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overdrivels · 4 years

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Impressions

Man, I think this’ll be the first time I write something using pronouns of my own accord. I don’t know if anyone’s ever noticed, but I’ve worked actively in most of my writings here (and in TWtaH) to never allude to gender or physical appearance. Forgive me just this once, I really want to indulge.

I didn’t proofread this, I just wanted to fight writer’s block and write something really, really self indulgent. I’m really not strong enough to abstain or to control my own bullshit. It’s like 4k of unorganized thoughts loosely strung together.

——

You came to the Watchpoint one chilly summer night, wearing a proud grin that the heavy pelting rains could not wash off. The upward turn of your lips stood out in sharp contrast to the deep droop of your loose clothes, more vessels for water than for you. Over the sounds of thunder you had boldly declared to everyone who came to see who was so brave and foolish as to come during this weather: “I’ve come to save you from yourselves.”

First impressions are everything, the clan had taught him that. But Overwatch taught him people are more than their first impressions.

Hanzo’s impression of you, the first (tracking mud and rain water on freshly cleaned floors), second (curled in the corner of the kitchenette, asleep and blocking the way to the kettle), and onward (not bothering to change after spilling coffee all over yourself, sleeping just anywhere you please and on anyone you please and at any time you please), was as lousy as the last.

‘Slovenly’ would be a good word to describe you and the way you carry yourself. Everything you did was haphazard and barely put together in the way that Hanzo would've been scolded and beat for as a youth.

Placed side-by-side, it's clear you're exact opposites. Hanzo, while approaching the end of his midlife crisis at a breakneck speed, still maintained some of the decorum that shadowed the immaculate side of himself that he had worn everyday for most of his life. You, on the other hand, looked like you rolled out of bed regardless of occasion without a care in the world or for how anyone might see you. It vexes him that people could call you a 'hero' or find comfort in your existence looking and acting the way you do.

Even McCree and the Junkers have more tact than you who sits in on the meeting in your pajamas and a crumpled parka meant to cover the fact that you were not wearing proper pants. At least they look battle-ready. You look like you're four seconds away from rolling back into bed.

"--we will require everyone's attendance. There will be many dignitaries present,”--Hanzo does not miss the way Winston seems to look at you—“so we ask you please be on your best behavior. The dress code is, of course, white-tie formal, though your tie may be whatever color you wish."

Winston chuckles a bit at his own joke, though it falls flat in the face of everyone else who seems more dismayed than anything at having to attend a formal party doing, arguably, the opposite of their jobs.

Hanzo can't help but glance over at you. Your head rests precariously on your palm, elbow threatening to slip out from beneath the weight. You're barely even trying to pay attention.

The thought sends an exasperated fire through Hanzo's veins and he forces himself to look away. His old habits of correcting people and instilling discipline were coming back to haunt him in spades. If he keeps paying too much attention to your lackadaisical manner, he fears he'll lose all the progress he's made since he's joined Overwatch--he'll relapse and soon have a sword in hand again.

Luckily neither of your paths crossed often. He still has no idea what you do. Your hours are unusual. You do not go on missions with them. You do not participate in combat drills. You do not voice your opinion on anything during meetings and no one mentions your seemingly lack of participation. Instead, you’re usually locked in your own room or get chauffeured around by Lena, disappearing for weeks at a time before returning with things like a golf bag or suitcase meant for vacationing. It's unclear how you're meant to 'save them from themselves' when you do nothing of value in the first place.

It’s good that he barely sees you except for times like these when everyone’s collective presence is required. Neither of you have so much as exchanged more than a sentence, but he’s overheard you jabbering once or twice that didn’t change his mind that you were useless and an irritating existence.

Beneath his skin, the dragons draw a slow, undulating spiral. Restless, but comfortable, drawing his attention away from the reminder that he is still no better of a person than he was before.

Winston explains the expected attendees of the party. All of them are high-profile figures with significant influence over their own spheres of influence. There are specific people he would like them to get on good terms with: the head of the United Nations; leaders of specific human rights movements; leaders of countries with pro-omnic rights. All agents should remain in groups and only designated people should seek conversations with specified individuals.

The most important thing is to project the image that Overwatch is back and united. Gaining support is just a parallel mission.

Everyone is dismissed, the weight of the briefing dragging down their moods. It’s a high stakes mission with a lot of risk. Throwing all of them unsupervised and untrained into this situation is too reckless.

For the sake of Overwatch, he hopes you'll at least wear something appropriate. Watching you leave the meeting with your lazy shuffling, and shoulders slumped to the point your parka is struggling to remain on your person, he has some serious reservations.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Lucio delicately readjust your parka like you’re a child to be looked after. The DJ had mentioned he took care of kids in his neighborhood--a natural big brother figure--so it’s natural for him to notice such things and take it into stride. Even so, there’s a limit to these activities.

You're an adult. He does not know your exact age, but he knows you should be old enough to not require the pampering of others. Snorting to himself, he turns away, determined not to let your existence bother him.

But that proves difficult.

The day of the party looms over everyone’s heads, rapidly drawing near. Tensions are palpable. Agents run to and fro, fretting over what is appropriate to wear and how to act that wouldn’t embarrass or threaten Overwatch’s existence.

While Hanzo isn’t worried about how to act during the party, one thing does weigh on his mind. You.

He hadn’t seen you since that meeting ended, explaining the party, and it’s already the eve of. He was too busy helping the other agents figure out their attires and manners to care, but now that most of that is sorted, he realizes he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of you.

It’s not that he cares. He doesn’t. Not about you anyway.

Winston tells him, “She’ll meet us at the party, not to worry. Her current mission will end just as the party starts."

"Current mission? I was not aware she did any work." If Winston noticed the amount of malice in those words, he didn't say anything about it. Ana, though, laughs into her hand.

"Oh yes, she does a lot for Overwatch. Not that you and everyone else doesn't, of course! Her activities are a little different than ours, so I haven't had a chance to pair her with anyone here so far. But rest assured, everyone is doing their parts to help."

It doesn't answer his question and Hanzo's not sure if Winston is being purposefully evasive. Not that the scientist has a single deceitful bone in his large body.

"And what exactly does she do?"

"Now, now. Let's save that for later." Ana steps in between them both. "We have other things to worry about. Did you study up on your target?"

"Of course."

He's memorized the dossier on the person he is supposed to make contact with at the party. She is the head of a for-profit charity organization. While her operations are small, they receive a considerable amount of support and boast of a large network of benefactors that Overwatch themselves can benefit from. He has no plans to mess this up.

"Very good. You're dismissed then." There's a hardness to her eye that forbids any further backtalk and Hanzo has no choice but to withdraw and ponder on the nature of your job.

In the end, he has to believe that you wouldn't be an embarrassment to Overwatch, especially not during their first public debut. No matter how unkempt you are normally, he knows you take your job seriously. Winston said as much and Hanzo has never once actually heard anyone complain about you. It's the only reason his irritation hasn't gotten the better of him.

—

The party itself is rather impressive, on par with the ones that he attended when he was still considered the scion of the Shimada clan. The hall is large and well decorated with arched ceilings and a live orchestra filling every crevice with music.

Paparazzi are ready for them, swarming immediately as soon as they step out of their rented hoverlimo. It takes the combined efforts of himself, McCree, Fareeha, Zarya, Roadhog, and Soldier: 76 to part the crowd and get into the venue.

Many of the guests are distinguished. Hanzo recognizes many of them as leaders of countries, a few as CEOs of national companies, A-list celebrities and holovideo personalities. Overwhelmingly political, though.

Dr. Zhou seems uncomfortable with the attention, shying away from conversation and making herself as small as possible. Winston is right beside her, equally awkward despite the gungho attitude he had about it in the beginning. At least they have Zarya and Fareeha with them to detract from any unwanted conversation.

Surprisingly, Reinhardt and Soldier: 76 blend right into the crowd, making pleasantries like it’s second nature. Even Ana is taking a large brunt of conversations relating to Overwatch, stepping in gracefully when needed, standing down and merely watching with an unapproachable aura when she wasn’t.

There are others who seem to disappear in the crowd. Satya, Genji, and McCree all seem to have made themselves scarce. Not that he has any room to talk--he’s made himself a home behind one of the many pillars in the back of the hall where he has a great view of most of the venue.

Everyone else is prim and proper and their suits and dresses as though it didn’t take them all about six hours to get ready.

In the back of his mind, he thinks it would be better if you couldn’t make it.

Not even an hour into the party, some commotion by the door catches his attention. Paparazzi, likely sensing the presence of a scoop, all swarm toward the arching entryway, excited murmurs buzzing throughout the hall. What could possibly get the attention of all these vultures?

He's half-curious, but he suddenly has his hands full running after Junkrat who decides he no longer likes his bowtie or the fact that the first four buttons of his shirt are closed.

It takes him a little while with McCree’s and Zenyatta’s help to calm Junkrat down--and he never realized just how tall the man was until he had to wrestle the Junker to the ground. By the time he’s done fixing himself up, the paparazzi crowd has dispersed and his hand is now occupied with champagne instead of rowdy children. He scans the crowd, seeking out his target for sweet talking.

But someone else catches his eye.

A figure in a dress no more fancier or elegant than any other attendee’s, but there’s just something about how the person holds themselves that gives him pause and puts him on edge as though the claws of a particularly dangerous animal were pressed against his neck.

Hanzo damn near drops his champagne glass in surprise when he’s able to put a name to the face.

It's you.

He has to do a double take and squint.

No, he has to be dreaming. This is a dream.

But no matter how much blinked or tried to clear his vision, you remain with the exception that you are more regal and composed than any time he's ever seen you. It's as though he's never known you at all. And maybe he doesn’t.

At his elbow, McCree whistles, catching your attention. Even your smile is refined, thinned and polite. You seem to politely fend off all the interested parties with ease and make your way over, shoulders held back and chin lifted, each step sure and crisp. Even your footsteps radiated authority and an unshakeable confidence not normally found in your daily life.

Up close, he can see you put immense thought into your appearance. Your make-up is sharp and meticulous. The dress is well suited to your figure and skin. Everything is composed to give you a fierce presence that cannot be ignored even by laymen. If he had to put your appearance into one word, it would be “beautiful”.

Why you never pay attention to your appearance normally is beyond him.

"You clean up nicely," McCree remarks as he hands you an extra glass of champagne. Gingerly, you take it between your fingers, tilting your head just so in appreciation with the crinkle of your eyes to match. Natural, but calculated. "What's your secret?"

Simply, you reply, "I had help.” Then: “You look great, yourself. I’m not sure if I like the rugged look or this side of you more. Both are handsome.”

“Much obliged.”

Clinking your glasses together, you raise yours at Hanzo. Autopilot kicks in and Hanzo politely meets your glass with his. Words escape him and a sip of champagne fills the void.

It cannot be you. You, who shows up to meetings in pajamas. You, who slouched on every sittable surface like it was your personal couch. You, who can’t even be bothered to put your clothes on right without someone else fixing it for you.

But you’re right here, making small talk with McCree like you were meant to.

“Hanzo, you look great, too. Very gorgeous.”

“Not as much as you,” he responds almost automatically. He clenches his jaw and hopes that he doesn’t look as panicked as he feels. This situation is just too strange.

Your eyes twinkle and you laugh. It sends a shiver down his spine. The sounds of something dangerous draws near and the sense of danger against his back presses itself harder against him. “Silver tongues everywhere. But I appreciate it. How are you enjoying the party?”

“As much as anyone else.”

“Not at all, then.”

“Come on, when are we ever going to have such fancy food?” McCree says, waving at the trays of hor d'oeuvres being carted around by bots.

“Soon, if our mission goes well.”

Again, you give him a look that he’s wary of.

Just what have you been doing all this time to be able to look like this? You seem to have no problems blending in to the crowd here as though you belonged with them. If he didn’t know you were a part of Overwatch, he would’ve mistaken you for a target.

He’s reminded of the few mafia bosses he’s met in life who would greet him wearing jinbei instead of the expensive suits Hanzo was accustomed to seeing. People with so much power that they don’t care about appearances anymore-they have nothing to prove to anyone.

Are you the same? Or was the Watchpoint just your way of unwinding?

Soon, Lena and her girlfriend join the conversation. Lena looks delighted at your appearance, a large grin spreading across her face.

"Lookin' fancy, love. Was wondering if you’d even make it."

"Thank you, Lena. And is this Emily? I've heard so much about you, Lena just won't stop gushing."

“What does she say?”

“Hey, hey! Ix-nay on the irlfriendgay.”

Seeing this side of you puts him off kilter. He’s not quite sure how to reconcile the image of you that he’s accustomed to and the person in front of him. He’s used to people hiding their true natures and donning personas, but this contrast is just too jarring.

Luckily, he finds his break when he spies his target and with an “Excuse me” makes his way to her. He doesn’t turn back lest he makes a further fool of himself.

“Are you enjoying the party, Argus Twenty?” he asks.

The omnic’s lights blink as though scanning her memory bank for his face, but seemingly comes up empty. “Very much so. And whom do I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

“Shimada, Hanzo. Overwatch. At your service.” He bows slightly at the waist. “I have heard a lot about you.”

“Good things, I hope.”

“Only the best. I’ve been meaning to speak to you about your work and if there was anything Overwatch can do to help. We seem to be of similar ventures.”

Even without facial expressions, he could tell she’s smiling. “In that case—”

It’s much easier than he expects to talk to her. She’s refreshingly straightforward and objective, presenting her troubles and solutions with tact. He even gets her to speak of the power dynamics and relationships in her organization, and how they could help each other.

Somehow, he feels like he already knows her.

The time passes easily (as does his mission).

When Argus leaves, she gives him her business card, inviting him to the restaurant that is the organization’s main headquarters. Hanzo promises to visit to further build on this relationship. Now he can tell Winston they’ve secured another means to support. Another job well done.

As he searches for Winston, he sees suspicious movements from the corner of his eye. It’s Mei and Hana, cornered by someone who looks to be twice their age combined. He can’t exactly see who it is, but he can tell the two are uncomfortable.

"I want to hear all about it. My villa is open to you ladies anytime."

“Thank you, we’ll have to check our schedules.”

“Oh, but I insist. I’m sure you can free up some time.”

No one else is close enough to interfere. He resigns himself to what would undoubtedly be a difficult time. Squaring his shoulders, he raises his head, donning the air of authority that he once wore like a second skin and makes swift strides toward the trio, fully intending on breaking up the one-sided 'conversation'.

Someone else bears him to the punch.

"Have you been hiding from me all night?"

Your smile is dazzling as you smoothly and loudly interject, extend a free hand toward the man. "Mr. Drumph, what about my invitation? We haven't spoken since that time in Washington, beginning to think you've forgotten about me."

The man's face screws up into a tight smile.

"Long time, my friend!" He grasps your hand with both of his, giving it a firm shake. "Was just inviting these ladies to my villa. Great views. Great food. Nothing better. You’re invited, too, of course."

“Of course. When’s a good time for you? I’m fully booked for the next five months, but I will clear my schedule for you, just tell me when.”

“You know, if I could just get those lobbyists off my back, I could probably do two weeks from now.”

You tsk, a derisive smile on your face. "From the OmniCore, right? I could lend you a hand, you know. They do owe me for that one case, you know, with LumeriCo?"

"That’s right, LumeriCo. You have connections with them, don’t you?”

“I can arrange for that right now. Give you some breathing room for a month.” You take out your communicator, already texting. “You know, I remember your golf course is near your villas. I would love for you to show me your short game again. Maybe even invite Sam this time.”

“Sam? Remind me again...”

“President of HardBank.” A guiding hand turns the man around, gesturing at some vague figure in the crowd. You shoot a look at the frozen Mei and Hana, gesturing with your eyes for them to make their escape.

The two give you a thumbs up, shuffling away.

“Oh, yeah, her. She was involved in the acquisition fiasco with BioTech—”

“We all benefited from it. I think she can lend us a hand this time, too. HardBank’s the main sponsors of OmniCore. I’m sure she can call things off for a bit. Come with me to the bar, I see you could use another drink. Have you ever tried a boilermaker?”

The two of you slowly start to walk, drifting into the thick of the party like old friends, Mei and Hana quickly forgotten. Hanzo watches as more and more people begin to take notice, likely seeing Mr. Drumph's presence at your side as permission to approach. It’s not long before you’re laughing it up and chatting with other, equally powerful figures. You blend right in with them, feeding them the same poison they dish out.

The sight is painfully familiar.

Hanzo stands there, determined not to feel impressed by your handling of the situation and instead goes to check on the two.

—

As the party winds down, Hanzo finds you resting in one of the more secluded areas of the venue. Even half-hidden like this, you’re still sitting with your back straight and eyes sharp, ready to jump straight back into the socialite persona you’ve displayed this entire evening.

Wordlessly, he hands you a juice which you take without looking at him.

“Thank you.”

He says nothing, looking down at your head and studying your features.

Truly. If you dressed like this and acted like this all the time, he wouldn’t have wasted his time worrying about you and the potential shame you would bring upon Overwatch. Now he feels liek a fool for having been concerned in the first place. Winston would not call back anyone who isn’t qualified to do their jobs, and Overwatch, despite being defunct and having lost its way prior to the Fall, did employ some of the most brilliant of each field. It serves to reason that you are no different in that regard.

“Penny for your thoughts?” you ask quietly.

“Hm. I just was not aware you had experience in something such as politics. It’s a bad hobby.”

"There is no good or bad in politics. Just self-interests."

"I am inclined to disagree."

"Disagree then. It doesn't change the fact that I get more done at golf courses and resorts than in an office."

"And what exactly have you done for Overwatch?"

You raise a pointed eyebrow as if asking if he were serious. A sly, calculated smile slowly worms its way into your face. There's a new shine in your eyes, mischievous and mocking.

"If you don't know, then there's no need to worry yourself about it."

Translation: Your lowly rank does not permit you to know.

Before he has a chance to retort, Winston jumps in, seemingly a little more tipsy than when Hanzo first saw him.

“Please allow me to explain then.” Winston puts his finger in the air. "Overwatch is currently in need of financial and political support. We can continue doing our deeds, but there’s a risk it won’t be perceived well. We needed someone to handle that side for us, hence…” He gestures at you, nearly hitting you in the face, and the party. “All this.”

It's true. None of them are suited for the tedious backdoor dealings of the political world. Hanzo is the closest candidate, but his ties mean nothing here. (Not that he wants them to in the first place.) And he can’t think of anyone else who would be willing to spend the time cultivating these relationships.

“Cat’s out of the bag then.” You smile that well-practiced smile, swirling your juice. "I've been a political aide for a long time. When Winston asked me to come back, I spent months going around and establishing political ties. Now I handle most of Overwatch's advocacy. Your good deeds will only go so far. To change a corrupt system, it's best to either dismantle it or take control of it."

"And which are you doing?"

The flute touches your lips and your smile turns sly. "Which do you think, Mr. Shimada?" A sip of your drink prevents you from answering. Not that he was expecting it, not after seeing what you do.

“Hm.”

“Well, don’t worry about it too much. As long as you accomplish your mission, there’ll be plenty of opportunity for you to get involved in mine.”

You laugh and instantly go back to your professional self, having spotted another target of yours. Excusing yourself, you approach a couple with smooth compliments and sinister whispers as you attempt to secure another backdoor deal.

Again, Hanzo tries not to be impressed with the words coming out of your mouth and the ease with which you wield these promises.

Truly, his impressions were wrong.

—

Hanzo sees you again at the Watchpoint, weeks after the party.

You're back to your usual self, dragging a blanket around your waist, probably in lieu of actual pants. Unconsciously, a disgusted noise escapes his throat. But he doesn’t forget that beneath that sloppy facade is the mind of a person willing to put themselves at political risk for Overwatch and that whatever his impressions of you are, they’re wrong.

But it’s hard not to go back to being annoyed with you now that he’s had a glimpse of what you could really be.

First impressions are lasting, after all.

#my writing #back on my bullshit

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