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They keep Mizuki Kawano locked in a windowless bedroom. It’s not protocol, but they don’t exactly have a cell to keep him in, and they keep it strictly monitored. Some of the kids – Wuyang, mostly, and Brigitte, two of Overwatch’s greatest well-meaning meddlers – they try to sneak in and get a sense of where he’s at, but Sojourn doesn’t trust Mizuki not to trick them the way he tricked the Yokai. A Talon agent is always a Talon agent, she said. (Baptiste tried not to let that get to him.)
That’s where Baptiste comes in. Old enough to have been around the block, well-versed in Talon’s tricks. Whether this Mizuki is really a devil intending to betray them, like their new friend Hanzo says, or if he’s a misunderstood boy who helped them in the end, like their new friend Kiriko says – good ol’ Baptiste will sniff it out.
Baptiste nods at Genji – the current guard outside Mizuki’s room – before pushing the door open. The inside is a pretty standard-fare bedroom: bed, desk, chair, empty shelf. One of the younger members must have snuck some books in, because Mizuki’s splayed on the bed, reading Percy Jackson, so entranced he doesn’t even notice the door open.
Baptiste clears his throat. Mizuki’s eyes snap up. He closes the book with one hand, sets it to the side, and says in a long drawl, “You here to sentence me?”
Baptiste tips his head in acknowledgement. “Something like that. Call me Baptiste.” He walks over, extends his hand in a quick motion, and –
Mizuki flinches.
And that’s all it takes. Baptiste knows. This isn’t some cold-hearted Hashimoto goon intent on crumbling Overwatch from the inside out. This is a 22-year-old more used to being slapped than having his hand shaken. Sure, he’s been with the Hashimoto for who knows how long, and done all sorts of crimes besides. This kid’s got blood on his hands. But -
Baptiste thinks of himself, 22.
“On God,” Baptiste says, “we’re turning you good, kid.”
“What?” Mizuki says, bewildered, but Baptiste is already dragging the room’s singular chair from the corner over to the bedside. “Hey, old man – “
“I’m not that old.”
“Look old to me.”
A soft thump as Baptiste sits down. “I’m told I’ve aged well. Even your friend Hanzo called me attractive.”
There it is again – that minute flinch at Hanzo’s name. “I don’t know that he’d call me friend, exactly,” Mizuki says. He’s gazing indifferently towards the wall, but Baptiste knows these tells. He sees them in the mirror all the time. “Ossan isn’t exactly forgiving.”
Baptiste has to try not to snort at that. From what Genji and Cassidy have told him, Hanzo doesn’t really have room to be unforgiving himself. That’s not his story to tell, though, so he pushes past it. “And Kiriko? Do you think she considers you a friend?” Mizuki shifts, but says nothing. “Ah. Guilty feelings, eh?”
“Shut up,” Mizuki snaps.
“You came through for her in the end,” Baptiste reminds him.
Mizuki turns from the wall to stare at him. His hat’s been set aside the whole conversation, and without it, the furrowed brows on his face are clear. “What is this, a therapy session? Get to the point.”
“How long have you been working with the Hashimoto?”
Mizuki pauses for a second. “…twelve…thirteen years? Thirteen.”
Thirteen years for a 22-year-old. “So when you were…” Jesus. “When you were nine?”
“I owed them a debt. They took me in.” Mizuki stares evenly, like that’s just how it is.
Christ. Nine years old. Even Baptiste was at least a teenager.
“Tell me about this debt,” Baptiste says.
Mizuki pauses. The story comes out slow – his mother, his father. The “curse.” Once he brings up the curse, he doesn’t seem physically able to stop talking about it, wringing his hands and fiddling with the good luck charm one of the kids must have snuck him.
Then there’s everything about Shion. The training, the abuse, losing his arm. It’s just one horrifying thing after the next, and it all matches up with what the weaponsmith, Toshiro, told them about Mizuki before they left Japan – even the fact that he tries to see the good in Shion, after all she’s done to all of them; that he tries to defend, even now, that at times, she “truly cared for him.” Baptiste feels sick.
It’s like looking in a mirror. Like seeing himself, working under Mauga (though not to the same extent, and not in the same way – Shion probably doesn’t even have the desires Baptiste and Mauga explored together, and if she were taking them out on a 9-year-old, Baptiste would really have to kill her). Just a kid looking for purchase in a world that’s tossed them away.
Fuck, Baptiste thinks. It adequately sums up the situation.
Would Sojourn want a second opinion if she knew Baptiste’s true past? Would she trust that he isn’t compromised by guilt and this walking tragedy he’s been faced with? Maybe. Maybe not. He’ll have to talk to Cassidy about it, first. But Baptiste wants to do right by this kid. He has to do right by this kid.
Mizuki slows to a warbling stop, and when he does, Baptiste can see that he’s started fiddling with something in his pocket. At Baptiste’s questioning look, Mizuki guiltily pulls out a small paper doll. “Katashiro dolls,” he explains, gesturing to where his pocket bulges slightly. “You transfer your curses to them. Your boss said I could keep it, since it’s just paper.”
“Sure,” Baptiste says. Okay, so the kid is also a little off his rocker with the curse thing. But isn’t that just what Overwatch needs? Maybe?
He’ll work on that pitch.
“Well, I’ve got what I need,” Baptiste says, stretching as he stands. “Anything we can do to make your stay here more comfortable?”
There is a long quiet before Mizuki says, barely a whisper: “Don’t let anyone else know, but tell Wuyang the book is good.”
Baptiste claps him on the shoulder. Mizuki looks up with wide eyes at the motion, but Baptiste has already moved on to cracking his neck. “We’ll get you more books,” he promises. He gets a sense Mizuki didn’t get a lot of light reading as a kid. “Adieu, my friend.”
“Uh, yeah.”
The door closes softly behind Baptiste, leaving just him and Genji, the silent sentry, in the hallway. After a moment, Baptiste levels with him. “I know your cyborg senses picked up on that conversation,” he says after a moment.
Genji nods. It’s hard to get a read on Genji without him talking, and he’s staying quiet on purpose now. It’s thanks to Mizuki, of course, that Genji is safe now – but it’s also Mizuki who’s the living weapon of his worst nemesis. It could go either way.
Baptiste sighs and runs a hand over his hair. “Nine years old,” he finally says. “That’s too young.”
“That is how the clans operate. I was even younger.”
But oho – now that Genji’s speaking, Baptiste can hear the sympathy laced through his voice. “You think so?” Baptiste prods, just a little further. “Well, he’s certainly got a long history with weapons. Maybe we should tighten security, just in case.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Genji says, a little too quickly. “I can handle it.”
Baptiste tries not to smile. Got at least one on his side. “Sure,” he says. “I’m heading to report to the boss then.”
Genji nods. Baptiste pretends, as he’s leaving, that he doesn’t see Genji quickly ducking into the room to have his own conversation with Mizuki. Hopefully that’s productive. Or at least cathartic.
And Baptiste? Well, Baptiste heads towards where he always does when he has a problem and doesn’t quite know how to fix it. His favorite man, the solver of all his problems, and the only one who knows Baptiste’s shrouded past – can relate to it, even.
Yes, Baptiste, as always, goes to find Cassidy.