A/N:

[Some characters featured were created by and belong to bootlicking Blizzard Entertainment, the makers of Overwatch. The remaining characters were created by and belong to me. My original characters' names are listed at the end of each act after they are mentioned or introduced.]

Hey there! It's been a while, and while it's hard to find time to write with as many credits as I'm taking, I managed to piece together this. It was originally going to be a later part in a much longer Hanzo-centric multi-chapter work, but I had to scrap it for personal reasons. There will be references to OCs who were part of that abandoned work, but it should be easy to understand nonetheless. I'm very proud of what I have here now anyway, and to make up for my prolonged absence, this is an extra long act. Expect updates to be... a little sporadic, now that I'm back in school.

Now, before you get into this, be warned that this is one my more... demotivating works. I know I tend to write dark things at times, but this is a little different from what I usually do. Particularly, I am consciously portraying negative character development for the first time, so if you are struggling with a recent loss or disorders like depression, please take caution before proceeding.

Content warnings: allusions to past traumatic violence/altercations (strangling/choking, mild blood/gore), alcohol abuse and consumption, self-destructive behavior, catastrophic thinking, self-hatred, workplace harassment/bullying, possessive behavior, and emotional manipulation. Message or review if you would like anything else to be added.

Lastly, explanations of certain cultural references are listed at the END of the act.

Hope you enjoy, readers.

-Reddie

Evening summer raindrops trickle against the kitchen window, collapsing on the pavement two stories below. It is a soothing sound, static in the backdrop, accented by a burble of thunder among other noises.

Coppélia pretends not to hear the argument from the kitchen as she brews tea for the unwelcome guests. They speak in French so that the drowned roadkill sitting across the table from them cannot understand.

"Enough, Giselle," Frauke replies firmly, "we do not need any more of your strays tagging along with us."

The one unpleasant thing about the theatre manager is not her voice but how its sound carries so well. It clatters down the hallway like a brand new pair of pointe shoes, thrown against the walls because they happened to be the wrong size. Any other time, Frauke speaks like a rich symphony. Coppélia has always secretly enjoyed the warmth of her speech, how it flows like hot water from a kettle into a cup when she speaks of upcoming performances, of ticket sales, of all the other dancers in the company. But when she speaks of Coppélia, it feels more like hot water intentionally pouring out onto a hand. Coppélia understands where the ill sentiment stems from and does not object.

"This man is not just any ordinary stray. He can be an asset to us if we choose to employ him."

"Like the omnic dancer, you mean?" Any other occasion, Frauke's laugh would feel less like a knife to the chest. Coppélia tries to steady her hand as she places the electric kettle back on the counter top. She knows it's a bad idea to be listening, but the voice is compelling, soothing regardless of the sting. Frauke continues, "Remember, we would not need to even consider him if you had simply not recruited her. It could save us a lot more on expenses to do away with her rather than hire a bodyguard."

Coppélia curls her fingers against the cabinet before opening it.

Giselle rejoins, "Well, it would take a real fool to spurn such talent on petty grounds."

Someone I can always count on, Coppélia hums to herself internally. She reaches in for Giselle's favorite brand of jasmine green tea, holding it in her palm gently. Frauke isn't finished, but Coppélia thinks she's heard enough already. She attempts to distract herself with the floral patterns etched across the tin packaging. Unfortunately, the voice still filters through clear as crystal.

Frauke sighs, "I am not denying that the omnic has skill. And yes, we have gained more attention for her presence. But this is anything but petty. Coppélia puts all of us in danger. The incident from last month in Russia only further proves that."

"No one was injured," Giselle protests, voice rising.

Surprisingly, the roadkill speaks.

"Excuse me, but would it not be more beneficial to have this conversation in a language all of us can understand?" The words come out in English, low and roughened by exhaustion, "I wish to know frankly where I stand, if that is alright."

Frauke continues on in French, "Listen to that. Impatient, and on top of that perpetual frown. Do you really want to have him around?"

"Hush," Giselle chastises, before turning to him, "Pardon, Hanzo. We got carried away talking about affairs within the company. We shall continue in English if that is what you wish, and get back to discussing what we are seeking from you."

"Thank you," he breathes. Somehow, his exasperation with Frauke fills Coppélia with hope. Time will tell, she supposes. She cannot hold any expectations that he will easily tolerate her, much less be fond of her.

Frauke calls, persisting in French, "Coppélia, where's the tea?"

"Just a moment," Coppélia responds in the same tongue, arranging the cups on the tray. She almost regrets having to install French language comprehension software. It doesn't take more than a minute before she's finally into the hallway. Giselle's English is lost in the sound of footsteps, but the disdained dancer cannot bring herself to care for details she's already heard.

"…necessary to attend every class and rehearsal. Lastly, we travel frequently as well, so—ah, hello there, Coppélia."

At the sound of her name, his eyes go wide, vision darting from the table towards Coppélia. His sights leave her just as quickly, a fluttering glance. It takes only a nanosecond for her to process the fear in his expression. His body language and temperature readings support the notion, and she feels herself deflate fast as she serves him his tea, looking across the table instead. The sight of Giselle, with her glossed lips pursed in thoughtful contemplation, buoys the young omnic.

"Greetings, Giselle," Coppélia practically croons, placing a teacup before her with all the grace she is capable of. The thankful fleeting smile that reaches her in response makes for a small blessing, taking an edge off the uneasiness that had crept into her system. Frauke restores it with a noise of disgust. The stubborn woman is met with an unceremonious serving of tea to placate her.

Giselle extends her prosthetic hand, gesturing to Hanzo. The way he flinches ever so slightly does not escape Coppélia.

"I'd like to introduce you to Mr. Hanzo Shimada, your prospective bodyguard." Hearing the name, Coppélia runs a quick search. A number of articles involving him and his family come up, bringing forth accusations conflicting with evidence and other declarations. Several of his past pictures are drastically different from the cropped hairstyle he sports now. The Shimada family seems respectable on the surface, but she cannot shake the unsavory subtext. This background check confuses her. She eyes him warily.

"A pleasure to meet you," Hanzo greets, barely nodding to her. The tiredness has not left his voice. Coppélia considers offering her hand forward and decides against it.

She bows instead, "Indeed." The man poses no reaction. Smoothly, Coppélia takes her seat next to him, leaving a bit of space.

Giselle finishes debriefing Hanzo on his duties, everything his job will entail and his limitations for the sake of Coppélia's right to privacy. As he agrees to take on the job, Frauke does not speak a single word, face shielded by her teacup. One would think she's been sated. But the way she nudges Coppélia to pour her more is telling of the new complications added to her troubles.

She busies herself in her bodyguard's expression, the faint delight in his features as he sips his drink, and wonders how long before he turns against her too.

After the meeting, Giselle situates Hanzo.

Giselle's one-room apartment is a reasonably small place, a perfect fit for two people, big enough to house the once-homeless Coppélia and herself comfortably. But with Hanzo now under her wing and just as much a stray as Frauke said, Giselle figures she can fit three with a bit of adjustment. And Coppélia is the opposite of resistant to her solution.

That evening, after the young dancer vacates her room to help Giselle move the sofa closer to an electrical outlet (for overnight charging), the new bodyguard is left alone to crumple gratefully into bed, body willing but mind too consumed in thought to allow him sleep. He stares at his ceiling, counting sheep like puffs of someone's cigarillo smoke floating overhead, but the sheep turn to blood and screaming and headlight eyes looming overhead.

Frustrated, he turns on his side with a grunt, dispelling memories.

Hanzo has spent many years traveling, fluttering between cities, islands, continents. He travelled on foot for miles, traced paths along subway stations to their ends, hidden himself as a stowaway on boats and airplanes when he could help it, because the farther and faster he can get away from those chasing him, the better.

And Coppélia unfortunately looks like the first assassin sent after him since he left Hanamura. Her sleek golden-glowing eyes looking down on him only further serves to remind him of close encounters with oh so desired and detested death. If Giselle's prosthetic alone is enough to make his throat clench at the memory of being strangled by metal hands, what possesses him to think accepting this job is a good idea?

He doesn't have an answer aside from the fact that he is a stubborn man.

This, his self-proclaimed endurance for any hardship, is what drives him to remain tethered to life through his grief and overwhelming regret. Whether the omnic is worthy of his protection is beside the question. Whether he deserves to feel safe in her presence while seeking safety in the mobility of an internationally touring dance company stands as a conundrum, and neither a negative nor positive answer would satisfy him. Simply to spite the demons that haunt him, he swears to guard her with his life. And is there honor in that, perhaps, to lay down his life and possibly lose it? He wants to wonder if the existence of an omnic could even compare at all to the life of his brother, but cannot afford the luxury of pondering it too deeply.

For him, the task of redemption, of reclaiming honor he'd thrown away, still proves insurmountable. But he will still strive regardless of what anyone says, and of what anything within him doubts. To give up would be a disgrace that would forever lie beneath him.

He closes his eyes, humoring but ultimately unable to indulge full slumber. And when he rises from bed the next day before the sun, he wrestles his weary limbs into black slacks and the long sleeves of a slate button-up. Even the coffee brewed by Coppélia is hardly sufficient in rousing him. Regardless, he emits no complaint.

He truly is stubborn. It shows in the way he stares straight into Coppélia's eyes across the table. Her attentions are set upon cutting the core from slices of an unpeeled apple. The pieces fall into a plastic container already half-filled with orange slices and halved strawberries.

As she seals the top over the container, she looks up at him, watching the corners of his mouth twitch uncomfortably as their eyes meet. He does not dare break his gaze.

Coppélia tilts her head to the side, "What's wrong, Hanzo? Is the food not to your liking?"

"It is fine," he replies, shaking his head. Without hesitation, he stuffs one of the croissants before him into his mouth, becoming aware of his hunger only then. She pushes a jar of jam across the table, which he ignores in favor of scarfing down his food.

"Was your rest unsatisfactory then? You seem tired."

"I slept fine," he insists doggedly, a sliver of irritation lining his words. What can an omnic possibly understand about something as human as sleep? He gulps down his coffee with his last bite of croissant. She analyzes his slack grip on the cup carefully, seeing right through him.

"Tomorrow morning, I can make a stronger brew," Coppélia replies warily, watching Hanzo's brows knit together briefly. He takes offense to her lack of faith in his words.

"Thank you," Hanzo scoffs, "but you need not do such a thing. I do not wish to waste Ms. Sauveterre's coffee."

Coppélia presses, "Giselle would not mind, I'm certain." Hanzo blinks at that, setting his cup in front of him. He glances to the side, spying an empty plate at the end of the table, dirtied by yogurt and fruit juice stains.

"Where is she?" His eyes flicker to the digital clock on the wall behind Coppélia.

"She already left to prepare for class."

Hanzo raises an eyebrow, "So early? And without you?"

"This is a normal occurrence, albeit I am typically the first to awaken and to leave. She asked me to stay behind this time so you didn't have to wake up early for your first day." Hanzo flushes at this, further irritated.

"As benevolent as that is," he exhales, "tell her I do not need to be coddled."

Coppélia cannot help the defensiveness in her tone, "With all due respect, Hanzo, I do not believe she is coddling you at all. Given how tired you were last night, I believe what she showed you is called 'consideration'." He pauses, but does not look the least bit taken aback. In fact, he just looks angrier.

Keeping his voice steady, he responds with a wave of his hand, "Then pass along my gratitude to your precious master." The cup returns to his lips. Coppélia stands suddenly, slighted. Her voice is harsh, bordering on a shout.

"You can tell her yourself." This time, Hanzo flinches, jerking the cup away from his mouth. Noticing this, she takes a step backward, retracting her hands from the table. Turning her gaze away, she continues, "When you're done, be ready to leave. And remember that you were hired to work for me." From the corner of her visual range, she watches his face, the way his brows furrow, lips opening like he wants to retort. He merely sucks in a breath.

"Understood," he breathes out, and that is the last word out of him for the morning.

The apartment fills with silence as Coppélia stores the fruit container in the fridge, reflecting on their interaction in dismay. Then, as he proceeds ahead of her, Coppélia can't help running scans again, flipping back over his temperature and heart rate readings. She aches for an apology but knows she will not receive one soon. But that is nothing new. And it's hard for her to stay mad at him when she knows he's frightened.

Hanzo ponders on it as well.

Staring out the car window at the colorful scenery of Annecy, he reflects on his words with a tinge of remorse, though he is unsure if an apology would be wasted should she not feel hurt like humans. Either way, he does not deny that he had earned her disrespect, and he comes to the conclusion that it is necessary to gain her respect if he is to continue working honorably with her.

He sits behind a piano and contemplates it throughout the first hour of class, watching Coppélia oil her joints on the studio floor, before rising to practice at the bar where Giselle awaits her. From the corner of the room, he listens as the director mumbles on in French to Coppélia, which he quickly learns are the names for movements. Giselle repeats some of these words, firm and patient, and Coppélia moves wordlessly to match them, gracefully steady when asked to hold a position. Her quietness in the face of command holds a certain determination, a sense of discipline that reminds Hanzo of years in martial arts training.

The sound of the studio door opening is not what breaks his attention, but rather the loud whistle tossed in his direction is what jars him. A broad-shouldered woman saunters through the door, the tousled dark hairs of her bangs a stark contrast to the sleek blonde ponytail behind her head. The sizeable presence of her frame causes a pang as he is reminded of his cigarillo-smoking desert companion. But she lacks the same conspicuousness in her approaching footfall.

Before he is aware, she is before him, cornering him with one arm braced against a neighboring wall. The woman barely hovers at the edge of fully invading his personal space. He flushes, feeling foolish for letting down his guard.

"Why, hello there, handsome," She greets, Slavic accent hardly perceptible under the warm drawl. He looks at her questioningly.

"It's Hanzo, actually," he corrects glibly, missing the compliment entirely. As he stands, she gives, stepping backward to let him move. A bark of a laugh issues from her throat.

"Very well then!" She extends her hand, no trace of hesitation in taking Hanzo's. He matches the strength of her grip in a swift shake before letting go. "My name is Veronika. A pleasure to meet you."

The smolder in her eyes draws attention to the crimson wings of her eyeliner. His heart sinks ever so slightly as he remembers the friend he abandoned in South Korea.

"Likewise," He says curtly, dispelling the memory. "I do not wish to hinder you, so if you will."

She catches his gesture to the bar and shoots him a fleeting wink as she proceeds over. Releasing an exhale, he glances back at Coppélia and Giselle, catching a breath of English between them. There is something about the way that Coppélia suddenly insists she can dance alone that tips Hanzo off to an edge in the atmosphere. Veronika smiles pointedly at the omnic dancer before choosing the other end of the bar to practice by. A slender young man and a much shorter blue-eyed cohort enter the studio chattering, both of them glancing over at Hanzo, and then completely ignoring Coppélia. More dancers shuffle in, noticeably strained whenever Coppélia sends so much as an indirect glance their way.

Giselle stands beside each of them and provides instruction as she did for Coppélia, albeit with more brevity in each interaction. When she reaches the end of the line, she lets them break for a snack, causing the dancers to gather in groups on the floor, many speaking Russian aside from conversations in French or English. Coppélia digs through her bag alone, fluttering past the other dancers to approach Giselle with the fruit container. The two of them talk softly in French, and the way the director laughs is somewhat heartwarming to witness. What isn't so heartwarming, however, is how the eyes of other dancers shift over Coppélia, and how the murmurs seem to intensify.

The pianist eventually arrives and displaces Hanzo a little after the break ends, giving him an excuse to stand closer by, to search for positive reactions to the omnic dancer. When Giselle sets them in random pairs for partner exercises, he thinks he sees agreeable sentiment, but most of it appears hollow or strained upon further inspection. Smiles do not reach eyes, nor does enthusiasm resound in their voices. The last dancer to lift Coppélia seems eager to let her go.

By the time Giselle calls it in for the day and leaves them to their own devices, most follow suit and depart as well not long after. Hanzo reclaims the piano bench. Out of the few who stay behind, one of them approaches Coppélia, looking very unhappy. Perhaps "unhappy" is an insufficient descriptor, because Hanzo feels the need to intervene.

Veronika stops him, slinging an arm over his shoulder from behind. He has half a mind to flip her over onto the ground and manages to resist.

"Whoa, relax, tough guy," she chuckles, lowering her voice. Coppélia goes back and forth in tense conversation with the other dancer, once again in a language he cannot understand. Their volume hitches.

"It's Hanzo," he restates, ducking out of her hold. "Now if you'll excuse me." She blocks his way this time, bringing a hand back down on his shoulder. A swell of sickness in his stomach rises, instincts alight with unfortunate recollections.

"Still so tense! Let me talk to you for a minute."

"No." As he tries to proceed past her, she pulls him back to whisper in his ear.

"You don't know things about her." This stops him completely. She continues, "You are her bodyguard, yeah? It's important you know."

"What could I possibly not know about her that Ms. Sauveterre hasn't already told me?"

"She will not tell you the omnic's real name." Hanzo narrows his eyes at Veronika, but she goes on explaining, "It's 'Ubiytsa'. That means 'assassin' in Russian. If you look closely, you can see it in the faded gray text written all over her arms. She tries to paint over it thinking nobody will notice, but any dancer here who reads Russian can confirm it for you too. And with how massive her arms are, she's probably also hiding laser cannons in them!"

"Enough," Coppélia interjects, as angry as she was when he had offended her this morning. Instantly, Veronika takes her hands off of Hanzo.

"What is the matter, charming doll?"

Coppélia points a finger, huffing, "Don't spread rumors about me, Veronika."

"Aw, listen, lovely," Veronika speaks downright condescendingly, "Do you not think it is only fair this man should know he is guarding a weapon?"

"Doesn't matter what I was built to be!" Coppélia really shouts this time. Lowering her tone, she says, "All that matters is what I choose to be now."

Veronika smirks, "How fitting it is that you choose to be the director's slave then. Maybe that's why she keeps you, huh? I haven't seen you do anything to earn your place here as a real dancer."

"I've heard enough from you," Coppélia replies bitterly, a break in her tone betraying her. Veronika's laugh sounds absolutely cruel at this point. The omnic dancer begins to turn away.

"If you've had enough, then by all means, quit!"

"As I've said before," Coppélia rejoins with a commanding patience to her voice, "I'll sooner die than resign from this company. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Coppélia bristles past her to dance at the bar once again, repeating a familiar pattern, where Hanzo recognizes a motion known as an arabesque. Veronika scoffs and dances in the middle of the floor, partnering with the slender young man from earlier. Eventually, Coppélia is satisfied with her practice, and leaves, leading Hanzo away with her.

When they are back in the apartment, Hanzo passes by the kitchen for a glass of water. He finds Coppélia there, busy chopping more fruit. Veronika's words resonate in his skull, a stark contrast to the gentle image in front of him. His voice tumbles out before he can stop it.

"Coppélia."

"Yes, Hanzo?" She does not turn to look at him, focused on the task at hand. He walks into the kitchen, stepping beside her.

"It has been a long day. You should rest." Coppélia pauses.

"While you are correct to suggest that, I am afraid I cannot leave this unfinished."

"I can take care of it then," Hanzo responds, carefully taking the knife from her. His heart clatters in his chest, keeping his eyes off her hands as much as possible. Coppélia stares at him in confusion and disbelief, running a body temperature scan. He urges, "You require rest in order to perform, otherwise you may collapse and possibly damage yourself. Think of this as a form of my service."

"Hanzo…"

"Go," he shoos, no longer facing her. "We will see each other in the morning."

After a long moment, she finally decides to leave. He does not miss her slight bow before she disappears from sight. He gives a sigh, as if that will stop his tired smile from trying to take shape.

As he looks down to the vibrant green pears on the cutting board, his frown easily returns. Echoes of Genji's scream ring in his skull, flooding his memory in red. When he looks to his hand, the knife blade reflects the face of a monster. The thought that he will never again see a human in his reflection terrifies him more than golden-glowing eyes ever will.

"All that matters," he murmurs to himself, "is what I choose to be now."

Though he doesn't quite believe the words, he is at least enough at peace to finish the task at hand.

Whatever semblance of pity he harbored now for the omnic mattered little to him. With time, it would all pass.

At the back of his mind, he'd already carved his own personal deadline, a timeframe to leave before the dogs of the Shimada-gumi picked back up on his scent. From all the cavalier alliances he had formed over the course of his runaway travels, he had learned to be prepared to flee any day without warning. Nursing a broken heart became no less difficult with each departure, but at least he knew what to expect and how to cope. This time would be no different. For now, he is content to watch the conditions surrounding him unfold. Hanzo observes his peers like a gargoyle: a stone sentry perched in place as the skies spin overhead.

Classes proceed with the same unfaltering sentiment of disdain and discomfort, enough so that whenever Giselle leaves the room, his vigilance heightens. Much like Veronika, it seems that most of if not all the dancers in the company prefer Coppélia gone. While he doesn't particularly care for her as anything other than a colleague, even he has the maturity to keep his mixed feelings towards omnics out of his work. The nasty looks some of them send her is enough to irritate him. As far as he knew, she has done no wrong by any of them.

In contrast, they seem to grow friendlier towards him with each passing class. He cannot bring himself to despise their banter and compliments. However, he keenly senses their ulterior motives to pit him against Coppélia as well. Hanzo is tired of participating in civil wars. He already has his hands full fighting with his own conflicted spirit.

One especially terrible evening, Genji's scream tears through his conscience like a vengeful blade. Tonight, even with his steadfast twisted sense of duty, he cannot bear to force himself through the torment of remembering the altercation. So Hanzo rises restless from bed, nearly tripping over what appears to be Giselle's old ballet shoes, to drag out his canteen and drown the wretched sound in alcohol.

The taste of whiskey brings the American southwest back to him, floods his senses with a desert sunset over a hotel balcony, the alcohol poured out between them as Hanzo confesses his regret, the listless strum of a guitar as wafts of cigarillo smoke melt into the darkening sky. The twang of his companion's voice wraps around him like a weathered scarlet serape, warm and comforting in its familiarity, like a blessing he sorely believes he does not deserve.

Shucks, just 'cause you made a mountain of a mess don't mean it can't ever be cleaned up.

Those words echo back to him, and he believes them even less than he believes Coppélia's claims. But he clings regardless, wishing to live in a way that can honor the traitor who saved his life, and in a way he hopes can honor the precious life he took. Ah, he hopes.

As expected, the ceiling starts swimming, a telltale sign he's had enough. Displeased by the thought of sitting hungover through tomorrow's work (or even worse, vomiting anytime soon), he stumbles out into the hall in search of water.

"Bas…tard… Jesse…"

That is how Giselle finds him in the kitchen at four AM, mumbling curses at a cowboy into a glass of water.

"Hanzo, what is the meaning of this?"

Hanzo turns his bleary gaze to her, unprepared for company, let alone the question. He quickly loosens his tense shoulders, letting them fall slack, before setting his glass aside. He averts his eyes, ashamed.

"I needed water," he admits, the lilted slur in his words less indicative of his state than the redness on his cheeks. She steps forward, arms crossed.

It comes out more like a fact than a question, "You're drunk."

"Yes…" Then he murmurs, "You talk… like Jiyeong."

At the smell of his breath, Giselle is taken aback, "Who?"

"She also… drank sometimes too," he rambles on, looking up at Giselle. He gulps the last of his water. "We lived together in Busan for some time. Months." His heart crumples in his chest, crestfallen, "I don't… know where she's now."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Giselle sighs, voice gentle as she walks over to him. "Now, that's enough." He is too lost in his empty glass, the clarity and cold, the opposite of the blurry bleeding memories pervading his mind. A glimpse of her stump brings a flicker of Jesse in and out of his consciousness. It doesn't help that Giselle continues to speak so much like Jiyeong, as if every trembling ember of his past is meant to scorch him in the present.

Tears prickle his eyes as he chokes out, "I missed… her wedding…"

"I said," She repeats, no longer tender, "that's enough. Do not say another word." He quiets, rubbing a fist over his eyes. Such sharpness reminds him of Jiyeong too. "Hanzo. Listen to me carefully. Never let me find you drunk like this again. Do you understand?" Slowly, he nods his head in affirmation, eyes welling again. Gentleness seeps back into her voice, "Good. Now please go back to bed."

Head down, he rises to his feet. It catches her off-guard as he moves to embrace her, before he walks away.

Coppélia watches over her bodyguard too.

Sliding slices of banana into a fruit container, she notices the way Hanzo fixes his eyes longingly upon his coffee in the morning, like it's his only friend, and Giselle's concerned glances across the table. He appears as much like drowned roadkill as the day he'd first been brought in, but Coppélia cannot bring herself to think any less of him. The steadiness in his hands as he presses his cup to his lips is almost graceful, and the way he places it empty back upon the table is precise, delicate. Her co-workers only treat her so gently when they lift her off the ground. She remembers nearly being dropped in class not too long ago, and blames it on the weight in her arms, though she does uncomfortably suspect other reasons for it.

"You require rest in order to perform, otherwise you may collapse and possibly damage yourself."

As she oils her joints on the floor, she keeps sight of his feet when she loses his face behind Rico's slender frame and Veronika's shoulders. From this angle, Hanzo's ankles seem so thin in comparison to the rest of his body. While they don't seem like they were exactly built to hold him up on his toes, she doesn't doubt that he could, given proper training. And Giselle spoke of him demonstrating remarkable balance and strength when she met him on a late trip to the gym. Curious, Coppélia can't help but wonder what Giselle saw. But Coppélia knows what she sees as she rises: an insincere smile despite smooth and easy talk, and eyes brightening visibly at the mention of the upcoming announcements after recent auditions.

There's something intriguing about drowned roadkill making himself at home amidst a flock of swans, so out of place but not minding how far he is from his heap nonetheless. It doesn't seem illogical to her to theorize that, perhaps, he may have been drawn towards this position partially because ballet appealed to him. She recalls the background check, and makes parallels between dance and defense, the patience and discipline that go into training, the way power and skills are honed to make difficult movement look effortless. She wants to know if Hanzo had ever considered dancing ballet.

So when they are the last two left behind in the studio that evening, she asks.

He cannot help the chuckle in his reply, "Well, your company certainly has taught me deeper appreciation for it. Why do you ask?"

"I was curious. You strike me as someone who could give a powerful performance, given practice."

"Hm. Perhaps… under different circumstances, I would have pursued this craft." He sounds wistful, "But even if I so desired, I believe I've already missed my chance to pursue it."

"Nonsense!" Her voice spikes in excitement, "It's never too late! I started when I was seventeen years old," leaping towards him, "and Xiuying joined us at nearly thirty after retiring from ice skating!" She thrusts her hand out eagerly, inviting him, "If you wanted, I could show you a basic lift or—"

Involuntarily, Hanzo braces rigid arms in front of him, shielding himself. His legs are set apart in a stiff stance, as if to keep from falling backwards. Coppélia freezes, and then drops her arm to her side, clutching it in embarrassment with the other. She looks away from him, and he lets down his arms as well, head reeling in waves of shame and anger.

He clears his throat, voice cool but tight, "I would rather not. Thank you." Silence fills the space between them as Coppélia retreats a few steps.

"I understand," she replies at last, nodding. Hanzo can't help but think she sounds hurt, but something about the statement ticks him off. What would an omnic understand about how he feels? She doesn't know the first thing about him, about everything he's been through. Nobody does.

They leave and lock up the studio hardly ten minutes later, Coppélia feeling guilty as she runs her scans again. His brain activity, atop the racing pulse and increased body heat, seems to circulate at concerning rates over an area involving memory. She doesn't desire to see what goes through his mind. Images of blood and flesh bits strewn over the streets already stain her memory. She does not wonder why he is afraid of her. But for just a moment… was it so wrong to have hoped that he would look at her as something other than a monster?

"Do you not think it is only fair this man should know he is guarding a weapon?"

She shakes her head of the thought as she unlocks the door to the apartment. Swaddled in a throw blanket, Giselle greets her with open arms from the sofa, inviting the two of them to watch a classic French film. From the music, Coppélia recognizes it as one of Giselle's favorites: the story of a lonely girl with a wide imagination. Hanzo declines to watch, treading silently back to his room. As he leaves, Giselle casts a sulking glance behind him, before moving her eyes back to Coppélia. She gestures to the open space beside her, not just an invitation but a welcoming. Her spirit swells with affection, something so tender she forgets about the algorithms and codes that cause her to doubt sentiments this strong. There is conscious free-thinking life stirring in her circuits, something inside her that wants. She feels. Giselle reassures her of that.

Coppélia nestles next to the human, very much at home. After plugging Coppélia into the nearby wall socket, Giselle shifts a leg to rest across the omnic's lap, emitting calm body heat unlike the kind Coppélia so regularly encounters in her scans. The pulse thrumming beneath the director's ribcage is heavy, but unhurried. It is a slight surprise when Giselle drapes an arm around her halfway through the film, watching as the young woman onscreen abandons her cake in-progress, rushing to the front door but not answering the knock. The man on the other side slides a note under it, promising to return. Giselle makes a small noise in the back of her throat.

"Are you alright like this?" Coppélia asks in a low tone, speaking the tongue most natural to Giselle.

"Yes," Giselle breathes out a whiff of alcohol that she thinks Coppélia can't detect, resting a cheek against the cool metal of her shoulder, "perfectly fine."

Someone I can always count on, Coppélia hums inside, leaning into Giselle as well. The empty glass of water on the ottoman goes forgotten as they slip into slumber.

The announcement for casting falls over the dancers in the company like a timed bomb: soft ticking, followed by an explosion.

Giselle gathers the dancers together for a shortened class in the studio, and then at the end, updates the announcement board by the door with a single tap and swipe. In her wake, the list appears, pinned to the screen. And as the door shuts behind her, the dancers flock to the scene, clamoring in a cacophony of languages.

Hanzo watches them from a distance, peering over his basic French vocabulary book. Coppélia lags behind him, not because she is slow, but for a sense of security. He glances over his shoulder.

"Do you not want to know which role you were assigned?"

She does not look at him, but her voice sounds stiff, "When they disperse, I shall go look. But if you are curious, you are free to go ahead and see the casting."

Hanzo is fine to settle on a vague nod, tempted and considering to go investigate, until Veronika comes sprinting towards them. Coppélia watches his grip on his book tighten, before placing a hand on his tense shoulder.

She whispers, as if trying to soothe, "Guard down, Hanzo."

Before he can retort or shake off her hand, Coppélia slips past him, taking a few steps towards Veronika. The larger dancer stops, gesturing to Coppélia, a beckoning hand.

"Omnic, come here." The words sound strange, no detectable aggression beneath them. And something about the lilt of her voice softens the omnic.

"I have a name, Veronika," Coppélia rejoins with no bite, drawing closer regardless. As they walk side by side, Veronika's open palm drifts to the middle of the other dancer's back, patting in a way that seems either heavily congratulatory or threatening. Hanzo rushes to Coppélia's side, catching up to them. The squint he sends to Veronika meets a familiar smolder, albeit somewhat dark. Veronika's eyes flicker down to Coppélia, who glances back to her in astonishment. This is the first time someone other than Giselle has touched her outside of practice.

Hanzo warns lowly, "Please, do not touch her." Veronika doesn't even look at him.

"Ahh, I don't know, Hanzo," She slinks an arm around the omnic, fingers spread over Coppélia's side. "I think you'll just need to get used to seeing my hands on her."

Coppélia can't help but ask, "What warrants this?"

"See for yourself," Veronika grins, pointing to the list.

COPPÉLIA CAST

Orlov, Eduard – Dr. Coppelius

Understudy: Xiuying Tan

Astrauskas, Veronika – Franz

Understudy: Rico Espinoza

Coppélia – Swanhilda

Understudy: Myrtle Lund

Instantly, Coppélia makes a beeping noise no one in the room has ever heard from her before, throwing Hanzo especially for a loop.

"S-Sorry!" Coppélia responds, tripping over her words, "That was a gasp-I-I just-I can't believe it!"

Veronika laughs, lightly shaking Coppélia, "Congratulations, Swanhilda!"

"What does that mean?" Hanzo asks, a demanding edge masking the surge of anxiety in him.

Rico sighs, "She's been cast for the lead role of the ballet." His shorter companion pops over to have her say, high Cockney accent blaring.

She accuses, "Outta favoritism!"

"No need to be bitter, Myrtle," Rico rebuffs, knuckling her head. "You're her understudy."

"Then I really hope you break a leg, Coppy-cat," She blows a kiss, as Rico drags his scrappy friend aside. Myrtle's underhanded threats go completely unnoticed by Coppélia under Veronika's excited chatter. The larger dancer has Coppélia laughing in a matter of minutes. It should soothe the bodyguard to see someone other than Giselle treat her well. However, the sight is the opposite of relaxing to Hanzo. This is Veronika. To witness her placing hands so freely upon an omnic she called a "weapon" is more than suspicious.

Coppélia thinks she knows better.

When Veronika placed a hand on her, the readings still registered as nervous: elevated heart rate and body temperature alongside stiffness in twitching muscles. And yet Veronika still went out of her way, despite her fear, to congratulate Coppélia on making the lead role. Now, to be treated by a dancer for the first time like another person instead of as a walking hazard lifts a weight in her she didn't know she'd been holding. Someone other than Giselle respects her, thinks well of her… will possibly come to consider her a friend given time. The idea makes her processors spin with giddiness and hope.

"In secret, I've always looked up to Veronika, actually. She is an excellent dancer," Coppélia prattles on as they drive home, "who pushed to be educated in both traditional male and female dance roles, as well as various contemporary techniques. If you've ever seen her with Myrtle or Xiuying, her lifts are effortless! She consistently demonstrates not only strength but control of her power. She's remarkable. It's almost a shame that she didn't make the role of Swanhilda herself. It will be an honor to work so closely with her." The little laugh Coppélia lets out somehow aches to Hanzo's ears. She sounds so trusting.

He almost feels bad for her. But every fool has to learn the hard way, he supposes. Still, some buried part of him hopes she won't have to.

Hanzo is not surprised but still disheartened see his suspicions proven correct.

The plot is clear as day, given her sneaky conversations with Rico and Myrtle. Veronika plays the card of keeping her enemy closest, hoping the omnic will not have enough time to fully recharge before the first performance. What's worse is that Coppélia adamantly refuses to acknowledge the reality of the situation, always in favor of defending Veronika. It is an interesting development from the squabble on his first day of work, but Hanzo can't say he's pleased by it.

Veronika holds out her arms to Coppélia, "One more time!"

"I think this is enough for today, Franz," Coppélia sighs, wobbling on her ankles as she stands with an arm against the wall. "My battery is running low."

"Nonsense! You can hold out! You are stronger than your battery!" Veronika demands, deceptively encouraging, "I believe in you, Swanhilda!"

It's a weak point, Hanzo muses, having seen this play out over countless classes. He wants to object despite his better instincts, but he has to remind himself not to get caught in the middle again. Cornered, Coppélia vulnerably agrees, heart soaring over the high of earning further trust from Veronika.

He blames her foolish sense of loyalty on all of the close contact. An arm slung over Coppélia's shoulders, around her waist or lower back, a hand tucked under the chin of an off-white faceplate all seem innocent and as normal as can be in a series of routines requiring such intimacy. The touches occur frequently, not just during classes and rehearsals, but also before and after. The young dancer talks of Veronika's hands affectionately, even joking that if she didn't know any better about professionalism, she'd say Veronika handles her like a lover.

But Hanzo observes something different. No, Veronika wields her hands like neatly-filed talons, possessive of the omnic in her grasp as if she will never get another chance to touch Coppélia again. There is a desperate urgency by which she calls Coppélia to dance with her, to stay a little longer after classes for partnered practice even as the omnic tries to make an excuse, so as not to exhaust Hanzo and upset Giselle for returning home so late. Veronika only ever laughs when Coppélia finds a way to refuse. Veronika always wins her over.

The pattern sickens him to no end, but all he can do is stand down, cringing inside all the while, watching Veronika take advantage of Coppélia's trust.

One evening, Hanzo can only take so much. Tired, he warns that he will leave her behind at the studio, to which Coppélia responds by dismissing him for the day. That same evening, he is in the kitchen drinking tea with Giselle when a panicked Veronika comes knocking at the door. An inanimate Coppélia lies limp in her arms. Once Giselle is able to get Coppélia plugged into the wall socket, she sits Veronika down next to the bleary dancer on the couch.

"If the two of you intend to turn this production of Coppélia into Giselle, I won't stand for it," Giselle lectures, crossing her arms. "We have two months until the premiere. Get your acts together or your roles are both going to Rico and Myrtle. Understand?"

"Yes, Ms. Sauveterre," Veronika hangs her head, remorseful now that her role is at stake.

"Yes, Giselle," Coppélia answers in time with Veronika, sincerely ashamed to have disappointed the director. She adds, "My apologies."

Turning to the weary omnic, she softens, "Apologize by resting. Now, that's enough." Hanzo reacts to the words with a twinge that doesn't show. When Giselle's eyes are upon him, he is asked to escort Veronika out to the nearest substation, which he does guardedly. But something presses him enough that he has to ask.

Hanzo mumbles, "Ms. Sauveterre said something about turning Coppélia into... herself. I do not know what that means."

"Ah, no, no. The two of them took their names from ballets," Veronika sighs, "Giselle is the name of a tragic ballet we may perform sometime in the future. She was referencing an act where characters were made to dance until they died of exhaustion."

"I see. What is the ballet Giselle about?" He asks as the substation comes into view. Veronika opens her mouth for a minute like she wants to explain, before giving a light shake of the head.

"You can ask the omnic," She waves, placing the lightest, fleeting touch on his shoulder as she starts to walk past him.

Almost instinctively, he retorts, "She has a name." Veronika pauses at this.

"Yeah. Ubiytsa," she scoffs, not looking behind her. "You are more than welcome to respect her. But do not tell me how I should feel about the damned thing." Before she can move away, Hanzo catches Veronika by the shoulder, turning the tables for once.

"Why do you harbor such disdain for your colleague?"

With this, Veronika sends a withering look to him, something angry but filled with pain and loss, a bitterness that doesn't have to be spoken for him to understand. She reminds him that the Crisis has claimed many lives. And with the change in his expression, she relents.

"Listen, Hanzo. I like you." She looks away, lowering her tone, "Don't make me change my mind, please."

He loses all interest in the answer and lets her on her way, watching her walk for only a brief moment before departing.

A/N:

Original characters introduced: Frauke, Giselle Sauveterre, Coppélia the omnic dancer, Veronika Astrauskas, Jiyeong (mentioned), Xiuying Tan (mentioned), Rico Espinoza, Myrtle Lund, Eduard Orlov (mentioned).

References: Pointe shoes are a kind of ballet shoe with a box inside that allows a trained dancer to appear as if they are standing on the very tips of their toes. The name of the film that Coppélia and Giselle were watching was the 2001 movie Amélie.

-Reddie