anywhere but at Rutledge. “So! Not really the best place for--well, anything at the moment, so--let’s just hook up your antigrav and--”

Fawkes cut himself off when Rutledge turned to him, leaned over to bring his face close to his--and Fawkes really did look tiny despite being nearly two meters tall--and growled, “I want mines everywhere. Right now. I want them ten deep on every side of my house, and I want them now.”

“U-uh,” stammered Fawkes, “R-right-o, R-Mako. Sure thing. I’ll get on that right away.”

“You two,” Rutledge said, straightening to his full height and pointing at Agent Cassidy and Hanzo. “Help me get your shit inside. You four, keep an eye on Junkrat. If anything happens to him, you answer to me. Got it?”

Ms. Oxton and Agent Reinhardt looked rather pale.

Dr. Ziegler was impassive.

Ms. Song blew a chewing gum bubble and let it pop.

The two groups separated according to Rutledge’s instructions--after Hanzo and Overwatch got a subtle look of approval from Agent Cassidy. Fawkes, with uncharacteristic meekness and relative quiet, led the rest of Overwatch round the side of the house where there would be a shack that stored most of his explosives. “Completely heat-stable, of course!” he said with a forced, overly-large smile. “No crystallized, touch-sensitive nitroglycerin here, no siree! Only the highest quality, longest lasting, highest yield explosives for me!”

Hanzo could not help an annoyed grimace. 

He and the cowboy did not get in the sidecar, of course. They stood on either side of the antigrav as Rutledge hooked it up to his hover bike, the air heavy and tense with the anger the large man radiated. Then Rutledge mounted and began towing their medical cargo inside at what seemed like a snail’s pace.

The building had power; light was bleeding around the corner, and Hanzo blinked as they rounded it and into the brightly illuminated interior.

The entire structure was one big room. It was three stories high, but there was nothing but open air all the way up to the roof, except for a staircase on the right, cobbled together from rough planks of wood that obviously led to the walkway over the entrance, and a small mezzanine on the left, with a rusty ladder leading up to what seemed to be a--park bench? Bus seat?--perched on top, with an old-style, cracked flatscreen television and several loudspeakers visible beyond it. A large bed sat underneath the mezzanine, the mattress looking squashed and flat and thoroughly uncomfortable.

There were other low tables, shelves, work benches, canisters and barrels lined up against the walls, a makeshift kitchenette in the corner formed by a ninety-degree turn in the staircase with an alarming number of flies buzzing around it, and a diesel generator running in another corner that kept up a loud hum that seemed almost silent when Rutledge towed the medical cargo alongside the canvas-covered gold in the hover trailer and finally cut the engine. Luckily for their lungs and blood oxygen levels, its exhaust was being vented outside by a flexible hose.

Somewhat surprisingly, there was a claw machine game tucked along the back wall, but Hanzo should hardly be surprised by anything in Jamison Fawkes’ residence. 

What was not a surprise was the secret room.

Hanzo spotted it immediately and effortlessly. The stairs took up quite a bit of room, and any builder, even one out here in the middle of nowhere, would have thought to utilize the otherwise wasted space by constructing a storage room or closet underneath it.

With an unpracticed glance, it would have seemed a missed opportunity--but it was not. At the far end of the wall forming the base of the stairs, where it was tallest, there were several telltale scratches, all of them perfectly horizontal and parallel to each other, stretching across several planks of otherwise distinct material, look, age, and origin.

Obvious. Completely obvious. Hanzo needed only a single look to know it was there, so he did not draw attention to his find by looking again.

He wondered if the cowboy had spotted it, too.

“Well, Mr. Rutledge,” the cowboy said, capturing Hanzo’s attention. “I sure am sorry t’hear about your back garden.”

Rutledge laughed.

Hanzo and the cowboy exchanged a quick look.

Rutledge swung his massive frame off the hover bike and stretched his arms upwards, his stomach bulging out, before he lowered them with a long sigh interrupted by a hacking cough. “Whoever did it,” he said matter-of-factly when he finished, “knows they don’t have long to live.”

And he laughed again, his voice throaty and phlegmatic, his pig tattoo quivering on his belly.

“Anyway,” he continued, “Junkrat will be too scared to come back in for an hour or two, since he doesn’t have anywhere near enough mines to do as I say. I’ll go out and drag him back in when we’re finished.”

“Finished with what?” the cowboy asked with a raised eyebrow.

“When we’re finished,” Rutledge replied, striding over to the hover trailer and ripping off the canvas cover, “dismantling that idiot’s ‘gift’ to the queen.”