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Talon has called for reinforcements. Genji knows this, because he can see a drop ship looming in the distance, flood lights sweeping over the ground as it searches for a place to land. It’s larger than the one that flew in earlier, the one whose occupants are now all dead by Genji’s blade, or his hands, or in one case, the very brutal use of an empty gun barrel shoved into an Omnic’s central circuit board. Rage and recklessness and adrenaline pump fast and heavy through his veins, electricity firing rapidly through the wires of his synthetics as Genji gears up for another fight, rushing forward as the second ship nears the ground, ignoring the calls from his teammates to stay back and regroup.
The first of the Troopers are barely out of the bay doors when Genji reaches them, and they fall like dominoes under the swift cut of his blade, bodies piling into scrap heaps, wrecked metal and broken wires, synthetic fluids spilling like black and white blood over the ground. The booming clash of something heavy sounds somewhere to his left, and Genji whips around, blade ready to face what he assumes to be an Enforcer. Instead, he barely has time to catch sight of the telltale miniguns before a Heavy Assault Omnic rushes forward, and Genji, unaware of how bruised and battered and broken he has let himself become in this endless fight, cannot move in time.
In the distance, Genji hears his name being called. It sounds like Cadet Oxton, though over the screams of the reinforcements and the roar of the ship engine, he can’t be sure. Genji hunkers down, blade braced in front of him as the Heavy Assault charges; if he’s going to get pinned anyway, the least he can do is shove something sharp through the Omnic’s torso while it’s happening.
The sinister red of the Omnic’s face is only inches from his own angry crimson eyes when Genji catches a flash of blue at the corner of his vision, and suddenly he is not staring down the barrel of a minigun anymore. His frayed cybernetics barely manage to register pressure against his side, and when Genji looks, he sees a small blue cap fluttering away, caught in the air blasting from the ship’s engines.
“Cadet—”
The air around them glows bright red from the frantic flashing of his damaged biolights, but between their bodies it’s white and blue, Cadet Oxton’s chronoaccelerator emitting a strange, high-pitched sound that sends an unwelcome wave of nerves skittering along Genji’s spine. It lights up like a bomb as they crash into the ground, so bright it’s blinding, and even Genji’s cybernetic eyes can’t handle the light. They slip shut against his will, and Genji allows his body to roll over exactly once on the ground before he forces them open, leaping up and ready to reenter the fray despite the screaming protest of his limbs and organs, natural and artificial both, except—
The drop ship is gone.
Shades of orange, gold, and pink wash over the sky in the background, sunset and not the dead of night.
There are gulls calling in the distance, and the pleasant scent of sea salt hangs in the air, banishing the rancid odor of burning metal and synthetic oil from his nostrils.
Panic roils up in his chest, sharp and hot and aching as Genji whips around, attempting to get his bearings in this new place that is not the battlefield where he just was. The calm of it sets his whole being on edge, too quiet, too peaceful, too serene. Cadet Oxton is nowhere to be found, but when Genji makes a full turn, he finds himself confronted with what should be another familiar face—
Only it’s not quite right. It’s too old, the chin and jaw too hairy, the brown eyes too soft at the corners, not sharp and simmering with anger like Genji is used to seeing them. He’s fake—he must be. Genji can see no other explanation.
So he brings his blade up, and aims to drive it into the facsimile’s chest, right as it yells, “Oh for fuck’s sake,” and dodges, so he only catches the shoulder instead. Genji roars, moves to pull out so he can strike again, but when he tugs on his katana it doesn’t budge; the fake’s left hand is wrapped tightly around it, keeping it in place with the heavy, strong weight of a well-crafted cybernetic. Further proof that this man is not real, though he bleeds red like a human and not an Omnic, as Genji had assumed.
“Who are you?” Genji demands, still trying to pull his blade free. “Why have you taken McCree’s face? Where am I? What happened to the battlefield?”
The fake McCree grunts in pain. “Zenyatta!” he yells loudly to somewhere beyond Genji. “Little help please!”
“Do not ignore me,” Genji hisses, anger sparking in his veins, spreading like gasoline fire as he burns up from the inside out. “You will give me answers, or I will rip your—”
Something heavy hits the back of Genji’s head, and he drops to his knees, heavy with nausea, panic, dread. He gasps, turns to look behind him and catches a brief second of what looks like a volley of gold-tinged balls being lobbed at him by an Omnic monk in the distance—
The volley hits him square in the face, and the world goes dark.
Genji wakes in the familiar, if somewhat more bare than he’s used to, infirmary of Watchpoint: Gibraltar, to the site of a very haggard Dr. Ziegler and a rather sheepish looking Winston. He debriefs Genji while Dr. Ziegler attends to his injuries, muttering angrily under her breath all the while and glaring viciously at him if Genji so much as blinks the wrong way.
“You’ve been transported through time,” Winston explains. “The technology of Lena’s chronoaccelerator—it’s still very experimental and this is one of the… Let’s call it technical difficulties we’ve run into. She disappears for a short period of time, and someone else gets swapped with a past or future self. Usually it doesn’t last for more than a few days, and then you’ll be back in your own time once the chronal flow corrects itself. From what we can gather, you likely won’t even remember you were ever gone. I, uh, I could try and explain the particular of why it happens if you don’t believe me—”
“No need, Winston,” Genji says. “You’ve always been a reliable man. I trust what you’ve told me.”
Winston makes an odd noise somewhere between a snort and a nervous chuckle. “That’s uh. Well that’s very flattering Genji, thank you.”
Genji inclines his head in acknowledgement. “The man I attacked earlier,” he continues, turning to look at Dr. Ziegler. “He looked like Agent McCree.”
“It was McCree,” Dr. Ziegler snaps, somewhat wearily. “He’s a few rooms down getting patched up by Zenyatta and honestly Genji, you didn’t have to stab him.”
“I perceived a threat, and I dealt with it accordingly,” Genji counters. “He did not look like the McCree I know, therefore I assumed him to be a stranger. I did nothing wrong.”
“You don’t see anything wrong with stabbing someone,” Dr. Ziegler repeats flatly.
“No.”
“That’s—” Dr. Ziegler sighs; it rolls through her entire body, from her knees all the way up to where her shoulders slump from the force of it. “God help me I’d forgotten how callous you used to be,” she mutters. Genji frowns at this, not because it’s untrue but because the ‘used to’ seems to imply his future self is not as callous as himself and Genji finds that… odd.
“Perceived threat or not,” Dr. Ziegler continues, “the point remains that you stabbed McCree when he didn’t deserve it, and we would appreciate it if you showed at least some sort of remorse.”
“Remorse?” Genji scoffs. “What would you have me do, apologize to him?” The very idea makes him want to laugh and break something at the same time.
Winston clears his throat, adjusting his glasses awkwardly. “It was a bit of an overreaction, Genji,” he says, not quite meeting Genji’s narrowed gaze. “And the wound wasn’t pretty.”
One of Genji’s eyes twitches violently in irritation. He is not in the least bit sorry that he stabbed McCree, but both Dr. Ziegler and Winston are staring at him rather expectantly, and while Genji does not particularly want to apologize to McCree, he cannot deny a curiosity in seeing how a future McCree compares to the one Genji knows. Hairier, if the brief glimpse he caught holds true. And down at least one limb.
“Fine,” he spits out. “I suppose I could be convinced to apologize. Even though I did nothing wrong.”
Another heavy sigh rolls through Dr. Ziegler’s body, and she pinches the bridge of her nose in clear exasperation, muttering obscenities to herself under her breath as she sets about repairing the last of Genji’s injuries.
Genji finds McCree in a room similar to his own, seated shirtless on an exam table and encased in the warm glow of a biotic field pouring from an orb hovering around his head, the stab wound in his shoulder slowly stitching itself back together. Future McCree is indeed hairer, and to Genji’s minor distress, this is not a bad thing. He sports a full beard now instead of patchy sideburns and that godawful soul patch; it fills out his face better, softens the hard edge of his jaw and smooths the deep lines around his eyes and mouth, turning them into something more rugged instead of just weary and battleworn. He’s put on some weight, most noticeable in his belly rolls, but he wears it well, somehow looks healthier than he did with nothing but lean corded muscle.
“Well look what the cat dragged in,” McCree greets, and his grin reaches all the way to where the corners of his eyes crinkle in mirth, and Genji has to pause for a moment, because McCree looks genuinely happy to see him and Genji…
Genji isn’t really sure what to think about it.
“I have been informed by reliable sources that you are, in fact, the real Jesse McCree,” he says after a pause, leaning against the doorframe. “I am… sorry. For stabbing you.”
McCree laughs; it too sounds wholly genuine, and it stirs something odd in Genji’s chest, something strange and foreign that he doesn’t like one bit. “No you aren’t, you fucking liar,” he says, a broad grin spreading across his face. “You’re just here because Angie and Winston chewed you out about it.”
One’s of Genji’s eyes twitches, flaring an angry red; he dislikes how easily McCree saw through him, but he supposes even the McCree of Blackwatch would know enough about Genji to distrust anything resembling an apology. “Fine,” he concedes. “You’re right. I’m not sorry at all. And I don’t believe my response was unjustified; I did nothing wrong,” he adds, unable to resist the taunt.
But McCree’s grin doesn’t waver. “Course you didn’t,” he says lightly.
Genji blinks. “You… are not angry with me,” he states, because the easy smile still on McCree’s face cements his attitude as fact, not farce as Genji’s grown used to seeing on him.
“Naw. Why would I be angry?”
“I stabbed you.”
“Yeah. Yeah you did.” McCree chuckles. “But it was self-defense of sorts, ending up in a strange new place like you did. So I ain’t gonna hold it against you. Reckon I would have done the same thing myself. Except, y’know. With a bullet.”
He winks at Genji. Actually, truly, honest to God winks, and it makes the hair on Genji’s arm stand up, narrows his eyes and raises his hackles; if he still had a proper jaw, his teeth would be showing in challenge and anger. “You’re mocking me,” he hisses, shoulders tight, spine hunched, fingers twitching for a fight.
“Oh, not at all, darlin’,” McCree drawls, pleasant, friendly. It makes Genji want to strangle him. “Besides, it’s just a little stab wound. Ain’t nothin’ I haven’t dealt with before, especially from you. Remember that time we tried sparring and you knocked my whole jaw loose? Now that was something worth gettin’ angry about. This?” He gestures to his now mostly repaired shoulder, the very last of the skin knitting itself neatly back together. “This is just a scratch. So no hard feelings.”
He grins again, wide and bright like sunlight, like he and Genji are the best of friends just having a chit chat and not the bitter, angry, squadmates constantly at each other’s throats like Genji knows McCree in his own timeline. Genji hates it, hates the peculiar feeling sensation settling in his abdomen, the strange sensation skittering up his spine, the odd beat of his heart. Part of him wants to tackle McCree right here in the infirmary, wipe that stupid grin right off his face and teach him not to take Genji so lightly. But Dr. Ziegler is still only a few doors down, and Genji holds enough respect for her that he will not consider distributing her infirmary.
So instead he grabs an object from a nearby table and chucks it at McCree’s head before darting off. He hears McCree’s surprised yell echoing down the hallway, and it’s a familiar balm to his restless nerves.
Genji learns three things about the future very quickly.
One; Overwatch is gone. He hardly finds this surprising, given the current state of Overwatch in his own timeline, plagued by petty politics and darkened by the shadow of Blackwatch. The people here now consists of several old agents answering a recall initiated by Winston in response to the growing threat of Talon (also unsurprising, because Winston is a good man and good men will always been driven by hope of making the world a better place). The rag tag group currently occupies what used to be the Watchpoint: Gibraltar base, and while they are few in number, they’ve undeniably made it more of a home than Overwatch ever did.
Two; future Genji, for reasons current Genji cannot possibly fathom, responded to this recall. This had to be explained to him by McCree, then Dr. Ziegler, then Winston, then Lieutenant Wilhelm, then Chief Engineer Lindholm, and then several other people Genji doesn’t even know because he refused believe any of them. Genji’s only goal since being butchered by his brother has been revenge, and insofar as he can tell, he achieves it at some point between now and the place where he left. He only ever meant to use Overwatch as a means to an end, just as they intended to use him. How and why he might have been inspired to join a recall of something he never cared about baffles him, and when he asks, the answer brings more confusion than clarity, because—
Three; his future self is apparently a rather changed man, a concept Genji finds both unbelievable and infuriating. It’s McCree that breaks the news, after his brief explanation of events that will come to pass. Genji makes a snide comment about how his own future self could only be here to cause trouble, or possible assassinate someone; to his annoyance, and then horror, McCree lets out a full belly laugh and says, “Actually darlin’, you wanted to join this recall. Hell, you even convinced me to tag along. Had a damn good argument about how it’d be a chance to right some of the wrongs we made in Blackwatch. You’ve done a lot of good work since we got here, too. Saved a lot of people, spread a lot of hope.” He grins, an impish, wicked thing as he adds, “You oughta be right proud of yourself.”
Genji punches him, right in his stupid grinning face. Or at least he tries, but McCree ducks so that Genji’s fist only glances off his cheek, laughing as rolls across the ground to a safer distance. “Ask anybody!” he calls as he waltzes away. “They’ll all tell you it’s true!”
Only it can’t be true; Genji’s certain of it, and he’s determined to make McCree pay for his remarks later but right now, he wants confirmation that what McCree told him is a lie. So he stalks off to find Dr. Ziegler and demands to know why he was here, when Cadet Oxton’s chronoaccelerator malfunctioned, because surely he isn’t part of the recall.
“Oh but you are, Genji!” Dr. Ziegler answers with unmasked delight. “As a matter of fact you’ve been a central part of many of Winston’s efforts to establish our presence. It’s been so wonderful, to see you now after so many years away. You’re certainly not the same angry young man I used to yell at in my infirmary for wrecking himself nearly beyond repair after every single mission.”
Genji can’t bring himself to try and punch Dr. Ziegler, but he does knock over several things on his way out of her office in a blind and petty rage. McCree was one thing, but Dr. Ziegler? She wouldn’t lie to him, and that knowledge sits oddly in Genji’s chest, heavy but light, confined but free, twisting and turning unpleasantly but not.
So he finds Winston, and asks him the same question. “Oh yeah, you’re definitely part of the recall, Genji,” Winston answers, much to Genji’s distress. “In fact I think you were one of the first people that answered. I’ll admit I was uh, kind of surprised when you joined up, but having you on the team has been a real lifesaver! Yours and McCree’s old Blackwatch training and knowledge has come in very handy for a lot of things. And you don’t have to go skulking about in the shadows anymore, so it’s really better for everyone!”
Then Lieutenant Wilhelm. “Of course you’re a part of the team Genji!” he bellows, clapping Genji so hard on the back he knocks him over. “Your enthusiasm and drive are so inspiring to others, ha! It makes me feel young again, just looking at you! Good for the old bones, you know!”
Then Chief Engineer Lindholm. “Yes, you’re a part of the team. What kind of a stupid question is that?” Lindholm glares at him, as though Genji has just asked something exceptionally dumb. “You’re here, aren’t you? Maybe you should have Angela look at your circuitry again, seems like some wires aren’t firing as fast as they should be.”
Then Lindholm’s daughter. “Well yes, you’re a part of the team. Actually, you let me patch you up after missions sometimes, if Dr. Ziegler isn’t available. You say I have a more delicate touch than my father.” She laughs as she winks at him, and Genji kind of wants to throw himself off a cliff. “And you make for an excellent sparring partner! Keep me on my toes!”
Then the climate scientist. “You’re a wonderful teammate Genji! So resourceful, I don’t know that I could have saved half of what we did from Ecopoint: Antarctica without yours and McCree’s help. Going into all those dangerous spots to recover that old equipment; I can’t thank you enough, really!” She giggles as she walks away; Genji wonders if it’s possible to spontaneously combust from experiencing too many emotions at once.
Then the South Korean MEKA pilot. “Yeah of course you’re part of the team, ahjussi,” she says, snapping her bubblegum and utterly ignoring Genji’s angry sputtering at her moniker. “You helped me get settled in. Made it a lot easier for me to warm up to some people. Gotta say though, I’m glad you’re gonna ditch the red and black color scheme at some point; green looks way better on you.”
And finally, the strange Omnic monk Genji definitely hasn’t been avoiding for fear of knocked out cold again. “Ah,” the monk says when Genji demands his answer, absolutely seething from all the others. “You are confused by this, I see.”
“Just answer the question,” Genji snaps, frustration and fury threading into every syllable. Part of him almost hopes the monk will take the bait, start the fight Genji is just itching to have, but the monk only tilts his head slightly, passively set face unreadable.
“You are an integral part of this recall, Genji,” the monk says calmly, and Genji can’t stop the growls that bubbles up from the back of his throat, still unable to fully comprehend what he has been told time and time again. “Though I understand that as you are now, this must be a difficult concept for you to grasp.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Genji demands, fingers twitching, wrapping around the hilt of his katana for the comfort of its pressure against the sensors in his cybernetic limb. He sinks his legs into a battle stance, makes himself look as menacing as he possibly can, but the monk remains unfazed, floating serenely in midair, his strange golden orbs circling lazily around him.
“That you are angry and uncertain, and that the idea of stability is frightening to you,” the monk explains simply, and the noise that escapes Genji barely sounds human.
“Do not presume that you know me, Omnic,” Genji spits, blade coming free from its sheath, but before he can finish drawing it, the sensation of nausea, panic, dread consumes him, staggering him out of his stance, grip going loose around his blade. One of the monk’s orbs circles his head, much like it did to McCree in the infirmary, but instead of the warm golden glow of a biotic field, this one emits a cloud of something dark and unpleasant, has Genji’s blood running cold in what remains of his veins. And still the monk remains calm.
“I do not wish to fight you, Genji,” he says, tone even, almost soothing. “But I will not tolerate unnecessary violence in my presence.”
“You think you could fight me, Omnic?” Genji growls, even as he struggles to bring himself back into a proper stance.
A low chuckle leaves the monk, soft and undeniably smug. “I know I could fight you, Genji,” he answers, and the certainty in his tone leaves Genji unable to believe he might be lying.
Furious, Genji lets his katana fall back into its sheath. He’s sorely tempted to draw the monk into a fight anyway, just so he can release some of his pent up aggravation, but instinct tells he would lose, and badly. Suffering the humiliation of defeat on top of everything else he’s experienced today seems too much to bear, so instead Genji turns heel and storms off, anger and resentment and confusion brewing like a typhoon to the uncertain drumbeat of his heart.
He runs across McCree again on his aimlessly stalking, and corners him against a door, eager to try and draw him into a fight. “Why am I here?” he demands of McCree, voice echoing harshly in the quiet hallway. “I don’t care about Overwatch, I never have. You know this.”
McCree eyes Genji warily as he closes this space between them, but otherwise remains calm; it’s infuriating. “I do,” he concedes, which only fuels Genji’s rage.
“Then explain to me what I’m doing here!” he roars, cybernetic hand slamming into the door behind McCree; the metal groans loudly as it gives way, crumpling under the force of his blow. “What happened between my time and now that could possibly have convinced me to join this idiotic recall!”
He draws back enough to watch McCree’s face, pleased when his brows draw together, eyes narrowed just enough to be concerned by Genji’s actions, the most response Genji’s managed to draw out of him yet. “Well,” McCree says after several long moments, “I reckon it’s ‘cause you found a cause worth fighting for.”
“I had a cause worth fighting for,” Genji spits at him, relishing the way McCree’s shoulders tense, just a little. “Revenge, for what was done to me.”
McCree sighs, heavy and deep. “No, you were willing to destroy yourself for your revenge; and reckless abandon ain’t the same thing as fighting for a real cause.”
Genji yells, shoving his face so close to McCree’s his sensors register McCree’s breath against his faceplate. “What makes you think you know me well enough to make such a bold claim?” he sneers, voice low, threatening, ready to fight.
But McCree only sighs, soft and somewhat exasperated. “That ain’t comin’ from me, darlin’,” he says, cool, calm, easy. “That’s what you said when you convinced me to join you on this crazy venture.”
The words filter into his mind and settle there, shackles around his thoughts. For a moment, the roar of fury in Genji’s head is quiet, and everything is beautifully, blissfully clear.
And then it returns, Genji’s angry scream echoing between them, and McCree just barely manages to dodge the volley of blows Genji lands on the door before he flees the hallway, as far away from McCree as he can possibly get.
Genji spends the night wandering aimlessly around Watchpoint: Gibraltar, stewing in his anger as he denies his body any sort of rest. It does not like to pushed so, but with the help of his augmentations, it’s possible for him to go up to three days without sleep. Then he’ll collapse as his circuitry and synthetics give out, and Dr. Ziegler will yell at him again for being so reckless, but at this point, Genji can’t bring himself to care. He’s too wrapped up in his own head, fuming over the idea of his future self becoming a man Genji can’t begin to fathom. What he’s been told by the people here clashes badly with any thoughts Genji ever had about his future, if he had any at all. Most of the time, Genji doesn’t bother to think beyond exacting his sweet, bloody revenge; a large part of him is shocked to find out he’ll even still be alive.
Come morning, a buzz of activity erupts around the base. This new Overwatch is small but busy, and through snatches of conversation and Athena’s announcements Genji gathers that they have a whole slew of small missions planned for the day; Dr. Ziegler managed to get her hands on some more medical equipment, a contact of the MEKA pilot has some intel on the Omnium in South Korea, Winston needs someone to start tracking a lead on Talon activities in Brazil. He’s speaking with McCree about it when Genji passes above them, sneaking along the rafters in one of the old loading bays, catching snippets of conversation about intel and infiltration and waiting until the Genji of this timeline returns so he and McCree can go together.
McCree laughs at something Winston says, that full belly laugh Genji’s never heard from him until yesterday, and it grates on his nerves, ignites the anger bubbling at the base of his spin, kicks off an odd rhythm beating inside his chest. Genji has no shortage of rage to direct in any which way, but he thinks few things have infuriated him as much as this future McCree, easy going and lazy and—and—
(Happy, the very back of his mind whispers, and Genji shoves that thought down into the darkest parts of his head so it can’t resurface.)
He darts off again, prowling through the base until he comes across a long hall of doors he knows used to contain temporary bedrooms for visiting officials and officers to occupy. A few have been left ajar, and a quick peek inside one reveals they must now serve as sleeping quarters for the new occupants. A room decked out in pink and bunnies and cluttered with several video game consoles must belong to the MEKA pilot. An exceptionally bare room save for a few beautifully woven tapestries hung artfully from the ceiling probably belongs to the monk. One covered in posters from Overwatch’s glory days likely belongs to Lieutenant Wilhelm.
Then he reaches a room that seems bare at first glance, but looking into it has something odd prickling along the back of Genji’s neck, skittering down his spine. There’s familiarity here, a kind Genji can’t quite name but knows to be true, because his instincts don’t lie. Curious, he pushes open the door, and steps inside.
It’s clean save for a small pile of clothes near a dresser and few knick knacks scattered about. A poster for the 16-Bit Hero Arcade he frequented in his youth adorns one wall, and on a chair beneath it lies an old, well-worn tshirt; when Genji picks it up, he sees the logo for the Rikimaru Ramen Shop. In the far corner lies an assortment of equipment and weapons; Genji catches sight of a wakizashi with an oddly familiar handle design. Upon inspection, he finds it bears the symbol of the Shimada clan in gold at the base of the hilt.
This is his room, then. A now familiar burst of anger and confusion begins creeping up his back, but it’s tempered by his curiosity. His room in the Blackwatch barracks is utterly devoid of decoration, save for a few family trinkets he keeps locked far away from prying eyes; it seems his future self regained his taste for personal accents, though the room still seems oddly bare. The arcade poster is the only thing on the walls, save for a smaller poster on the opposite wall. It spots a picture of the Panorama Diner on Route 66, cheerful letters declaring it has the worst coffee in the US.
Genji blinks at the poster. He knows of Route 66, from the few tales McCree has told him about his years with the Deadlock Gang, but he’s never been there himself, and he can’t imagine why he might have a poster of a diner he doesn’t know hanging up in his room. He steps closer to it, as if proximity might offer enlightenment, but it reveals nothing further. Genji frowns; the poster tugs at something in the back of his head in a way he can’t quite describe, but he doesn’t like it one bit.
With a huff, Genji turns away from the wall and scans the room for other oddities. There’s a collection of things on the dresser, including a fan made of sparrow feathers and a mini hologram projector cycling through a rotation of pictures, but neither of those are so strange. He moves to the other side of the dresser, and there he freezes, in confusion, in anger, in what he refuses to acknowledge might be just a bit of horror.
There’s an article of clothing on this side, a dusty red thing with accents of yellow and orange. And when Genji picks it up and holds it out, one section has been stained with dried blood, right where a shoulder might have once been hidden underneath it.
McCree was wearing this when Genji stabbed him. And now it’s in Genji’s room. Genji’s room, with its oddly sparse decor and a poster of a diner he never knew but McCree did hanging on one wall.
Slowly, fingers trembling around the clothing he grips in his hands, Genji turns around.
He sees now that the equipment in the corner of his room has two unloaded guns—Genji has never used guns. One of the nightstands sports an old cigar box filled with trinkets, and an ashtray. There’s a blanket folded up at the end of the bed, and it looks exactly like one the McCree from his timeline keeps in his room.
The fabric he’s holding rips apart, torn from the sheer amount of force coursing into his fingers. Genji throws it to the side with an angry yell, whips around to storm out of the room and demand answers from McCree, but from the corner of one eye he catches sight of the picture emitting from the hologram projector, and it stops him dead in his tracks.
It’s an image of him. A close up. His face plate is off. And he is smiling.
For several long moments, Genji can only stare at the picture, of the casual image of himself, sporting his broken nose and mottled scar tissue and metal jaw for the entire world to see. But his eyes are bright, and the edges are crinkled in mirth, and he looks—
He looks—
The image changes. This time it’s a wide shot, a party of some sort, and he has a friendly arm swung as far as it can reach across Winston’s shoulders. He’s still smiling. Genji stares.
It changes again. This time a whole group of people are dancing, the image screaming of raucous laughter and fun. Lindholm’s daughter dips the MEKA pilot, McCree and Dr. Ziegler trot a completely incorrect tango, and he stands next to Tracer as both of them dance the Charleston. And still, he’s smiling. Genji remains frozen to the spot.
Another change, and this time it’s of him and McCree together on a couch. McCree’s utterly conked out, head drooping onto his arm, mouth open and drooling. And Genji—
Genji is pressed up against him, head resting lightly on McCree’s shoulder. An arm is slung over McCree’s lap, and when Genji looks closely, he can see that their fingers are laced together. He’s asleep too, and it looks restful, unburdened. Safe.
The scream of fury that rips itself from Genji’s throat doesn’t sound human.
He finds McCree in one of the training rooms, practicing shots with an electro-rifle. Genji refuses to give him the upper hand this time, darting forward and slamming McCree’s whole body into the ground before pressing his blade against McCree’s throat.
“What the hell,” McCree yells, and Genji presses down further, using all the artificial strength afforded to him by synthetic parts so he can keep McCree pinned.
“I have questions,” Genji hisses, low and deadly. “And you are going to give me answers, cowboy.”
McCree goes deathly still underneath him, brows pulled together in a narrow furrow as he finally regards with Genji with caution, a deep seated wariness that speaks to his many years as an agent of Blackwatch. “What kinda questions?” McCree asks, voice perfectly calm, absolutely neutral.
“This,” Genji snaps, and slams the hologram projector onto the ground near McCree’s head. The picture of them resting against each other in contentment flashes to life, the colors from the image bleeding onto McCree’s face, painting the rough lines of his face with a rainbow of light.
“What the—Where the hell did you get this?” McCree asks, notes of anger beginning to thread into his tone.
“My room,” Genji spits.
McCree snorts. “If you’ve been in the room darlin’ I reckon you don’t need to ask any questions,” he says, voice rough and clipped, the way it gets sometimes when McCree tries to play tough. But Genji doesn’t yield, presses even harder against McCree, his blade pushing dangerously against the skin at McCree’s throat.
“You do not want to test my patience right now,” he threatens, and McCree goes still underneath him once more. For a long moment he simply glares up at Genji, clearly weighing his odds on taking Genji in a fight, but eventually he lets out a heavy sigh, and it sounds like defeat.
“You ain’t gonna like the answer,” he warns, tone low but softer, somehow. Kinder. It sounds just a little like pity, and Genji despises it.
“Tell me anyway,” Genji demands.
McCree sighs again. “Fine,” he says. “What do you want to know?”
And that—
That catches Genji off-guard, leaves him blinking and dumbfounded and makes him ease up on McCree’s body and throat, just a little. He watches McCree’s face, sees him notice Genji’s ebbing threat, but McCree doesn’t move. He watches Genji right back, and waits as Genji debates his answer.
“What are we?” he finally asks.
It’s a rather simple question, could have a hundred different answers, none of which Genji is particularly eager to hear, but it’s what he wants to understand the most. How did they go from the angry bitter agents of Blackwatch who wanted to kill each other more days than not, to sharing a bedroom, and being comfortable enough to let their guards down.
(When will he ever be comfortable enough again to let his guard down, Genji wonders. In this moment, it seems unfathomable.)
“You and me?” McCree says. “Honestly, we don’t got a name for it. Never saw the need for one, neither did you. It just is what it is.”
“And how did it happen?” Genji presses, because he needs to know this too. The McCree he knows is a talented agent, and passable handsome, if he squints; in the days before his betrayal Genji might even have considered having fun with him for a night, but they are not friends. They do not share secrets. They aren’t intimate.
McCree’s brows draw further together, the deep lines of his face creasing in thought. “I don’t know,” he answer after a long while, and from somewhere in the back of his throat, Genji lets out a low growl.
“That’s not an answer,” he spits, pressing harder against McCree’s throat, hard enough to draw a thin red line into his skin, and McCree’s calm facade cracks. Before Genji can even blink his metal arm comes up, driving into the elbow joint of his cybernetic limb; something inside goes haywire, and for a split second, Genji loses control of his hand. It’s just enough time for McCree to wrench the blade out of his fingers and throw it across the floor. Genji yells, moving to dash after it, but doing so shifts his leverage too much and McCree throws an arm around his waist and rolls, using his bulk to pin Genji the same way Genji pinned him, his metal hand pressing dangerously tight against the weak spots on Genji’s neck, where there isn’t enough armor to truly protect him.
“Look jackass, that’s the honest to God truth of it, and you can threaten me all you like but it ain’t gonna change my answer,” he snaps, holding steady even as Genji begins to thrash underneath him. “I ask myself the same question every goddamn day and hell if I’ve managed to figure it out. Maybe it’s ‘cause we’re both old worn-out soldiers, or maybe ‘cause we know what it’s like to be betrayed by the people you trust most, or maybe it’s ‘cause we both felt like we were monsters made for nothin’ but killing. Maybe it’s all that, or maybe it’s somethin’ else. I don’t know, okay? But it happened. It’s gonna happen to you, someday, and you’re just gonna have to accept that.”
“I will never—” Genji begins, but McCree slams his real fist into the ground next to Genji’s head, startles him just enough to make him stop talking.
“Here’s what I do know,” McCree continues, glaring furiously down at him. “I know that being around you—being with you—the world don’t seem quite so lonely. When we’re together, I don’t feel like I need to watch my back quite so much, because I got someone to watch it for me. I like that. I ain’t used to it, but it’s a good feeling.”
He pauses just long enough to take a deep inhale, and when he lets it out, McCree’s eyes shine bright with something far too sincere, far too real for Genji’s liking. “You make me happy,” McCree says, voice low and soft now, speaking something only meant for their ears. “And there ain’t much left these days that does that, so I don’t intend to question it.”
The hand around Genji’s throat leaves, and McCree shifts his weight; it would be the perfect opportunity for retaliation, if Genji could force himself to move. But the weight of McCree’s words floods him, sinks down deep in to his veins and heart, keeps him pinned in place from nothing but the sheer force of truth.
“And what about me?” Genji asks, when he can finally get the words out of his throat. “What do I get out of this… arrangement?”
“You get the same damn thing I do,” McCree snorts. “This ain’t a one way street, darlin’.”
An odd noise bubbles up from the pits of his stomach, caught somewhere between a scream and a sob. “I don’t believe you,” he snaps, even though his instinct tell him it must be true.
(But it can’t, it can’t be true, because if it’s true that means—)
“You mean you don’t want to believe me, ‘cause you’re all wrapped up inside that angry head of yours, thinkin’ once you get your revenge on the Shimadas that’ll be the end of it, and you can just destroy yourself,” McCree answers. “But guess what, asshole; here, in the future? You’re happy, Genji. You finally found some peace.”
(—it means there’s a future, beyond this, beyond Blackwatch. He will survive, somehow, in this body that makes a mockery of man and machine, and somehow, it will all be okay.)
Somewhere, deep inside the back of his mind, his body, his heart, something breaks. Snaps clean in two, and Genji can’t hold himself back anymore. There’s too many emotions running through him, too many feelings and thoughts and he can’t process them all, can’t comprehend this idea that someday, the anger and bitterness that fuels him will all be gone. He surges up with a roar, shoving his knees into McCree’s back to knock him off kilter. McCree yells, tries to pin him back down, but Genji throws him off, slams his head into the ground, drawing blood from his nose. A leg knocks him off balance, long enough for McCree to get away, but Peacekeeper is back by where he dropped the eletro-rifle earlier, and Genji’s katana is closer.
He grabs it off the ground and dashes forward, ignoring finesse in favor of sheer brute force, draws his blade back and up and rushes at McCree with all the strength he can muster. They crash together with a spectacular noise, and Genji yells in victory as he feels his blade sinking into flesh, and then—
A bright flash, blue and white.
Three bodies, cascading the floor in a howl of noise.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jesse howls, as he lands on his back, Genji’s blade sunk deep into his shoulder again.
“Sorry! Sorry, McCree, so sorry, I just—Oh my God, Genji you stabbed him!” Tracer yelps as she sits up.
“I did?” Genji says, pushing himself to his knees, green biolights blinking rapidly as his sensors attempt to reorient themselves. It takes a moment for his vision to clear the static, but the scene that greets him when it does makes him wince. “Ah. So I did.”
From his spot on the floor, Jesse just lets out a long, drawn out groan.
“Bloody Hell, that doesn’t look. God, Genji, I can’t believe you! Stabbing your own—well, whatever you guys are. Hold on, McCree, I’m gonna go get Angela, be right back, okay? Just sit tight!”
Tracer’s dashing off before either of them can protest. Genji simply blinks after her for a moment before he makes his way over to Jesse, gathering together the ends of his serape and pressing them firmly against the wound, trying to stem the bleeding. “Do you want me to remove it?” he asks Jesse.
Jesse groans. “No,” he says. “Angela’ll be here any second, just leave it. S’not so bad the second time anyway.”
“Second time?”
“Yeah jackass, you stabbed me yesterday too. In the same goddamn spot.” Jesse glares up at him, the deep lines of his face crinkled in anger.
Genji tilts his head to one side in question. “What did you do to warrant me stabbing you twice in such a short period?” he asks.
“Nothing!” Jesse protests. “First time was ‘cause your past self got all riled up finding himself in a different place, and I let it slide, but this?” He raises the arm opposite his injured shoulder to gesture at it. “It’s cause you found out we got something going on and you were paused. Totally unjustified.”
“Ah.” Genji bows his head, somewhat sheepishly. “That does sound like something I might have done, once,” he admits. “But I’m sure you did something to set me off too. You were always very good at that.”
“I didn’t do anything to you,” Jesse grumbles, and Genji simply stares down at him with eerie stillness until finally he adds, “Alright, we got into a little tussle. But you started it.”
“Mmm, so the truth comes out now.”
“Oh, shut up.” Jesse glares at him, but effect is dampened by the glassy sheen of suppressed pain, and a soft sort of fondness at the corners as the worst of Jesse’s anger begins to fade. “You were a real piece of work back in Blackwatch, you know that? Can’t believe I had to put up with that bullshit again.”
Genji snorts softly. “I have no sympathy for you,” he says dryly. “You know who I had to deal with for the past twenty-four hours? You in Blackwatch, plus Reyes and O’Deorain. Before the fall, I might add.”
Jesse grimaces. “Ugh. Alright fine, you’re right; that is worse.” He sighs, wincing sharply as the movement jostles his shoulder; Genji presses down harder, so it won’t happen again.
“Keep still,” he says. “Angela will be here soon.”
She arrives not two minutes later, frazzled and exasperated at McCree’s new injury but happy to at least see Genji back in his proper place. Once the blade is free and Jesse’s shoulder is healed enough to be moved, Genji picks him up and carries him carefully to the infirmary, where Angela sets up a gurney for him, and a biotic field. “He’ll have to be here for a little while,” she tells Genji. “I want to keep the dose as low as I can or he’ll risk overdosing. Can you stay with him to make sure he’s healing properly?”
“I don’t know; does he want me staying with him?” Genji asks, turning to look at where Jesse rests on the gurney.
“You gonna stab me again?” Jesse asks, and Genji chuckles.
“Only if you deserve it,” he answers. Jesse flips him off.
He ends up taking a post by Jesse’s bedside, even though it’s not strictly necessary; Jesse has enough experience with healing wounds to know when a biotic field isn’t work right, could easily call for Angela if he needed to. Jesse points this out to him, and Genji just shrugs.
“I have nothing else to do,” he says. “And Winston says my body will need to rest after being knocked out of time.”
“Long as you don’t mind stickin’ around,” Jesse says.
“I don’t.”
Jesse squints at him, holds his gaze for a long moment before falling back to the gurney with a low laugh, rising up from deep within his belly. “What?” Genji asks.
“Nothin’,” Jesse answers. “Just missed you, that’s all.”
Genji cocks his head to one side. “I was gone for barely more than a day,” he says.
“Yeah, well, you know me, darlin’.” Jesse grins at him, tired and a little pained, but still wide and bright, soft at the edges like a setting sun. “I’m just a sentimental old fool.”
“Yes, you are,” Genji agrees, and behind his faceplate hides a smile. He reaches for Jesse’s hand, laces their fingers, flesh and carbon fiber slotting seamlessly together.
“But, you know—maybe I missed you too.”