He can feel Hanzo’s intent, and it’s a curious thing. Selflessness. There are things a demon can’t intrinsically understand, human traits they cannot emulate aside from in exaggerated pantomime. Hanzo may not be human any longer, but his heart is still more human than perhaps he’d care to admit.
“It’s a deal then. Funny how these things work out. You helped me get the foothold I needed in this man’s heart, and now you’re fighting to save it.” He slips his hand from Hanzo’s grip with a sigh that almost sounds content. Sated.
“You’ll be wanting your hint then I reckon. You got anythin’ in particular you want to know to get you started?” He might not answer, but he’ll at least consider it.
He sees nothing funny in any of this. And he has no desire to discuss how things have changed between him and Jesse over the time they've known each other. He might have been privy to it, seen it and drawn his own conclusions, but it is not for him to comment on.
Though that does present an issue. Any move against him, any sense of intent, and the demon will know. He can simply reach across their bond and feel whatever Hanzo tries to mask or hide. Fortunately, his desire to save Jesse is no secret, not between the two of them.
His back straightens, hand drawn back to his side as soon as he is able.
"What is required? Are there physical components?" First thing's first. Give him a direction. Research he can do. Something tangible he can follow. The demon won't make it easy, but one can only hope he'll be true to his word.
Oh Hanzo, you’re no fun. All business. There’s thankfully still entertainment in considering just how solidly to put him on the hunt. A worthless hint would be most expedient, but less thrilling. He wants a little danger, is curious how close Hanzo will get before he either gives up or has to be taken out of play.
“What’s that human phrase…? Oh, yeah—” He snaps his fingers. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat. Whether or not there are physical components depends on how you want to go about it.”
Vague, but true. His favorite space to operate in.
It's better news than he thought, even if purposefully vague. It gives him a shred of hope that it's possible, and he's worked without even that before. Frowning, he considers whether to push for more before shaking his head. He's patient. He'll subsist on that for now.
"Talon will be looking for us. Likely the team that dispatched McCree as well. We will need to stay on the move to avoid them," he utters tonelessly, folding his arms over his chest. A tick, and he glances down at the body on the floor.
"And this will need to be dealt with, as well."
He can do so, but he knows the demon will want to keep tabs on him, lest he try to escape.
The demon cocks his head to the side, considering the man and the scene before him. Even now, Hanzo is thinking two steps ahead, considering the practicalities. Taking what he’s given and not demanding more. He’s not sure if he would’ve preferred the anger and begging or not. At least this is novel.
“I can take care of the body,” he says, nudging it with one foot. “But you know, I never said you had to tag along with me the rest of the month. You’re a free man, Hanzo. You wander off, you’ll know where to find me when the time comes.” For emphasis, he sends a metaphysical tug down the bond between them.
“And if you decide not to show up… that is a choice you can make. Though I wouldn’t recommend it.”
"If I return to Talon, they will not permit me to return. And I am wanted by Overwatch as well. So we are both on the run, it would appear." One eyebrow cocks higher. "And I do not trust you to keep to your word. Better I have eyes on you than let you run free."
Much as he despises the creature, he can't risk anything happening to him -- and by extension, Jesse. So it appears that they are once again stuck together.
And he will ensure the demon does not enjoy a moment of it.
Truth be told, the demon can’t break the terms of their agreement. Not without destroying his hold on Hanzo during their agreed upon once-a-month term. But if he’s busy trying to make sure the demon doesn’t sink his fangs into an innocent mortal, he’ll have less time to do his digging. It could work in the demon’s favor.
Plus he enjoys Hanzo’s discomfort, and his lingering feelings of anger and guilt. Hanzo might just come to regret this decision.
“Well then, suppose we should get movin’. Partner.” He grins as he kneels down, hoisting the dead man up by his jacket and carrying him off to the bathroom, to be burned with preternatural fire. Not even a bit of ash is left behind in the tub.
He regrets many things already. What's one more added to the pile?
Beyond that, it's his fault the demon has this supernatural body to tear through the world in, in the first place. He could not have fathomed what lay dormant in the hunter when he made his rash decision to grant him this power, in the hopes of finding someone to be his equal. Then he abandoned him to the world, to learn what he was, how to survive. He abandoned him again when it seemed he might be growing close enough to him to cause him harm...or vice versa.
No more running. Instead he forces himself to witness the unholy flame that consumes the corpse, and the eerie smile sitting on what remains of his fledgling. No. It is only fair that he be the one to watch him now.
He steals a different car from the lot on the way out. Turns out he’d picked a few pockets before Hanzo had even woken up. He’s the proud owner of several car keys, credit cards, IDs, and even some coupons and stamp cards, because why not? Like before, he chooses the sleekest, fastest model of car available. So unlike Jesse and his preference for older cars with personality.
Wherever they go, there’s a pattern: the demon likes big cities, ones crawling with people and vice. He goes where the depravity leads. A favorite pastime is cheating desperate gamblers out of things they can’t afford to lose, but that’s second only to hunting. It’s disappointing not being able to feed on the innocent, but he wrings what cruelty he can out of feeding on vampires and other creatures. His reputation—Jesse’s, rather, as a monster among monsters—is reinvigorated and only grows. It isn’t only death that awaits the unfortunates in his path. His cruelty and uncanny ability to suss out even the most well-hidden, secretive creatures puts supernatural community on-edge.
He relishes in the stories, takes pride in them like Jesse never did. To the hunter, the rumors had been an unfortunate and unavoidable side effect of what he’d become. It made laying low that much harder. The demon though, it’s almost like he feeds on the fear. On being known.
And all the while, he’s careful not to break a single one of the rules Hanzo had set. His victims are all wicked, after all, though none perhaps as wicked as him.
How could they be? While driven by selfish impulses, they are not evil incarnate. They are not spirits corrupted by Hell, born of its fires and satisfied only by how many they can draw back down to those depths with them.
Hanzo despises this thing, and how he would so love to find a way to end up. But for the the next month he holds himself in check. Hope that there will be a way to save Jesse in the end is all he has now. What does he care for the fate of the world? His obligation lies with him.
Genji would disagree. For a time, he considers reaching out to his brother, but there's still a chance his cover with Talon might be recoverable. And he can't trust that there aren't eyes somewhere in Overwatch even now, making the same moves he is.
So he stays close. Watches the demon's movements, and next to his reign of terror? Hanzo is but a shadow, a whisper of rumor. He may as well not be a presence in these cities at all, distinctive as he might be otherwise. He feeds without passion, enough to sustain himself.
And he keeps watch, as the days tick past. Until it is time to submit once more to the bargain made.
The month passes in a blur, but the demon never loses track of the calendar. The anticipation is like a spring getting wound tighter and tighter by the day, and not just in his mind—there’s a very real weight to their bargain, intent on making itself known, winding through his thoughts and down to his bones. It’s almost a physical sensation near the end. When he wakes that evening, he relishes for a moment in the tension of it. Finally, it’s time.
He rises and dresses as he always does: in something similar to how Jesse would have dressed, sans his most iconic items. No belt buckle, serape, or hat. He hadn’t had them when he left Talon, and there's no telling if they’d been in that facility or the one he’d been captured in initially. Either way, there's no getting them back now.
Peacekeeper too, most likely. That one annoys the most. That gun and him… or rather, it and Jesse and the demon by extension… they’d had a unique bond. He’s been quietly collecting firearms this past month for a reason. Not all of them can handle the things he can do, not like that six-shooter. He’ll likely go through several.
“Mornin’ Han,” he calls out, cheery as anything now that he’s dressed and looking human, right down to the eyes. “You remember what day it is, don’t you? Ready for a night on the town?”
He's refused to address him as anything else, a constant reminder that he refuses to see him as the shell he inhabits. He is a parasite to be ousted, nothing more. Those charming smiles and wiles of his are for naught.
But of course, the beast enjoys his misery. Anger is easier to surrender to him. Feast, for there is plenty to spare.
Hanzo focuses his cold black eyes on the figure at the doorway, righting his clothing as he does so.
"I assume you intend to save your meal for after you've had me do your bidding."
He turns towards Hanzo, looking downright average in his plaid and jeans. He grabs a worn black leather jacket he’d picked up while out one night, smelling of someone else’s cigarettes and blood.
“You assume right. You won’t be much use to me after that, so we should save the best for last. In the meantime—” He slips a piece of paper out of the jacket pocket, holding it out for Hanzo to come and take. “I’ve got an errand for you to run. Might be a bit under your pay grade, truth be told, but you might have some fun with it. I need to you to go pick somethin’ up for me.”
On the paper are instructions, leading Hanzo out from the city and into the desert. Not too far out. He’ll be able to get there within an hour or two. On the other side is a roughly sketched map of a building, several floors with most of them being underground. One room in particular is marked with an X.
“Get in the building, get to that room and retrieve this.” He taps his temple, mentally projecting the image of a box small enough to fit in the palm of Hanzo’s hand. It’s simple wood contrasted with intricate silverwork, every bit of undecorated space carved with sigils for both protection and containment.
“You can get in however you want. Go in through the front door, or take the sneaky route. You might be better off tryin’ not to take ‘em off-guard, though. Password's on the paper if you need it to get past security.” He slips both his hands into his jacket pockets. “I’ll stay in town and keep myself entertained, but I want you back here within an hour of dawn. Kill who you have to if things get dicey, and don’t let ‘em follow you when you leave. You got all that?”
He hasn't forgotten anything. He's doing it to needle him, and it's working. But Hanzo is determined not to give him anything more than the bare minimum, in any capacity. He gets what he bargained for, and nothing else.
But the task would be completed. And he would get one step closer to setting Jesse free. Such was the hope, at least. He couldn't bear the thought of enduring this creature in his fledgling's skin like an ill-fitted suit for all of eternity.
The paper was taken, glanced over, and then slipped away for safe keeping. "Understood."
He didn't quite care for the tone the demon took with him, as if ordering a minion, but...well. The situation was what it was. Bare minimum. Don't blink, don't grouse, just get all of it over with. Endure, for the sake of the one he had to protect.
Then, he cocks his head slightly. Some small coil of satisfaction presented itself, though his tone was as deadpan as ever.
The demon frowns and fixes his gaze on Hanzo, eyes narrowed as he silently considers that. It hadn’t been a request. Seems that Hanzo’s pride is strong enough to shine through, even now. Stubborn thing.
“Shouldn’t you be askin’? It's not yours to take.” He takes the keys out of his pocket and dangles them out, practically tempting Hanzo to just snatch them out of his grip. The keychain attached is a gaudy silver skull with sparkling ruby eyes. Subtle.
“And you know if you so much as put a dent in it, you’re footin’ the bill.”
"It wasn't yours to take, and you certainly did not bother to ask."
Hanzo doesn't reach for the keys immediately, staring the demon down. If he thought for a moment that because Hanzo was bound to do his bidding he wasn't going to give him every inch of resistance he possibly could? He hadn't been paying enough attention during the road trip.
"You want this done quickly. A suitably efficient car would expedite matters, and you selected one that would outperform any I could find if I wasted time searching for one. Since this is your errand, surely this arrangement would benefit you most of all."
He’s not wrong, damn him. But the demon had known that to start. Hanzo isn’t the only one with perhaps too much pride.
“Everythin’ is mine to take, Shimada. Remember that.”
He tosses the keys without further preamble. They’re burning moonlight here, and he wants this to get done before the distractions he’d set up for tonight run their course. The most difficult impediments to Hanzo’s job should be well out of his way at the moment, thanks to a lot of planning on the demon’s part.
“And I meant that about the dents. Same goes for scratches. I want it back lookin’ like it never left.”
And there's some satisfaction in that, too, small and bitter as it might be. But he snatches the keys out of the air, turning to make his way out before the point can be belabored further.
He has a long way to go tonight. A great deal to do. And that moment at the end that he is certainly not looking forward to. He'll need to make sure he feeds somewhere along the way.
First things first. Make it to the facility, scout out the best method of entry, and try to get this done as cleanly and quietly as possible. These people don't know how lucky they are to be dealing with Hanzo, rather than the beast he's left behind.
Hanzo may find it difficult to pinpoint a method of entry that is both clean and quiet. The building indicated in the demon’s instructions sits out in the middle of nowhere, and yet there are cars and motorcycles parked beside it just to the side of the dirt road. And the building itself is… well, oddly enough, it’s a saloon. An old-fashioned, just-yanked-out-of-a-bad-western saloon. A man sits out on the porch by the door—not the swinging kind that exposes the interior of the building, sadly—on a stool, a magazine open in his lap. He doesn’t even look up at the sound of another engine approaching.
The place looks strangely clean despite being out in the desert, all dark wood and brass fixings. Old-fashioned gas lanterns hang from each corner, swaying in the breeze, and another hangs above the door, giving the bouncer enough light to read by. There is no other visible door. Each of the windows are all closed to the night, covered by crimson curtains shut tight from the inside.
There’s no sign anywhere on the building denoting the nature of its business, save one: a square of black metal hanging from a pole attached to the roof, etched with a gold insignia.
Should Hanzo approach, the man—only his eyes visible above the bandana covering the lower half of his face—might look up. Otherwise, it’s up to the vampire how he wants to go about this. Proximity to the walls of the building, even by way of the front door, will bring with it something like a buzzing sensation. Almost electric, like getting too close to a high-voltage power source.
He reaches out as he approaches, not with his hands but with the senses he has at his disposal, honed as they have been all these years. The taste of the air, the scent of the man at the door -- and whether or not he has a heartbeat. If he is to walk right in, bold as brass, it is not going to be blind.
A saloon? Really? It's almost laughable, unless one was familiar enough with Jesse McCree. This is obviously someplace that was familiar to him.
If only he'd looked into the laptop a little further. If only he'd asked questions of his past. If only he'd done so many little things along the way.
Whether or not Hanzo can ascertain the true nature of the building really depends on how much experience he has with things like sorcery. It’s built into the foundations and crackles in the air close to the wood walls like an aura. There’s a subtle way to do magic, but this isn’t it. Rather, it’s the equivalent of someone walking around with a shotgun versus a easily-concealed pistol.
Coincidentally, there’s a shotgun leaned up against the wall behind the bouncer—who is entirely human by the way. The leather bands at his wrists are stamped with arcane symbols emitting a lower-level frequency of magic than the building itself, but he’s otherwise ordinary. A little scrawny even, unremarkable in his worn-out jeans and combat boots.
He starts to turn the page, then stops to glance up at Hanzo, making sure he’s not up to anything unsavory. Still, he doesn’t seem all that worried.
Magic. Employed by a number of people, alive and undead alike. This reeks of those who don't mind people knowing exactly who and what they are, parading their power for all to see.
Could be hunters, if it was an old stomping ground of McCree's, but he seems to recall their ways being a good deal more subtle than this. Either way, he'll need to be wary.
Well. There's one way to go about this. With a gait and posture that says he has every right to be here, he approaches the door. That tingle in the air is thick, it catches behind his teeth as he steps up to the door and -- if the bouncer does nothing to impede him -- through to the other side.
There’s a moment of resistance when Hanzo tries to step through the door, like the air itself is forming a barrier between him and the inside of the building. The bouncer side-eyes him until the spell finds what it was looking for, plucking the password the demon had given Hanzo earlier that night straight out of his head. Whatever it had been, it was something akin to high-level security clearance. The pressure in the air abates and the bouncer’s gaze lingers on him a second or two longer than necessary before he turns back his reading.
From there, Hanzo is free to step into the room beyond. The inside matches the outside by and large, the décor caught somewhere between a biker bar and a high-end casino. The clientele is equally mixed, if weighted a little more heavily on the biker end of things. But it’s not just humans that occupy the space. It’s a real mixed bag of both human and inhuman creatures, and it seems no one is batting an eye at even the strangest of them. Whatever this is, it’s normal around these parts.
Most everyone in the space also seems to be armed, one way or another. Guns. Claws. Fangs. No one seems to be minding that much either.
As for what he wants to do, Hanzo has options. There’s a bar serving up drinks, gambling tables serving up ways to lose some money, and plenty of people to chat up. Other than the door behind the bar and the restrooms, there appears to be only one other door in and out of the main room, “employees only” carved right into the wood.
He has to remember why he's here. It's all to buy more time, to give Jesse a chance to fight for ownership of his own soul once more. Whatever discomfort he feels in a place like this has to be pushed down, suffocated swiftly. He can't afford to show weakness in a place like this.
They exist in other places. Clubs, casinos, dens of inequity all. They are refuges for many denizens of the night, neutral ground for most. This is what becomes of those orphans of the darkness who lose everything and crave that most basic of desires: somewhere to belong. And once they find that place? They are not very kind towards outsiders who threaten that newfound sense of belonging.
He keeps his mind, his ears, and his eyes open as he moves towards the bar, with the intention of getting a drink. Or at least a good place to quietly survey what he has to work with.
Though the room at large doesn’t react to the presence of an unknown face, there are certainly eyes on Hanzo if he takes the time to look for them. Casual glances out of the corner of eyes that linger too long. The bartender’s stare, too intent to be comfortable. But when Hanzo approaches, he lets his eyes drop to the counter in a parody of nonchalance.
Hanzo may not be strictly unwelcome yet, but he’s definitely not going unnoticed.
“Will you be wanting somethin’ bottled, or somethin’ fresh from a vein?” the bartender asks, but the words are barely out of his mouth before the front door swings open again. This time, there’s a hush that sweeps the room, and plenty of faces turn towards the woman that enters. Although her clothes are covered in dust and grit from the desert, her sleeve torn and speckled with blood, she has an air of regality about her. The sharp angle of her short white hair frames a face fit with blood red eyes and lips to match.
She’s human. No mistaking that. She’s also very visibly, almost palpably pissed off. Her gaze sweeps the room, taking in every face along the way before snagging on Hanzo.
"Might want to make your order quick," the bartender mutters.
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“It’s a deal then. Funny how these things work out. You helped me get the foothold I needed in this man’s heart, and now you’re fighting to save it.” He slips his hand from Hanzo’s grip with a sigh that almost sounds content. Sated.
“You’ll be wanting your hint then I reckon. You got anythin’ in particular you want to know to get you started?” He might not answer, but he’ll at least consider it.
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Though that does present an issue. Any move against him, any sense of intent, and the demon will know. He can simply reach across their bond and feel whatever Hanzo tries to mask or hide. Fortunately, his desire to save Jesse is no secret, not between the two of them.
His back straightens, hand drawn back to his side as soon as he is able.
"What is required? Are there physical components?" First thing's first. Give him a direction. Research he can do. Something tangible he can follow. The demon won't make it easy, but one can only hope he'll be true to his word.
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“What’s that human phrase…? Oh, yeah—” He snaps his fingers. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat. Whether or not there are physical components depends on how you want to go about it.”
Vague, but true. His favorite space to operate in.
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"Talon will be looking for us. Likely the team that dispatched McCree as well. We will need to stay on the move to avoid them," he utters tonelessly, folding his arms over his chest. A tick, and he glances down at the body on the floor.
"And this will need to be dealt with, as well."
He can do so, but he knows the demon will want to keep tabs on him, lest he try to escape.
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“I can take care of the body,” he says, nudging it with one foot. “But you know, I never said you had to tag along with me the rest of the month. You’re a free man, Hanzo. You wander off, you’ll know where to find me when the time comes.” For emphasis, he sends a metaphysical tug down the bond between them.
“And if you decide not to show up… that is a choice you can make. Though I wouldn’t recommend it.”
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Much as he despises the creature, he can't risk anything happening to him -- and by extension, Jesse. So it appears that they are once again stuck together.
And he will ensure the demon does not enjoy a moment of it.
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Plus he enjoys Hanzo’s discomfort, and his lingering feelings of anger and guilt. Hanzo might just come to regret this decision.
“Well then, suppose we should get movin’. Partner.” He grins as he kneels down, hoisting the dead man up by his jacket and carrying him off to the bathroom, to be burned with preternatural fire. Not even a bit of ash is left behind in the tub.
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Beyond that, it's his fault the demon has this supernatural body to tear through the world in, in the first place. He could not have fathomed what lay dormant in the hunter when he made his rash decision to grant him this power, in the hopes of finding someone to be his equal. Then he abandoned him to the world, to learn what he was, how to survive. He abandoned him again when it seemed he might be growing close enough to him to cause him harm...or vice versa.
No more running. Instead he forces himself to witness the unholy flame that consumes the corpse, and the eerie smile sitting on what remains of his fledgling. No. It is only fair that he be the one to watch him now.
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Wherever they go, there’s a pattern: the demon likes big cities, ones crawling with people and vice. He goes where the depravity leads. A favorite pastime is cheating desperate gamblers out of things they can’t afford to lose, but that’s second only to hunting. It’s disappointing not being able to feed on the innocent, but he wrings what cruelty he can out of feeding on vampires and other creatures. His reputation—Jesse’s, rather, as a monster among monsters—is reinvigorated and only grows. It isn’t only death that awaits the unfortunates in his path. His cruelty and uncanny ability to suss out even the most well-hidden, secretive creatures puts supernatural community on-edge.
He relishes in the stories, takes pride in them like Jesse never did. To the hunter, the rumors had been an unfortunate and unavoidable side effect of what he’d become. It made laying low that much harder. The demon though, it’s almost like he feeds on the fear. On being known.
And all the while, he’s careful not to break a single one of the rules Hanzo had set. His victims are all wicked, after all, though none perhaps as wicked as him.
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Hanzo despises this thing, and how he would so love to find a way to end up. But for the the next month he holds himself in check. Hope that there will be a way to save Jesse in the end is all he has now. What does he care for the fate of the world? His obligation lies with him.
Genji would disagree. For a time, he considers reaching out to his brother, but there's still a chance his cover with Talon might be recoverable. And he can't trust that there aren't eyes somewhere in Overwatch even now, making the same moves he is.
So he stays close. Watches the demon's movements, and next to his reign of terror? Hanzo is but a shadow, a whisper of rumor. He may as well not be a presence in these cities at all, distinctive as he might be otherwise. He feeds without passion, enough to sustain himself.
And he keeps watch, as the days tick past. Until it is time to submit once more to the bargain made.
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He rises and dresses as he always does: in something similar to how Jesse would have dressed, sans his most iconic items. No belt buckle, serape, or hat. He hadn’t had them when he left Talon, and there's no telling if they’d been in that facility or the one he’d been captured in initially. Either way, there's no getting them back now.
Peacekeeper too, most likely. That one annoys the most. That gun and him… or rather, it and Jesse and the demon by extension… they’d had a unique bond. He’s been quietly collecting firearms this past month for a reason. Not all of them can handle the things he can do, not like that six-shooter. He’ll likely go through several.
“Mornin’ Han,” he calls out, cheery as anything now that he’s dressed and looking human, right down to the eyes. “You remember what day it is, don’t you? Ready for a night on the town?”
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He's refused to address him as anything else, a constant reminder that he refuses to see him as the shell he inhabits. He is a parasite to be ousted, nothing more. Those charming smiles and wiles of his are for naught.
But of course, the beast enjoys his misery. Anger is easier to surrender to him. Feast, for there is plenty to spare.
Hanzo focuses his cold black eyes on the figure at the doorway, righting his clothing as he does so.
"I assume you intend to save your meal for after you've had me do your bidding."
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He turns towards Hanzo, looking downright average in his plaid and jeans. He grabs a worn black leather jacket he’d picked up while out one night, smelling of someone else’s cigarettes and blood.
“You assume right. You won’t be much use to me after that, so we should save the best for last. In the meantime—” He slips a piece of paper out of the jacket pocket, holding it out for Hanzo to come and take. “I’ve got an errand for you to run. Might be a bit under your pay grade, truth be told, but you might have some fun with it. I need to you to go pick somethin’ up for me.”
On the paper are instructions, leading Hanzo out from the city and into the desert. Not too far out. He’ll be able to get there within an hour or two. On the other side is a roughly sketched map of a building, several floors with most of them being underground. One room in particular is marked with an X.
“Get in the building, get to that room and retrieve this.” He taps his temple, mentally projecting the image of a box small enough to fit in the palm of Hanzo’s hand. It’s simple wood contrasted with intricate silverwork, every bit of undecorated space carved with sigils for both protection and containment.
“You can get in however you want. Go in through the front door, or take the sneaky route. You might be better off tryin’ not to take ‘em off-guard, though. Password's on the paper if you need it to get past security.” He slips both his hands into his jacket pockets. “I’ll stay in town and keep myself entertained, but I want you back here within an hour of dawn. Kill who you have to if things get dicey, and don’t let ‘em follow you when you leave. You got all that?”
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He hasn't forgotten anything. He's doing it to needle him, and it's working. But Hanzo is determined not to give him anything more than the bare minimum, in any capacity. He gets what he bargained for, and nothing else.
But the task would be completed. And he would get one step closer to setting Jesse free. Such was the hope, at least. He couldn't bear the thought of enduring this creature in his fledgling's skin like an ill-fitted suit for all of eternity.
The paper was taken, glanced over, and then slipped away for safe keeping. "Understood."
He didn't quite care for the tone the demon took with him, as if ordering a minion, but...well. The situation was what it was. Bare minimum. Don't blink, don't grouse, just get all of it over with. Endure, for the sake of the one he had to protect.
Then, he cocks his head slightly. Some small coil of satisfaction presented itself, though his tone was as deadpan as ever.
"I am taking the car."
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“Shouldn’t you be askin’? It's not yours to take.” He takes the keys out of his pocket and dangles them out, practically tempting Hanzo to just snatch them out of his grip. The keychain attached is a gaudy silver skull with sparkling ruby eyes. Subtle.
“And you know if you so much as put a dent in it, you’re footin’ the bill.”
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Hanzo doesn't reach for the keys immediately, staring the demon down. If he thought for a moment that because Hanzo was bound to do his bidding he wasn't going to give him every inch of resistance he possibly could? He hadn't been paying enough attention during the road trip.
"You want this done quickly. A suitably efficient car would expedite matters, and you selected one that would outperform any I could find if I wasted time searching for one. Since this is your errand, surely this arrangement would benefit you most of all."
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“Everythin’ is mine to take, Shimada. Remember that.”
He tosses the keys without further preamble. They’re burning moonlight here, and he wants this to get done before the distractions he’d set up for tonight run their course. The most difficult impediments to Hanzo’s job should be well out of his way at the moment, thanks to a lot of planning on the demon’s part.
“And I meant that about the dents. Same goes for scratches. I want it back lookin’ like it never left.”
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And there's some satisfaction in that, too, small and bitter as it might be. But he snatches the keys out of the air, turning to make his way out before the point can be belabored further.
He has a long way to go tonight. A great deal to do. And that moment at the end that he is certainly not looking forward to. He'll need to make sure he feeds somewhere along the way.
First things first. Make it to the facility, scout out the best method of entry, and try to get this done as cleanly and quietly as possible. These people don't know how lucky they are to be dealing with Hanzo, rather than the beast he's left behind.
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The place looks strangely clean despite being out in the desert, all dark wood and brass fixings. Old-fashioned gas lanterns hang from each corner, swaying in the breeze, and another hangs above the door, giving the bouncer enough light to read by. There is no other visible door. Each of the windows are all closed to the night, covered by crimson curtains shut tight from the inside.
There’s no sign anywhere on the building denoting the nature of its business, save one: a square of black metal hanging from a pole attached to the roof, etched with a gold insignia.
Should Hanzo approach, the man—only his eyes visible above the bandana covering the lower half of his face—might look up. Otherwise, it’s up to the vampire how he wants to go about this. Proximity to the walls of the building, even by way of the front door, will bring with it something like a buzzing sensation. Almost electric, like getting too close to a high-voltage power source.
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A saloon? Really? It's almost laughable, unless one was familiar enough with Jesse McCree. This is obviously someplace that was familiar to him.
If only he'd looked into the laptop a little further. If only he'd asked questions of his past. If only he'd done so many little things along the way.
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Coincidentally, there’s a shotgun leaned up against the wall behind the bouncer—who is entirely human by the way. The leather bands at his wrists are stamped with arcane symbols emitting a lower-level frequency of magic than the building itself, but he’s otherwise ordinary. A little scrawny even, unremarkable in his worn-out jeans and combat boots.
He starts to turn the page, then stops to glance up at Hanzo, making sure he’s not up to anything unsavory. Still, he doesn’t seem all that worried.
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Could be hunters, if it was an old stomping ground of McCree's, but he seems to recall their ways being a good deal more subtle than this. Either way, he'll need to be wary.
Well. There's one way to go about this. With a gait and posture that says he has every right to be here, he approaches the door. That tingle in the air is thick, it catches behind his teeth as he steps up to the door and -- if the bouncer does nothing to impede him -- through to the other side.
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From there, Hanzo is free to step into the room beyond. The inside matches the outside by and large, the décor caught somewhere between a biker bar and a high-end casino. The clientele is equally mixed, if weighted a little more heavily on the biker end of things. But it’s not just humans that occupy the space. It’s a real mixed bag of both human and inhuman creatures, and it seems no one is batting an eye at even the strangest of them. Whatever this is, it’s normal around these parts.
Most everyone in the space also seems to be armed, one way or another. Guns. Claws. Fangs. No one seems to be minding that much either.
As for what he wants to do, Hanzo has options. There’s a bar serving up drinks, gambling tables serving up ways to lose some money, and plenty of people to chat up. Other than the door behind the bar and the restrooms, there appears to be only one other door in and out of the main room, “employees only” carved right into the wood.
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They exist in other places. Clubs, casinos, dens of inequity all. They are refuges for many denizens of the night, neutral ground for most. This is what becomes of those orphans of the darkness who lose everything and crave that most basic of desires: somewhere to belong. And once they find that place? They are not very kind towards outsiders who threaten that newfound sense of belonging.
He keeps his mind, his ears, and his eyes open as he moves towards the bar, with the intention of getting a drink. Or at least a good place to quietly survey what he has to work with.
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Hanzo may not be strictly unwelcome yet, but he’s definitely not going unnoticed.
“Will you be wanting somethin’ bottled, or somethin’ fresh from a vein?” the bartender asks, but the words are barely out of his mouth before the front door swings open again. This time, there’s a hush that sweeps the room, and plenty of faces turn towards the woman that enters. Although her clothes are covered in dust and grit from the desert, her sleeve torn and speckled with blood, she has an air of regality about her. The sharp angle of her short white hair frames a face fit with blood red eyes and lips to match.
She’s human. No mistaking that. She’s also very visibly, almost palpably pissed off. Her gaze sweeps the room, taking in every face along the way before snagging on Hanzo.
"Might want to make your order quick," the bartender mutters.
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