Chapter Text
Hanzo had often found himself taking occasional odd jobs throughout his travels, but this one. This one was a first.
The task was certainly a problem that only the denizens of the wild American Southwest could have. The archer had heard tell of “one big brute of a coyote” from a few drunks at his last rest stop, holed up in the hills edging along the other side the valley. Apparently the beast had made a habit of sneaking down into the nearby communities to steal food, one time breaking the lock on a restaurant back door. The locals wanted it eliminated.
A strange circumstance, but one simple enough. It promised enough pay to cover lodging for the rest of his way to Canada. Hanzo would have been a fool not to investigate further.
The orange evening sun was already mingling with the horizon by the time the archer had reached his destination. It was a dusty old town, hardly big enough to merit a spot on the map. As he made his way down the crack-littered sidewalk, Hanzo made note of the small businesses he passed: barber shop, general store, bar (he would visit that later), souvenir shop, bank, firearms dealer, and a 2-star motel with a single fuel pump at the end of the block. Almost like one of those “boom-towns” he had read about in his studies.
He strode inside the final building and paid for his room. It was a dirty little hole in the wall, stained yellow bedsheets and a cockroach on his pillow instead of a mint. Hanzo placed the case housing Storm Bow by the nightstand and heaved his other duffel bag off of his shoulder onto the floor. As he began to unpack, he heard a sharp whistle behind him, feigning enthusiasm.
“Boy, this place sure is something else, eh brother?” Genji quipped. Hanzo ignored him as he continued to sort his belongings. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the form of his young sibling leap and land back against the room’s second bed, pale hands tucked playfully behind his green hair. “Sure makes you miss those rock-hard floor mats back home.”
“Hanamura is not my home.”
Hanzo laid what he needed out before him and toed the duffel bag under the bed with his foot. Genji gave a chuckle, then his image blurred and shifted so that he was laying on his stomach facing his brother, gloved hands tucked under his chin as he kicked his feet in the air like a schoolgirl.
“Well, it was your home,” Genji dropped his arms to lazily hang them over the bed, revealing the splatter of blood that stained his white gi. “You know, before you killed me.”
Wordlessly Hanzo turned and strode to the bathroom with a few utilities. After some grooming, the elder brother changed out of his kyudo-gi into more casual attire. A plain white undershirt, navy blue hoodie and some long pants to hide his prosthetics. Nothing that would draw attention to himself. The archer passed by his brother again as he left the room. The young man was leaning back against the headboard of the second bed, deeply engrossed in some American comic book.
Hanzo needed a drink.
It was already dark when he left the motel and started to walk towards the old saloon he had passed on the way into town. The main room’s lights were dim; Tom Jones blared on the jukebox. A few other patrons sat mismatched about the room, all gazing down into either their liquor or their phones. Hanzo moved to sit at an empty stool at the main bar, slipped a few American bills over the counter, and placed an order for a tequila. The greasy barkeep eyed him a moment before taking the cash and turning to prepare his drink.
Hanzo’s gaze fell down upon the wooden counter as the gears in his mind began to turn. A coyote should be no different than the wolves he once hunted in the foothills with his father. But tracking a coyote wasn’t the problem, finding the right one was. Most of the eyewitness reports described in the newspaper claimed that it was unusually large. That could be one way to distinguish it. As for execution, Storm Bow would easily be enough to bring the creature down. One well-placed arrow through the neck would be enough to fell any beast. If it was a matter of speed or stealth, the firearms dealer down the street may have some traps-
His thoughts were interrupted when the front door loudly creaked back open. The archer heard the jingle of spurred boots meander toward him before a man sat himself on the stool directly to his right.
“Howdy there, Francis. Fix me up a nice Moonshine on the rocks if ya’d be so kind. Just add it to my tab.”
The stranger spoke with a honeyed Southern drawl; Hanzo figured him to be a local. Francis the barkeep slid Hanzo his shot of tequila before silently turning to fetch the other drink. The archer quickly downed his glass, savored the way it burned down his throat, and ordered a second before returning to his musings. Now then, the traps-
“New in town, aren’t ya, pal?” the stranger asked. The man allowed his elbow to slide down the bar so he could lean closer to his neighbor (not to mention invade his personal space). Hanzo silently exhaled through his nose before casting the man beside him a studious glance. For the first time he saw that the stranger had sun-tanned skin and a mess of scraggly chestnut hair, pressed down and into his face by a ridiculous cowboy hat. He flashed the archer a bearded grin and tapped at his temple with the silver forefinger of his metal prosthetic, waiting for a reply. He had a grease stain just below the collar of his white button-up shirt. Hanzo wondered if he even knew it was there.
“I am just passing through.” He answered after a moment, satisfied with his answer. His neighbor, however, was not so easily silenced.
“You and me both, partner,” the cowboy said with a hint of a chuckle. Francis came back and handed both men their drinks. Hanzo’s neighbor grabbed his and began to absently swirl the glass in his robotic hand. He continued on with his blabbing, not missing a beat.
“Name’s McCree, though my friends call me Jesse.” He introduced himself. “Mind if I ask yers?”
Hanzo downed his second shot and ordered a third, a light buzz beginning to creep into the back of his mind. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve before eyeing the man beside him again.
“My name is of no importance.”
“Aww c’mon, partner, I gave ya mine. It’s only fair that you tell me yours,” McCree smirked again and clapped the man beside him on the shoulder with his free hand. Hanzo jerked forward with the unsuspected force of it, his irritation rising. “That is, unless ya want me to start guessin’.”
“Hanzo,” the archer surrendered. He hesitated a moment, deliberating if he dare to speak his family name. “Shimada.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet ya, Mr. Shimada sir.” The stranger McCree paused to nurse at his drink. “Funny, I woulda pinned you as Mr. Arigato.”
The man laughed at his own joke, brassy and full-force. Hanzo’s fingers fidgeted with his empty shot glass.
“Yes, how humorous,” he dead-panned.
“C’mon Shimada, you should learn to lighten up a bit.” McCree playfully elbowed the other man and turned to his drink again. “We’re at a bar, after all. Life’s no fun when your sun don’t shine.”
“I am here on business.” Hanzo decided to use this blabbermouth to his advantage. “I am investigating a rather unique coyote problem. Would you happen to know of it?”
It was subtle, but Hanzo noticed it; the other man seemed to flinch at the question. His metal fingers tightened around his glass of moonshine, causing the half-melted ice to clink together. Then half a second later he rebounded, all smiles and charm once again.
“Why, can’t say I do. I’m only passing through, like I said before. Stayin’ at that cheap lil’ motel down the street. Didn’t even know them ky-otes were a problem this time of year.”
“There have been numerous newspaper articles about one in particular. Surely you must have heard something,” The archer pressed. McCree used his thumb to press his hat back and scratched at his hairline. There it was again, that tell-tale finger twitch.
“Don’t read much,” the cowboy said with a shrug.
It was then that Hanzo noticed something about him that he hadn’t before: his eyes were gold. No, not gold exactly; a twinge of yellow swept up in a swirl of chocolate brown. McCree looked up, and the gold flashed with light caught from the bar. The eyes seized the archer's gaze, a deer in headlights, then the yellow shine melted away and Jesse was calm. Hanzo pursed his lips and drank his third shot when it finally arrived, dismissing it as a trick of the poor lighting, nothing more.
“That is…disappointing.”
McCree tossed back the rest of his drink and swallowed the remaining contents in a single gulp. With a satisfied breath afterward, he stood and reached for a tattered swath of red fabric on the empty seat to his right. He flung it over his head and onto his shoulders, revealing it to be a dusty wool serape.
“Sorry I’m no help to ya, Mr. Shimada, but I have somethin’ to check on back in my room. Was nice meetin’ ya, though. I’ll treat you to a drink next time, how’s that?”
“That is very kind of you, Mr. McCree.” Hanzo replied.
“Ah shoot, you can just call me Jesse! We’s drinking pals now, after all.”
The cowboy gave his neighbor one last tip of his hat before turning away, whistling off-key to the tune of Tom Jones still looping on the jukebox. Hanzo listened as the spurs died away, letting out a sigh when the front door finally closed.
“Chatty fellow. I like him, though. Sense of humor, unlike someone I know.” Genji chuckled into the back of his hand from the seat to Hanzo’s left.
“You would like the loud ones.” Hanzo muttered in reply. Genji’s laugh echoed in his ears as he stood and paid the rest of his tab. The archer kept his head down, bitterness and caution both guiding his feet back towards the motel to sleep off his inevitable hangover. He prayed that his brother would let him rest.
When the door behind the archer clicked closed, a silent patron sitting near the window remained fixated on the exit long after the two men had left. Once satisfied they would not return, he rolled up his sleeve and typed in a command on the device strapped to his forearm. After a few seconds, the small communicator chirped; blue formation authorized written in Japanese kanji had popped up on the main screen. The man stood and quietly slipped back out the door.
Target found.