Chapter Text
When Hanzo first joined Overwatch, it was just as tumultuous as the world around him.
Experiences of each agent—clashing ideologies were a focal point that nearly every argument gravitated around, and tensions only mounted with the addition of world-famous ex-weightlifter, Aleksandra “Zarya” Zaryanova, and Vishkar architect, Satya Vaswani into their fold. (They are perfectly fine people on their own--barring their prejudices that make conversation outside of the simulations a bit terse--but it is not an issue Hanzo concerns himself with.)
The defunct Overwatch nearly crumbles on its own foundation before it’s even able to take off, the barrier of differing morals and methodologies is their greatest barrier to overcome. Fighting Talon is easy. Fighting for a cause as loose as ‘world peace’ is a fool’s errand made more complicated by the differing standpoints of each agent.
Hanzo understands this well, but needs no part of it, seeking refuge in either the highest elevation of the Watchpoint, the training rooms, or the cool and impartial cafeteria where the only judgment passed is from himself unto the limited food choices presented to him on the terminals. He found himself visiting the latter more often than he himself would have expected.
The cafeteria is a sanctuary where everyone is servant to the whims of their stomach, and he is no different. Here, no arguments take place, mouths stuffed full with food, and plenty of space for bickering agents to avoid each other. High domed ceiling like those in Western movies that his brother once fancied, and a sturdy pillar every few meters, and its ever present deacon presiding over them, the ‘Chef’ (named aptly so by the other Overwatch members).
He’s never exchanged any words with this ‘Chef’ who is never there at the service window long enough for him to do so, and he has no desire for idle chatter like the American cowboy or the chronically-challenged pilot, retreating into his familiar—but prickly—solitude once he has his meal. The food is filling and demands for seconds are made equally as delicious as the first without question. (His first meal here was undoubtedly Japanese–not quite the gourmet he once had as the master of the Shimada clan–-the miso soup too watery, and the rice not quite correct in texture, but he devoured it with gusto regardless, shamelessly ordering seconds and thirds.)
The cafeteria is convenient, although a bit restricting at times: off-menu requests were often left not honored, an issue that the abnormally intelligent gorilla—‘Winston,’ his memory supplies—explains is due to the lack of shipping routes to this area. Too dangerous, too conspicuous. Especially with the Royal Gibraltar Police around—it’s hard to say if they’d rat out Overwatch to the UN, but it’s a chance that Winston did not want to take.
However, restrictions aside, it is much better than those days he spent on the run, eating nothing but skewers of chicken or riceballs and, if he was feeling particularly luxurious, ramen. There is no shortage of seafood or rice dishes for some inexplicable reason. (It’s cheap and easy to obtain, he later finds out.)
This delights some members of the new Overwatch crew, and not so much the others, who seem to be more used to dishes of a different variety (or more variety, really), but the creative ways that fish can be prepared is something that Hanzo secretly delights in, even if he doesn’t always enjoy them.
(The seabass two nights ago, and the clams before that, and the bream before that contained far too much butter. And there always seems to be an abundance of bread–European bread with crust too hard and too dense for his liking.)
But what he wouldn’t give to have some actual meat in his diet. It seemed like an era ago since he’s had any. There was lamb during his second week here. That, too, was doused in butter and far too many herbs, but it was indeed delicious with none of the pungent gaminess that lamb is known for having. Each day, he peruses the digital menu, growing more and more disappointed with the lack of meat choices.
However, he’s quick to take notice of the extensive stock of tea that the Gibraltar kitchen has to offer him. There’s even a ‘no preference’ option which he has always skimmed over in favor of something more familiar: sencha, genmaicha, hojicha.
Even if he had no company he could truly call “friend” here in Overwatch, the cup of tea he usually has in his hands and the faceless chef behind the counter makes for a good filler.
But the solitude does not remain for long, especially after a few near-misses during the few missions he’s quickly volunteered for. Saving another person’s life and having your life saved in return always seems to have a strange way of bringing people together.
Admittedly, it was uncomfortable, but not displeasing.
More and more people find their way into his previous life of solitude, prying him out with different activities that barely give him the time to sink into the darker recesses of his mind. People slowly begin pulling his attention left and right for this reason or that.
Training with Genji.
A friendly rivalry with the cowboy, McCree.
A sort of mentorship with Hana.
An unexpected understanding with Roadhog (which spells very, very terrible things for the other junker).
Discussions on strategy and team composition with Soldier: 76.
He even partakes in Ana’s afternoon tea time at her behest. Not that he would ever refuse a woman who could knock his arrow out of the air with a single shot, and who is his senior in more ways than one.
Yes, his days slowly fill up with the company of those whom he could begin to call comrades.
Hanzo no longer needs to visit his previous haunts or hide from the loose companionship being offered to him.
However, his first sanctuary remains ever unchanging.
Even now at four in the morning after some harsh nightmare, he would be able to order some tea for himself–he’d normally go for sake, but his brother promptly tried smashing his bottle the first time around, so tea would have to do. And if he is lucky, sometimes it’s accompanied by an unsolicited sweet. (He was secretly delighted when he was gifted with anything containing chunky red bean—the sticky rice cake with red bean filling last week was divine, especially lightly fried on both sides and still hot from the pan—he came down every day after that for a taste, but was disappointed when his efforts went unrewarded.)
The lights of the cafeteria would be off, but not long after setting foot in the cavernous room would everything come to life—kitchen included.
He orders at the terminal as always and waits with his back against the wall, listening to the quiet clattering of the ever-working chef. You must be an omnic. Only omnics are awake at all hours. Or a service-bot. In all his time here, it’s never really occurred to him that you could be anything else.
It would take several minutes before a tray would be ready at the service window which spans the height of lower chest-to his hip with a partition splitting it horizontally. It is a wide window, meant for many dishes to be put out at once. It may have proved its use back in Overwatch’s heyday, but now, it now more of a fanciful decoration than anything else.
Like the many times before, the sound of a service bell–how old-fashioned–goes off, and his tray is there: iron pot with a handle-less teacup, an extra kettle thermos just in case he requires a second steeping. And like before, he does not dip his head to take a look at the one who has provided him such a service, but he does stand at the window for a moment, glowering at the lack of treat.
(He doesn’t dare complain because he knows it’s fruitless. He’s tried and was met with the pathetic echoes of his own voice.)
He takes a seat by the window, bathed in the silver moonlight and pours out the tea: a light green, almost yellow. The smell of wet grass is overwhelming. The correct amount of heat and tea leaves for a brew that slips down his throat easily, leaving none of that overwhelming bitterness on his tongue that usually accompanies a poorly made cup or poor quality leaves. The chef makes a nice brew.
He raises his cup briefly to the moon shining through the windows, to the chef, and to this sanctuary.