Variations on a Theme

Act I

"I found myself both touched and irritated by the discovery that she was vulnerable."

Françoise Sagan ― Bonjour Tristesse

"Actually, I'm extremely frustrated by having to be myself. Not by my looks or ability or position. Just by my being myself. I feel it's extremely unfair."

Haruki Murakami – The Kangaroo Communiqué (from "The Elephant Vanishes")

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I – Blood (Those old wounds)

When he saw his younger brother jumping freely from one rooftop to the other with the grace and the poise of a professional acrobat, Hanzo Shimada smiled bitterly to himself and cursed in his native language. Being a clandestine citizen of the world was not enough to break the sounds of his Japanese roots, the portion of the land that had seen him rise and fall ever-present inside the old archer's battered spirit. Heart, mind, body and soul – all four elements had succumbed to the irony of the moment: according to his own beliefs, he was a man way beyond redemption. Yet the ship hovering over him and the solitary beating of his heart were stating otherwise.

A hero.

Genji had just made him a hero.

Ever since the night of their bittersweet reunion his brother had tried to convince him into joining the still small and very much illegal Overwatch. He had spoken about a changing world, even when Hanzo, still too absorbed in his own past, was completely unable to see it: how could this world dare to change, a world he had been once supposed to rule, when his feet were still pinned to the ground; his eyes reliving that moment – the steel of his blade damaging skin and altering bonds that should have remained untouched.

After each one of Genji's sporadic visits, Hanzo would always find reasons to believe the brother he had once known was still present inside the shape of that cyborg ninja. The color green, for example, was the living proof that some things remained the same – Genji's spirit dragon, the clumsy strands of hair he still remembered from their youth and the flickering lights of his younger brother's visor seemed to be all united into one incorruptible notion: that metallic vessel in front of him was not the Genji he knew – but the Genji he knew was still inside, somewhere deep below those many layers of artificial muscle and intricate hydraulics.

According to his brother, the world was changing once again, and even if that notion alone was enough for his tired brain to struggle, Genji had opted to go far beyond it – "it is time to pick a side," he had sentenced.

He wanted his older brother to join Overwatch.

He wanted his older brother to finally fight the good fight.

But then the younger Shimada disappeared. Hanzo waited for him but to no avail – until one night, the survivor reappeared. At first, it had seemed like a hallucination: the small, silver figure had presented itself in Hanzo's kitchen. When the archer turned around to look over his shoulder his younger brother was already there, staring intently at him. Mesmerized by Genji's obvious augmented mobility, Hanzo was left with no other choice than to accept the fact that the clumsy, irreverent sparrow had now become the living embodiment of subtleness.

Or perhaps, he was simply getting older.

Hanzo raised both hands in a defensive stance: he was way too tired to listen to his brother go on and on about the organization. Furthermore, he knew that even if Overwatch was still small and recruiting, he was always going to be the last person they would accept. They were Genji's friends, after all. It was only natural they were going to wonder whether he had joined to finished what he had started back in Hanamura or not.

He couldn't blame them. Rancor and mistrust were the only things that peculiar group of individuals had to offer to a man like him.

"I need help," Genji said quietly as if being able to read his older brother's mind. His gentle voice and his serene elocution successfully concealed the fact that he still understood Hanzo's stubbornness like no one else. His countless attempts had led him nowhere – it was time to approach the situation from a different angle. "I'm going after the Widowmaker, brother. But I'm afraid I can't do this on my own."

"Why don't you call your friends?" The archer spat disdainfully, and even if Genji's face was concealed behind his mask, Hanzo could have sworn his younger brother was smiling back at him.

Being the ex-heir to a criminal empire, the older Shimada didn't need to be debriefed on what Talon was or the sort of jobs they were interested in. Nor was it necessary for Genji to explain who the Widowmaker was or why she was so dangerous. But where others saw a blinding death wish, Genji saw an opportunity; the biggest chance for his brother to be accepted into the comforting arms of Overwatch. Only thing was, for his plan to work, reality needed to be adjusted just a little.

"She knows them all too well by now, the team can't afford to be anticipated by this woman. We need to surprise her. We need to show her skills she hasn't seen before."

The charade was working. Hanzo scratched his chin in silent contemplation – even after all those years, it was still hard for a man like him to resist the luring call of flattery when it came to everything he was capable of while in the battlefield. Plus, if Genji was telling the truth, it was just going to be the two of them against the woman, and even if she was indeed dangerous, the archer suddenly felt quite positive that the two Shimada brothers alone could put an end to her days as a Talon asset.

The idea seemed delightful for Hanzo: sniper against sniper; the chance to fight fire with fire. His brother by his side; and no other sides involved. No foreign eyes to pry into him or his intentions; neither doubtful looks nor rancorous faces to tell him off.

It was a little too good to be true, he knew, but Genji didn't give him any time for his wary mind to ponder.

"Tomorrow night in Lille, France. She's using the old Église Saint André as her personal base of operations. Only two Talon operatives are with her." The younger Shimada informed him before leaving a plane ticket on Hanzo's counter. By the time the archer had picked the folded piece of paper, his brother was already gone.

The events of the following night in the cold winds of October hadn't gone any differently. By the time the archer had successfully reduced the Widowmaker and captured her, his brother was already gone.

It had been too easy, he should have seen it coming from a mile away; it had been, indeed, too good to be true. Taking out the two operatives had been rather simple: the second they saw the brothers coming they started to fire their weapons at them but Genji simply deflected their bullets, hurting them with their own rounds and from that point on, it only took one of Hanzo's scatter arrows to finish them off. The woman put up a fight for as long as she could but eventually fell, subjugated by the skills both brothers had been honing since they were but little children.

Genji flanked her, Hanzo captured her: the intricate mechanism of the brothers uniting their abilities towards the same end still functioned with the precision of a clock.

Genji handcuffed the blue-skinned woman and both brothers walked back to the entrance of the church; the deceased Talon operatives were nothing but an extinguished distraction back then.

"What now?" The archer asked, brushing his right shoulder with his left hand. He waited for his brother to answer but the only sound that was left to be heard in the cold October night was the woman's laugh, quiet at first but gradually becoming louder as seconds went by. He knew he should have said no, knew he should have overcome the ancestral need to prove himself superior. His brother, after cheating death, had been graced by a stronger body, his instincts had been augmented – there was no reason for him to doubt Genji's capability. But no, he had said yes, he had accepted – partially because his truncated dreams were still telling him that he had something to show, something to prove. Partially because his consciousness would not leave him be, and knowing his brother was willing to put himself at arm's length as an attempt to satisfy the morals of an organization that was still very much illegal was not something Hanzo was comfortable with.

It was still little when compared to the collection of things he had single-handedly taken away from Genji. Yet it still was something; a first step maybe.

The sounds of the Widowmaker's laughter quickly dissipated once the aircraft landed in front of them. The faces emerging from the ship were unfamiliar for the archer yet they all shared the same puzzled expression: it was clear he was not the one they were hoping to find.

Confused grimaces quickly turned into darker, muted accusations. It was painfully obvious that even if he didn't know their names they knew who he was and what he had done.

The first one who dared talk to him was a small, short-haired woman. She clicked her tongue as if looking for some extra courage to speak; she seemed clearly distressed by Hanzo's unexpected presence.

"What are you doing here? Where is Genji?" she asked in her unmistakable British accent.

Only then, when the perplexed archer was still struggling for words while Tracer, Winston and Reinhardt were closing in on him, the cyborg ninja descended from the copula where he was observing the scene and, with just one smooth movement of his silver hands, greeted his comrades.

"What is he doing here?" The woman asked, still visibly moved by Hanzo's mere presence – only not in a good way. Her expression had lighted nonetheless now that she was seeing Genji with her own brown eyes.

"He…" The younger Shimada began as he snaked one of his arms around his brother's neck – "He captured the Widowmaker; I merely helped with a couple Talon operatives. Hanzo is the real hero here."

The archer flinched under his brother's cold touch; it didn't take much longer for the older Shimada to be free of Genji's affectionate gesture. He stared at the group in silence, not exactly sure of what to say to them. Yes, it was true that he had been the one reducing and capturing their primary target yet that word… that word was still not meant to be his.

From that point on, everything happened so fast. The archer, reduced to a perfect nonplus, witnessed their smiles and received their congratulations. They were suddenly trying to make him feel welcome; make him feel like he belonged. He recalled his brother's words, "it is time to pick a side," he had said. The thought was unsettling for the nearly forty-year-old archer: Genji had made the choice for him and even if the weight of a war that wasn't even his was slowly leaving him, another part of him was still trying hard to fight the last bastions of an indoctrination he thought he had left behind.

In a matter of seconds, they were airborne. The ship was leading the team back to Gibraltar and, along with them; the captured Widowmaker – still handcuffed in the back of the aircraft – was quickly becoming the first trophy earned in the crusade against Talon.

Hanzo sat down right next to the blue-skinned woman and inspected her: he couldn't help but to feel the concurrence of their paths united, even if only briefly, even if only circumstantially, now that they were both being led to a place where they surely didn't want to be.

"It's a shame you've chosen them…" Widowmaker whispered as soon as she noticed the archer seated next to her. "We've been watching you for some time now; I was certain that a man like you could only choose our side… Guess I was wrong." She leaned in closer, even when her movements were restricted: "Anyway, from one sniper to another: I never really liked the whole concept of competition, so maybe it's better this way. I like a good challenge; besides – blood will always be blood. Can't blame you for choosing your brother…"

"I didn't choose Genji – I was played by him." Hanzo retorted with his usual stern expression.

"Keep telling yourself that, Shimada…" Widowmaker whispered again as she looked the other way, "Whatever helps you sleep at night." The archer furrowed his brow but he didn't say a word, he knew it was pointless to try and have a discussion with that venomous woman. He stood up and left her side but as he motioned to leave, his left arm brushed slightly against hers – it was cold as ice and smooth as silk. She didn't even care to look at him as he left; in a way, it almost seemed as if she was incapable of addressing the fact that he had touched her, even if involuntarily. There was something intriguing about that woman, he quickly acknowledged: something about her eyes, something about that cold, blue skin of hers. Blood will always be blood, she had said only moments ago, and yet the few moments they had shared were enough for Hanzo to believe that blood wasn't exactly running through her veins. Not anymore.

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II – The look in their eyes

It wasn't the first time Gibraltar had had to endure the aftershocks of an unexpected commotion. Life after the recall still felt new and uncertain. Many new members had been recruited and some old faces had already shown up, answering a call that not only meant the chance to right their wrongs but also, the ever seducing possibility of a brand new start. But when the ship touched ground all of those faces coincided into one massive expression of surprise: they all knew the mission was risky; capturing the Widowmaker was not meant to be an easy task yet they had all hoped for the best. Genji was a strong, capable asset; after all, they were positive the cyborg ninja was the right man for the job.

But Genji wasn't on the ship.

It was as hard for Winston to explain that Hanzo had been the one responsible for bringing her in as it was for the rest of the Overwatch members to assimilate the news. The look in their eyes was unmistakably speaking of a subtle sense of mistrust: was he one of them now? They all knew Genji had forgiven his older brother; he had been quite vocal about his intentions: he wanted his brother to join their cause so they all knew, deep down; there was no real reason for them to be so surprised by the archer's presence.

They accepted him. Even if there was neither a celebration nor an official statement about his brand new status as an Overwatch member they all welcomed him – each in their own way. The younger ones, the ones closer to his brother, were cautious and suspicious whenever he was around. The older ones, the ones who still carried the weight of past mistakes and countless regrets wrapped him up in silence. It was not an uncomfortable silence, though; far from it – it was more of a quiet lullaby for a man that had been alone for far too long.

The first days were the hardest ones.

He was still trying to decipher his own motivations: why was he there? Why couldn't he leave, and just go back to the life of the penitent mercenary that he had embraced years ago?

Every hour was an act of concomitant introspection for him, but most of them didn't seem to know and those who knew, didn't seem to care. "You could be mistaken for any piece of furniture here!" Lena had joked one day, trying to at least get him to say something – anything, in return. The only reaction she had gotten from him had been his thin lips, pressed hard into a tight line and yet more silence. He stood up and left the room, his pace calm yet lacking a clear destination.

There was only one notion and one notion alone resting inside the archer's mind: this new version of Overwatch was still operating in the shadows; they didn't have any real authority, any real jurisdiction to keep the Widowmaker confined inside a distant room in the last wing of the facility's Med Bay. But that was exactly what they were doing.

"What's going to happen to her now?" He asked Ana one day.

"We'll see…" The one-eyed sniper let out quietly.

He was a complete stranger to their history. But he was positive there had once been history.

The look in their eyes was irrevocably indiscreet when it came to that treacherous woman, or so it seemed. There were flashes of an old, heartbreaking pity inside their eyes. Tints and hues lacking real color but still talking about a shared past. If feelings were colors, he was rather sure what they felt for him was nothing but a dull, lackluster shade of gray. Yet the Widowmaker was a sepia-colored flag for them; nostalgic and evocative, pure and corrupted, everlasting and yet, definitive.

She had been brainwashed by Talon, and she had killed her own husband.

It was a Tuesday afternoon when he finally learned those two intimate secrets about her. He had gotten up early, just like every other morning. After a light breakfast, the cool breeze of Gibraltar's dawning hours had found him training alongside Reinhardt. It's not that they were actually training together – it was more like they were simply occupying the same space.

Hanzo's armored boots were not enough for the archer to successfully climb atop the old antenna facing the bay. The older Shimada fell rather brusquely, even when the German engineer had tried to help him by raising his shield as an attempt to mitigate the effects of the unexpected impact to some extent. Forcing his shoulders and neck forwards to maintain stability, Hanzo's left ankle touched ground in a rather unnatural position; the gestures of pain and discomfort getting instantly written all over the archer's face.

A concerned Reinhardt tried to assist him but Hanzo flinched, and refused, frustrated by his own misfortune.

"You should let Angela take a look at that ankle…" Reinhardt suggested before picking up his fallen shield. Hanzo sighed inaudibly but obliged, finally allowing the German warrior to put both his hands on his broad shoulders to help him up.

Reinhardt left him right outside the infirmary door. There was a silent understanding inside the old man's eyes; as if subtly telling Hanzo that he wouldn't tell a soul about his clumsy climbing session. The archer nodded and offered Reinhardt the first genuine gesture of approval and appreciation ever since joining Overwatch: a minuscule pat on the shoulder; concomitant and shy but powerful and intrinsically symbolic all the same.

It only took him a couple of seconds to understand why they would all refer to Mercy as a true miracle worker.

The touch of her hands turned out to be gentle and balsamic. The softness in her eyes was truly mesmerizing, almost as if she could understand everything about everyone. Forgiving. Calming. The pain in his damaged ankle disappeared with mere seconds of her staff and only a few adjustments from her fingers. He considered, if only for a moment, to let her know about his delicate ankles, a condition that had always accompanied him, even during his childhood years – only now, pushing forty, the ache in his bones felt worse than ever – Even if the repulsion he had always felt towards doctors was still pretty much alive inside of him, those gentle eyes and that tender smile of hers were making him believe that maybe, just maybe, she could actually help him.

His silent elucubrations faded from his mind the second the yellow luminescence emanating from Mercy's staff had ceased to exist.

Ana entered the room, a worried expression written all over her face.

"She's up," she said, "I think it's time…"

Hanzo left the stretcher instinctually; he didn't need much to understand who they were talking about. With both feet on the ground, the archer noted his pain was gone, yet the uncertainty regarding that woman was persistent. He was about to leave the infirmary when the old sniper placed her hands on his shoulders and made him turn around to see her:

"We might need some help. We could use a strong man like you, Shimada." She caressed his broad shoulders as cold sweat ran down his spine. Ana guided him through the Medical Bay until they stopped in front of the last door, still waiting for Angela to join them. When the Swiss doctor appeared on the scene, she was carrying a small black box and a white, disposable bag.

Ana produced a rusty-looking key from one of her coat pockets and opened the door – the room was silent; the curtains were closed, preventing light – life – to visit that woman resting on the stretcher. Mercy leaned in and examined the Widowmaker's lifeless eyes while Ana opened the black box to fill two different syringes with their respective vials.

Standing alone and confused in the back of the room, Hanzo scratched the back of his neck. He had no idea what was going on or what was exactly going to happen to that woman from that point on yet he couldn't help but feel distraught and discomforted by the eerie scenes he was being forced to witness.

"Is she dead?" he asked, even when he remembered Ana saying that the Widowmaker was up only mere minutes ago.

It was the one-eyed sniper the one who came clean to him about the French woman.

She had been brainwashed by Talon, and she had killed her own husband.

"I need you to hold her in place for me, Hanzo," Mercy addressed him with the same soft tone adorning her voice. "Can you do that for me?" It was like she was talking to a small child, too frightened to even look in her direction.

When the muscles in his legs finally found the strength to move his body towards the stretcher, Ana indicated him to hold the Widowmaker by her shoulders. It wasn't like she was able to move, anyways, he thought as he obliged. There were cables and wires all around her body; monitors beeping with the sounds of artificial miracles. They had tied her legs and her arms at the sides of the bed, it wasn't like she was going to break free from their unusual imprisonment and yet they needed a man to hold her in place all the same.

Mercy grabbed one of the syringes and looked him in the eye as if silently asking him not to judge her for the actions she was about to do. The good doctor was now telling him all about medical procedures; explaining a collection of notions involving multiple chemicals and powerful sedatives.

The first injection was meant to erase Talon's corruption from her brain.

The second one was a sedative; the sleeping potion that would help her rest until the process was complete.

He placed both his hands on the sides of the Widowmaker's slender shoulders – at first, his touch was barely connecting with the woman. But as his eyes found hers, Hanzo buried his fingertips in her cold, blue skin. As the needle approached her neck, the Widowmaker's eyes found an anchor in Hanzo's incredulous stare: that was the first time he saw her fight.

It should have been a premonition: she wasn't fighting because she didn't want to give up her days as a Talon agent – she was fighting because, deep down, she knew what they were trying to do: they were going to try and retrieve the woman she had been before Talon.

Even when her body was completely still, her eyes were begging him to stop them. The pain of becoming Amélie again was unimaginable for her. The Widowmaker, even if supposedly unable to feel anything, feared Amélie – she was scared of the one she had been before, scared of everything the Widowmaker had taken away from that woman.

As the vial disappeared from the syringe, Mercy tried hard not to look at Hanzo. Instead, she busied herself with yet more clinical explanations, as if trying to justify herself, as if trying to reaffirm her reasons for doing what she was doing.

Hanzo closed his eyes thinking that maybe Overwatch was nothing but a consortium of weeping souls seeking all sorts of redemptions. Maybe that was why his brother had wanted him to join their cause, after all. To bring him closer to a sense of redemption he still felt alien. When he opened his eyes, the second needle was already going through the Widowmaker's skin. Her eyes, still fighting their peaceful kind of inner war, were still breaking his heart: even if completely still, even if completely silent, he had never seen someone fighting so fiercely, not even when they got her, not even when they brought her in. And even when the cold numbers were stating that her kill count was bigger than his, her current situation was making him feel a nostalgia so ancient and unparalleled, powerful enough to bring tears to his tired eyes.

One last spasm of her body. One last shock of adrenaline to run through her system. Then she closed her eyes and the skin beneath his fingers relaxed; as if laxly indicating the man it was time to let go. The green line in the monitors coming to life every once in a while: she was still alive; even when her cold body was stating otherwise. He let go of her and moved away from the stretcher. He understood the cold; he understood the blue. Sleeping peacefully now and traveling through the oneiric lands of artificial slumber, that woman had silently asked for his help – her skin, colder than ever, had fought its final fight – a warmer skin would wake her now; the laconic comeback of the one she had ceased to be.

He didn't wait for those women to tell him he was free to go.

Hanzo abandoned the Medical Bay with the image of those eyes of hers buried deep inside of him. She wasn't fighting them; she was only fighting to get to him. The fear inside of her was the same fear he had always felt inside of him – the fear of becoming the ones they were before, the ones before losing it all.

And now that he knew her story, he couldn't help but feel sorry for that woman.

Unlike him, she hadn't been born a killer.

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III – Broken toys

Even if the voices in his head were telling him not to, he still went to visit her every day. Early in the morning, right after his training; and half an hour before going to bed each night. Even if she was still under the effects of the sedatives, too far from him in the land of fabricated slumber, he felt glad to know that every light; every sign flashing through those lifeless monitors was stating that she was doing fine.

The blue and the cold gradually left her skin as days went by.

The color fading little by little was such a fascinating sight to see, he pondered.

It took her three weeks to wake up. Three weeks to go back to normal. Three weeks for her body to reject the effects that Talon had tattooed all over her.

He was the first face she saw when she opened her eyes; the archer rose from his chair and smiled, unexpectedly. Then ran to find Mercy, to share the good news with everyone's favorite doctor. He hadn't felt so invested in someone else's story in what seemed to be a lifetime now and even when he still couldn't find the reasons why, it still felt right all the same.

Comforting. Warm.

He followed Mercy back to the Widowmaker's room then opened the curtains to let the light in – Angela leaned in and examined the woman, her blue eyes traveling relentlessly from that body reacting on the stretcher to the monitors connected to her being and vice versa.

"Can you tell me who you are? What is your name?" Mercy asked, unable to hide her excitement: the blue and the cold of that woman's skin was gone, it was the first time she had successfully completed such a complicated procedure.

Removing Talon's darkness from someone was tricky, she knew. There could always be consequences.

"Amélie Lacroix." Her tone was soft, drowsy. "Angela?"

Mercy smiled, satisfied. She could already see the woman she had known so long ago inside those dilated pupils staring back at her. Amélie had recognized her. Amélie was back.

"I need you to remain quiet while I check…" the doctor began, but the French woman interrupted her.

"What's going on, Angela? Why am I here, like this?"

Mercy looked at Hanzo and the archer moved nearer the stretcher. Amélie didn't even look at him but he understood it was only natural for the woman to act that way; there would be time to explain, time to talk.

"Where is Gérard?"

Ana and Reinhardt entered the room just in time to hear Amélie's bittersweet question. Unable to answer, Mercy walked towards the stretcher and untied the woman, helping her sit down with her back against the pillows. Amélie stared into her blue eyes all the while, noticing the tears about to cascade down her pale cheeks.

"Ana, what happened to your eye?" Amélie asked the second she saw the old sniper. Reduced to a perfect nonplus, Ana held Hanzo by the hand, as if looking for stability.

"You did," Reinhardt said, looking down.

Amélie covered her mouth with her hands yet her eyes, still desperately trying to get to Mercy, were begging for another answer.

"Angela, where is Gérard?" She insisted.

"You killed him, Amélie." Mercy confessed, unable to contain her tears any longer.

"No…" Amélie whispered to herself as she looked down at her own hands – the sight of something so fragile, so small had her wondering whether that was true or not; she had loved that man with all her heart – there was no way she could have ended his life.

"You were brainwashed," Ana explained, brokenhearted. Yet her words were not enough to lessen the asphyxiating pain Amélie was feeling. "This is what they do, this is what Talon is – they break people from the inside, you…"

"I killed my own husband." Was all she could say, oblivious to the comforting, soothing words Ana was trying to tell her.

Hanzo, with his back glued to the nearest wall, saw the storm gathering inside her eyes. Saw the unleashed fury, the uncontainable fear, the trepidation, the anger. The sadness; those rainy eyes were about to drown them all in an ocean of impotence.

She was a broken vessel. Nothing more than a beautiful, broken vessel. The fiery woman he had crafted inside his imagination was no more. He doubted if she had ever even existed, maybe that stronger version of Amélie he had created inside his mind during those three weeks of waiting for her to wake up had been nothing but a palliative for his loneliness, meant to find hidden connections and intricate metaphors between them.

He didn't stay to see the storm when the first scream roared across the room. All those connections were indeed there, towering over him, linking him to her in a bridge that was less romantic and much darker than what he had anticipated. The romanticism of their bond was nonexistent, the pinkish ribbons that should have adorned the lace connecting them were gone alongside the blue of her skin.

It's not that he had been expecting to find love inside her eyes – far from that; the feeling was still too peculiar, too forbidden for a man like him. The romance he had expected to find in her, the romanticism in the nature of their bond was deeply rooted in a common past; in a condensed, unified suffering.

But she was nothing but an empty vessel.

He left the room in silence, only to glue his back to the deserted walls of the corridor, his legs failing him, his body sliding down to the floor.

Alone and disheartened, the archer heard the symphony of her feelings being unleashed, lacerating his ears and devastating what was left of his tortured soul. He covered his eyes with his hands, yet he soon found himself realizing that the sounds that followed could have easily belonged in the scenes of mundane life inside a mental institution.

Her screams and her fury were his own screams and his own fury, way back then, once adrenaline had abandoned his body and he could finally see the image of a broken Genji lying on the bloodied floor of Hanamura.

He had broken him.

He had broken his own brother.

Amélie's screams gradually mutated, becoming softer in time, weaker. The silent tension emanating from her profound cries was becoming contagious, enveloping his body in the same uneasy shivering ricocheting through the inside of that room. Then she wept, like a helpless child.

Then there was only silence.

Alone in that deserted, empty corridor, Hanzo realized there was nothing around him – there was no light, no darkness, no outside, no inside.

Only Amélie's demons, summoning his own old demons.

As he stood up and left that dreadful place he finally understood the irony of their story: Gérard and Genji, those they had broken with their own hands to answer the call of someone else's wishes and orders were not the broken toys in their troublesome tale.

They were.

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IV – A certain talent for sin

"You should train her," Ana suggested one morning over breakfast. "It could help her feel useful again."

It had been more than a week since Amélie had learnt the truth about her days as a Talon agent and, even if he still had had neither the heart nor the strength to come visit her after the incidents in the Medical Bay of the facility, he doubted the woman was ready to become a deadly sniper once again.

"A man with your sense of commitment and discipline is exactly what she needs right now." Ana went on, certain that the French woman could handle the heat. Hanzo shook his head as his hands embraced the hot mug of coffee resting right in front of him.

"I can try," he began, sounding distant and indifferent, "but I doubt this is what she wants." Ana furrowed her eyebrows but nodded nonetheless. "It's too soon, and you know it." Hanzo sentenced coldly.

"I know, but she could use the distraction." The old sniper retorted with such motherly concern in her voice.

"She barely remembers who she is; she has no recollection of her days as a Talon operative." The Japanese archer indicated before finishing his coffee.

"Muscle memory…" was all Ana said before getting up and leaving him alone with his thoughts. "We can't undo the things she's done – but maybe her skills can be retrieved and used for something good." He heard her say as she walked away.

The way she had said those final words had been abrasive – collecting from him an unexpected impact that left him breathless. In a way, it was like she was also talking about him: it was impossible for Hanzo to undo the terrible things he had done. In their eyes, they were actually expecting him to help her recover; they were actually expecting him to help her unbury her deadly skills and her talents for sin.

Maybe that way he could also be retrieved from the darkness dwelling inside his chest.

Maybe he could also be used for something good.

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V – You (I see you)

Muscle memory... it would have been an option if Amélie had actually shown any signs of interest. A whole month had passed since they had begun training together and Amélie's progress was simply nonexistent. The first week she hadn't even shown up. The second week Hanzo himself had gone looking for her, and she had accepted to meet with him and talk about her training. Despite the fact that she wasn't interested in training per se, a part of him felt grateful that the woman had been polite enough as to not tell him off right away.

She listened when he told her who he was, and why they wanted him to help her with her training. She stared at him, nodding her head every now and then as if to prove him she was paying attention to his every word. A simple gesture of an education and nothing more, he acknowledged, finding himself inside the mirror of her innocuous attitude.

The third week she had come to him.

She had found him alone, his naked shoulders kissed by the orange lights of the sunset. His bow and the quiver of arrows resting quietly by his side. He was facing the bay, too absorbed in the maze of his own mind to notice her approaching. When her shadow covered him, he turned around to meet her: she was carrying her sniper rifle in one of her hands; her grappling hook in the other.

"I thought you didn't want this." Was all he could say.

The woman sat down beside him; acknowledging the beauty in that landscape before them that had captivated him only moments ago. Her eyes got lost in the waters before her; as if trying to undress the horizon stretching itself into the untouchable distance. She didn't say a word; she couldn't exactly discern her own thoughts from the ones they were all projecting towards her. Her expectations, the melancholic sadness in her eyes – as if trying to summon the woman she had been, and embellish her with the skills of the one she was no more. Feeling a stranger inside herself, an undefined travesty of foreign personalities, Amélie took a deep breath and let her rifle rest right next to Hanzo's bow.

"I don't." She whispered after a while.

"Whenever my brother and I were angry or frustrated while growing up, we would go to the Dojo, and let our weapons do the talking." He said, biting his lower lip and trying hard not to remember that perhaps, way back then, his weapon had been much too loud for him to listen carefully to the things it had to say instead of succumbing to his darkest impulses.

After that day she was on time for their training sessions, but little had changed. She never even touched her weapon. She would only stare at it from a comfortable distance and wait for Hanzo to tell her she was free to go. As exasperating as it was, the archer couldn't help but to feel confused by her: she still wasn't even remotely interested in picking up the gun and honing those skills that had once been hers yet she was there with him, every day – every single day.

Perhaps she was lonely.

Perhaps she could feel he was lonely too.

Perhaps she could sense the void, the fragile frontier of those struggling to find their place in a foreign land.

The fourth week had been slow and repetitive – the scene was pretty much the same: Hanzo was still the only one training, and Amélie was still the one sitting alone, facing the bay. The rifle resting right next to her hand – so close, yet so far.

One day Hanzo kneeled down in front of her; "You know they won't offer you a behind-the-desk position, right?" he placed his hands on her knees but the woman looked away, as if ashamed. Sighing, the archer picked up her gun and guided one of her hands to it; the instinctive thumb finding the trigger rather quickly. She stared into his deep brown eyes; she could see his chest in the scope.

He told her his story. By the time he was done, he could feel the tip of the gun pressed hard against his heart but she wasn't the one directing the weapon – he was.

Amélie flinched but Hanzo's grip was strong. Only minutes ago she had despised that very same weapon and now Hanzo's life was in her hands.

Hanzo understood the danger and even when he knew his strategy was risky, to say the least, he needed to know for sure that the Widowmaker was gone, that the woman in front of him was just Amélie – that the vessel was, indeed, empty. He needed to know that she wasn't holding back; that she wasn't fighting the residual effects of Talon's corruption. The tears falling from her eyes and streaming down her face were giving testimony of this: the vessel was empty. The Widowmaker was gone.

The archer let go of her hand and the rifle fell down to the ground. He collected her in his arms effortlessly, lending her a shoulder for her to cry on. Something about that woman was truly fascinating, and for the first time, his thoughts were clear enough for him to translate them into words.

"I wish my own corruption could be removed like yours was. To be able to wake up one day without knowing what I've done; without the memories, without the nightmares."

She broke the embrace but the look in her eyes was cold as ice. His honesty had wounded her. His words had hurt her.

"You are the embodiment of second chances, Amélie," he went on, trying his best to make her see that his words weren't meant to hurt her, "you make me believe that if you can find your place in this world after everything you've been through – then maybe I can too."

She stood up and kicked her rifle off the cliff – the weapon disappeared in the blue waters, never to be found again.

"You're only doing what's easier for you – you're living your life through somebody else's life." She stated coldly. It was impossible for the shaken man to tell if she was actually angry at him or not – a curtain of dull gray had taken over her face, masquerading her every emotion. "Learn from your mistakes, archer. You've already been here before, you've already lived your life according to the plans the Shimada clan had for you when you should have lived your life; you should have been the man you wanted to be, not the man they needed you to be. Going down that road should have already proven to you that choosing the easy way out always brings the hardest, most difficult repercussions." She turned around to leave but she froze in place after just a couple steps. Without facing him, she asked:

"You always talk about your brother and you while growing up in Hanamura. You talk about the Dojo, and how fighting was always the best option. Tell me, Hanzo, do you have any memories of you and your brother that are not related to weapons, or fights, or violence?"

Only then she dared look inside his eyes.

"Do you remember the real sounds of his laughter? The type of women he liked? His favorite meal? His deepest fear?"

He didn't.

He had spent so much time mourning a glorified memory that the real memory had faded and vanished inside him.

"I remember Gérard. His favorite color was blue, he didn't like ballet but he was always encouraging. Thunderstorms made him uncomfortable, just like talking on the phone. I remember how his hands were always warm and that he would always bring me my favorite cake after a long period of absence, or maybe a box of chocolates, depending on the occasion. Chocolates meant I missed you; the cake… the cake was more of a heartfelt I'm sorry. He never really explained this code to me, never got the chance, really. I just figured it out, as years went by, you know?"

Amélie wiped the tears still cascading down her cheeks as she walked back and stood right in front of him. She caressed his forehead and his protruding cheekbones with salty, wet fingers.

"Which one of us is the empty vessel, then?"

.

.

.

VI – Spiderdragon

That night he couldn't sleep. He turned and tossed in bed countless times yet slumber was still elusive. Looking at the ceiling, the archer wondered where she was, what she was doing now, why she had affected him so much. The simple trigger of vacant memories assaulted him with the wrath of a hundred demons – he struggled to remember the smallest things about his brother but he came up short every time. What was Genji's favorite color, the name of his best friend, the last gift he had gotten him for his birthday – all of Hanzo's missing answers were now lost in a nebula of extinguished moments.

He got up and covered his body with a black robe. The nocturnal chill of Gibraltar's midnight hour enveloped the thin material rather quickly; the cold, silken sensation brushing against his skin.

Hanzo stepped into the dimly lit corridor determined to make his way to the kitchen. But as his feet ventured the deserted corners of the base, the sounds of his loneliness were met by another sound – a cascade of chords and harmonies coming from one of the storage deposits. It was music. Soft yet irrevocably dramatic; magical – but intrinsically dark.

He found her dancing alone. The sounds coming from the small device had become her compass in a world that wasn't hers anymore. The weak streams of moonlight fighting their way through the old, filthy curtains were enough to eclipse her saddened face.

She didn't notice him approaching. The silent spectator of her own private ballet, mesmerized and confused.

She was on her tiptoes; her arms like broken wings trying to soar in the night.

The death of the swan. Those wings coming to life only to die again; their agony and their jubilee only meant to be fleeting; the circle of life as the overture of death and vice versa.

"I knew you weren't being sincere." The archer let out. His jawline was rigid – inside his eyes, there was no candor, no emotions.

Unfeeling.

Amélie turned off the music and placed her hands on both his shoulders but the man took a step back, separating his body from hers.

"You don't remember how to pull a trigger but you remember an entire choreography."

"Hanzo, you don't understand,"

"I do." He spat disdainfully. "Like the language, for example. I asked Ana. She told me you could barely form a sentence in English while you were married to Gérard. Your fluency in the language was yet another one of Talon's traits."

He needed reasons to be angry at her even when he knew the ballerina had preceded the sniper, even when he knew that maybe Ana had been wrong. That woman standing right in front of him had undressed his fears and had played with his emotions – all of his uneasiness was contained inside the shape of her; dressed as her, molded by her. She tried to speak but the man didn't let her; he simply left the room and left her there. Alone.

But not for long.

Her steps were quick and determined. She moved now with a clear destination.

Amélie followed him through the facility until she found him standing alone, facing the bay.

"Overwatch, Talon, your family… it's all the same, Hanzo; can't you see it?" She demanded, not ready to make eye contact yet close, near, as if asking that cold man for permission. "Why are you here, Hanzo? If you don't want to be here, if you don't belong with these people, why don't you just leave?"

He turned around and stared into her eyes,

"Why are you here, Amélie?"

"I want to stay close to those who knew him." She answered, honestly.

"He's gone. He's not coming back."

The woman surrounded him then, her hands stopping midair, as if afraid to touch him. She moved closer to the edge and picked up his bow and the quiver of arrows he had forgotten there that afternoon after their fight. With the poise and the elegance of a professional, the woman readied one of the arrows and aimed for his heart.

"You should treat me better, archer. I was your golden ticket after all." She said.

"What are you doing?" Hanzo asked, challenging.

"Muscle memory." She replied, noticing the arrow trembling only inches away from her face. "It's all the same, Hanzo, we're still their puppets. They couldn't just kill me; they needed to reform me, they needed to prove the world they were better than the one I was. They couldn't even hand me over a higher authority because, technically, Overwatch doesn't even exist anymore."

She was right.

The machine of better pasts and memories of a time that was never coming back known as Overwatch had played them. Their manufactured redemptions had stopped the clocks, had made them go back in time in their own way.

And yet the dichotomy between them was still alive, as if completely alien to time and its complex mechanism. As if unable to let go. She had killed her husband but she hadn't felt anything while she was ending Gérard's life – he had almost killed his brother but he had felt everything. There was no escaping their realities – she wanted to feel what he had felt, she wanted the option of actual tears, the option of actually knowing what had happened that day. Hanzo wanted to forget. Everything he had felt that day was still stirring inside of him; the memory of a broken Genji was still stronger than the fact that his brother had cheated death; his brother was still alive.

Hanzo lowered his head as Amélie let the bow fall down to the ground. The arrow clicked helplessly against the concrete; unused. Then she motioned towards him, placing her arms around his neck and his shoulders.

She was exactly like him, he thought. She was not a second chance; she was no redemption.

The blue shades that had abandoned her skin were now vividly present in his arm. It was as if the elaborate patterns and creatures tattooed on his skin were actually trying to come to life. Unable to look away, Amélie was left with no other choice than to accept the fact that the ink inside his system was, indeed, pulsating right through him, awakening something inside. He knew the feeling all too well; he knew what was going to happen. He closed his eyes and tried to control it; his senses trying to hold on to that fragile woman in his arms. As the wind blew harder in the night, the woman observed the storm gathering inside that man and the thunder emanating from his arm. The shape was whimsical at first, yet it was magnificent all the same. The mesmerizing blue luminescence coming from those hazy shapes was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

She knew she should have been afraid. Knew she should have run.

Yet never in her life had she experienced something so magical; never in her life had she witnessed something so beautiful.

She brushed her lips against his then shifted her body inside his warm embrace, unable to look away from the blue light emanating from his arm.

"You taste like blood; and pain." She said.

He fought his anger, as he tried to reassure himself that she wasn't the source of his own nightmares. Tried to savor the taste of her lips on his lips but the moment had already passed him by; the gesture had been bittersweet – sour and, above all things, not meant to be his.

"So do you, Amélie." That was all he could say. He closed his eyes as he prayed for his dragon to be benevolent. He knew there was no turning back now; the beast was struggling – it wanted out; it needed out. Hanzo held on tight to her with his free hand, her mouth agape, contemplating the man fighting the spirit. When the beast appeared her irises turned blue; the reflection of its perfect shape embedded inside her bewildered gaze. It all happened so fast. The dragon was gone before she could bring her mind to fully understand what was going on: the man and the beast were but a single being; intertwined in a divine sense of protection for the archer to be safe from the world outside; to be safe from the biggest threat of all: himself.

As the light faded, though not yet completely, the residual blue of the creature shone its light across his skin. The spectacular carnival of shades, shadows and color was vivid before her eyes. Amélie leaned in closer, gently brushing Hanzo's chin with her forehead and stretched one of her arms – her fingers reaching out for that light; reaching out for that blue.

It wasn't the same blue, she knew. It didn't mean the same – his colors and her colors, even if similar, were not the same.

The archer bit his bottom lip the second he felt her hand landing on his still bright blue arm. She was fascinated by the beast and all its shades of blue. It stung. It hurt. It was a pain she couldn't quite describe, not with words – it was a kind of torture she was sure, wasn't meant to be endured by a simple mortal.

As the blue light disappeared completely, the woman removed her hand from his arm and took a good look at it: a bloody palm was all she could see but that wasn't all; the effects of her romancing the dragon had also marked him, traces of her were still scattered across his arm – her blood on his skin.

She looked him in the eye, then.

Silence had never said so much.

.

.

.

VII – Tenses (imperfectpastfuture)

December found them rather quickly.

Even when no more words had been spoken between them after that night, and Amélie's training sessions had ended due to her evident lack of interest, the snowy season finally had come for everyone to take a break. None of the members of the new Overwatch remained there, in Gibraltar, during those days. They all had a destination – a friend they were longing to see; a family to go back to.

Amélie was the first to leave.

She walked around Paris for days, trying to remember the moments she had spent with Gérard. Her trail of memories and lost instants led her straight to his grave – there she kneeled down, her hands on her own chest.

Gérard Lacroix; treasured friend, beloved husband.

She collected herself from the ashes of a grief she couldn't even remember. Of all the missing pieces of the puzzle that was her past, Gérard's grave was the first solid clue to finding who she was meant to be now. No longer the loving wife; no longer the deadly sniper. Maybe an agent of good; maybe the one to finish what Gérard had started, maybe the one to hunt them down – the real masterminds behind Gérard's cruel execution – and make them pay for what they had done to him – and her.

Hanzo packed his bags ceremoniously and traveled to South America.

Her words still rang in his ears with the vehemence of everything that is undeniable:

"You've already been here before, you've already lived your life according to the plans the Shimada clan had for you when you should have lived your life; you should have been the man you wanted to be, not the man they needed you to be."

It was time for the archer to dust off the one they had buried inside of him – time for the one he was meant to be to finally reach the outside, to breathe some air, to shape his body and his soul with the forms and the colors that should have been his and his alone.

He started with the outside.

He cut his hair, and he even got a piercing: a nose bridge. There was even an earring adorning the contour of his face now.

Then it was time for the inside.

It was time to try the traditions of a different culture; time to wander the streets without a clear destination, without a hurried pace. It was time for spicy food and forbidden sweets.

He didn't think of her during his trip. His new liberty was all he could see; displayed right in front of his eyes. Until that evening, as he was making his way back to the hotel where he was staying at. That cake caught his eye; so tempting and nearly self-indulgent.

There was something comforting about pastries, he mused, smiling quietly to himself.

Like simple pleasures, like ordinary sins.

Chocolate, whipped cream and strawberries. Nothing more, nothing less.

Alone in his room, the archer fantasized about the idea of not going back to Gibraltar – of traveling the world alone, trying to find a deeper sense of introspection that could, in time, reunite him with himself. The vigorous, renewed version of himself he was discovering was full of surprises; going back to a life of duty and obligations seemed vague and pointless now. He looked down and grinned softly: Genji had done such incredible things to have him near – his brother had gone to such extraordinary lengths for them to be finally reunited. Perhaps Overwatch wasn't the best option for them, but it clearly meant something to Genji.

With time – and patience – it could mean something to him too.

.

.

.

VIII – Time and place

"On s'est connu, on s'est reconnu,

On s'est perdu de vue, on s'est r'perdu d'vue

On s'est retrouvé, on s'est réchauffé,

Puis on s'est séparé."

When Hanzo returned to Gibraltar, it was already February. He had clearly taken his time; had explored his every color, his every shape. The younger ones smiled at his new looks, a sight that meant that they actually approved of his detachment from all those things that had defined him before. The older ones were not exactly fond of piercings – they could live with the tattoo; they understood its meaning and its importance. But piercings and earrings…

The archer smiled tenderly as he made his way back to his designated room. The feeling was surprising: even if he still didn't feel home, this new arrival was making him feel more at ease than the first time they had opened their doors for him. No longer mistaken for a piece of furniture, the Japanese sniper soon found himself realizing that maybe it was the first step.

Unlike before, now he was somebody. From that point on, it was completely up to him to make them feel comfortable around him.

He rapidly resumed his daily routine of training and exercises. Even if it was colder outside, he still chose to spend his nights facing the bay, alone with his thoughts.

He saw her many times around the kitchen. Saw her talking to the rest of the agents over breakfast; he even saw her joining their table for dinner most nights. Her politeness was still there, embellishing her innate sense of elegance yet no words were spoken – it was clear, after that night, things had changed between them. She didn't need him anymore: according to Winston, she was now training under Ana's indefatigable tutelage. She was finally progressing, and soon she would be able to join them on their missions. She had finally found her place – it was time for him to do the same.

He was meditating with Genji that evening. Even if his brother had chosen a different spot, Hanzo had no choice but to admit that the view from that side of the building was absolutely captivating. The blue bay, seen from the outside of the fuel storage unit, offered a quiet view of the waters below them. The sun was setting on the horizon when Mercy came looking for Genji.

The cyborg ninja stood up and walked towards the doctor. The smile on Angela's face was enough for the archer to understand she wasn't there to talk about medicine or anything that could be considered as remotely clinical. They moved away from Hanzo, yet their conversation reached the archer's ears nonetheless:

"I got you some chocolates, Genji. Swiss; they're the best."

"Thank you, Angela. Perhaps… you could share them with me?"

Even when Genji's face was covered by his helmet, Hanzo assumed his younger brother was smiling under his visor. Genji accepted the little box of chocolates that Angela had bought for him – then leaned in closer, and added:

"I have some chocolates for you too… not Swiss."

The woman sighed, a sound Hanzo wasn't expecting to hear.

"I suppose it would have to do. Thank you, Genji." With that, the doctor left. In a matter of seconds, Genji was kneeling down right next to his older brother. One artificial index finger crossed the distance between them and landed on Hanzo's lips, as if begging his brother not to say a word about the scene he had just witnessed.

The archer nodded, still unable to contain his laughter.

"Any chocolates today, brother?" the cyborg ninja asked as he got up to leave; one of his hands landing on his older brother's shoulder.

"Those were your amusements. Not mine." Even when he wasn't trying to sound harsh his voice was still judgmental and definitive. Genji patted Hanzo's shoulder lightly before turning away to leave. The archer stayed there, by himself, only the tender sounds of the waters moving below the stones remained there, to keep him company.

He had never been interested in such a day.

Yet that day, when he got up in the morning, he had left the facility in order to find a clear destination. A bakery. Something so mundane, so basic. He bought the cake and left it by her door – no note, no message. Even when he knew he was not Gérard, he still hoped she remembered her late husband's code:

Chocolates meant I missed you; the cake… the cake was more of a heartfelt I'm sorry.

He heard her heels approaching. The unmistakable sounds of her presence were hard to ignore. He didn't stand up; didn't look over his shoulder. Eyes fixed on the waves before him, and the unreachable horizon growing darker, blurrier by the minute.

"So, this is where you hide now," Amélie said as she sat down beside him.

"This is where I come when I'm feeling lonely."

"So, this is where you live now." She smiled.

A short-lived hmmm escaped his throat to express his disapproval. Broken pasts and women with an attitude had never been his forte.

"I'm just going to assume you're not currently looking for a roommate, then."

They stayed like that for a while – sitting in silence, welcoming the night.

"Thank you, Hanzo." Her voice broke the spell even when her eyes were still absent, as if she was actually trying to reach that distant horizon stretching itself before them. It was her very first Valentine's Day as a widow – as a conscious widow.

"I do remember Genji." He confessed. "His favorite color is…"

"Green." Amélie interrupted him.

"No, it's actually orange. He was always a real player with the ladies, even when most of his porn was animated…" His confession made her laugh and he laughed too, finally relaxed. "One day, when we were little, our mother asked us what we wanted to be in the future… I told her I wanted to be a good kumicho, I couldn't see another path for me; I was already indoctrinated… But Genji wasn't; Genji said he wanted to be an astronaut. And our mother told him: "What are you going to do up there, so high up in space, all by yourself?" He scratched the back of his head, looked her in the eye, and said: "Then I'm going to be a pilot. The sky's not as high as space; plus I wouldn't be alone on a plane with all the passengers. I think he was five; maybe six." He reminisced. "Looking back, I guess she was only trying to protect us from all those things the clan had in store for us."

"I'm sure she was," she said, as she cupped his hands with her own. She stood up after a while and placed a soft kiss on his forehead. "See you around, Hanzo." She whispered as she walked away.

"See you around, Amélie." He whispered back.

Translation:

"We knew each other, we recognized ourselves,

We lost sight of one another; we lost sight of one another

We found ourselves, we warmed up,

Then we broke up."

From Jeanne Moreau's – Le Tourbillon De La Vie

Author's notes:

This is post-recall, and it's heavily inspired by the latest comics and seasonal voice lines – even so, I took some liberties in order to make this work; the biggest one being that, in this story, Ana is back. I had intended this fic to be a Valentine Day's fic, though given the fact that it's about Hanzo and Amélie, I didn't want this to be exactly shippy so, as expected, lots of angst and drama between these two.

Dedicated to my friend, the talented Kingston Ryan. We miss you, girl.

Hope you enjoyed!