Chapter Text
Tracking a wounded beast through a forest is never difficult. They tend to be clumsier, their blood makes a clear path through the green. Though they heal faster than humans, Hanzo has never lost a beast’s trail, has never had an incomplete hunt in his life - not even his first, at age fourteen.
Fortunately for Hanzo, this one doesn't seem to be healing at all; the blood spattered across tree roots and leaves on the ground only gets thicker and blacker as he follows the meandering trail. It's slowing down, Hanzo notes with pride. Coating his arrows with wolfsbane seems to have been more effective than he originally guessed. His father will be proud.
When the trail ends, it's at the edge of a large clearing. Hanzo stays at the fringes and observes. A large form shakes and writhes, spreading black on the leaves beneath it, letting out little whimpers and whines of pain. Silently, Hanzo nocks another arrow and draws his bow; as soon as he has a clear shot to the creature’s heart, it will be dead.
But then the creature begins to shrink, howls turning into the agonized cry of a man. Hanzo has never seen this before; usually, these monster wolves fight to the death in their pelts. This one seizes on the ground, a stump of an arm bracing against the ground, his single hand clawing at his side where Hanzo’s wolfsbane arrow had pierced his side, and broken off against a tree. It curses and cries out in English, confused and dying. Hanzo can't help but move a little closer into the clearing to get a better view.
But as soon as he takes a step, the beast freezes and stares at where Hanzo is standing. It glances at his bow and startles into motion, cursing more, and loudly, and struggling to pull himself away. “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” it grouses, words slurred. “Can't fuckin’ believe there are hunters in fuckin’ rural Japan. I'm gonna die because I wanted a fuckin’ vacation away from all the American hunters, and I get my ass shot with wolfsbane by a fuckin’ Japanese hunter!”
Hanzo is stunned by it’s foul language, and also by the hideous black veins spidering out from the wound left by the arrowhead in its side. “The wolfsbane did that?” he asks softly, amazed. It looks painful, agonizing, and the werewolf groans in exasperation.
“Not only is he a hunter, he's a Goddamn fuckin’ newbie,” it complains, pale and sweaty, but glaring viciously at Hanzo. “Can't believe I got my ass taken down by an amateur.”
That gets a reaction from him. “Excuse me?” he scoffs, offended. “I am not an amateur. I've been hunting down monsters like you for ten years-”
It cuts him off with a snort. “And I'm sure Mommy and Daddy are so proud that their experienced baby don't know shit about wolfsbane,” it sneers, black veins slowly creeping up its neck. It coughs then, a disgusting, hacking thing, and then leans to the side and spits up a mouthful of black. Hanzo steps back, disgusted.
“We do not have wolfsbane in Japan, you moron,” Hanzo snaps, anger waning just a little. The beast is panting now, shaking as if fevered. Where its skin isn't black, it's white as snow. Hanzo thinks he probably doesn't have more than an hour to live, and for the first time in his life, he feels guilty.
That perks the monster up a little. “Really?” Hanzo nods in confirmation. “D’you have a sprig on you, maybe?”
Hanzo nods again, and he doesn't know why he does it, but he pulls it out of his pocket and places it in the monster’s outstretched hand. It places the plant on its thigh absently and shifts one of its fingers into a claw. Hanzo doesn't watch as it fishes the jagged arrowhead out of its side; it’s too gruesome to look.
When the arrowhead is out and discarded, lethal and covered in black sludge, the beast pulls a lighter out of a pocket of its shorts - stretchy gym shorts, Hanzo notices, probably the best for when he shifts - and sets the sprig on fire. On its leg.
“Hey,” Hanzo protests loudly, but other than a grimace of pain, it doesn't react to the flame or to Hanzo. When the wolfsbane is down to ashes, the monster scoops it up carefully, bares its teeth in pained anticipation, and presses the ashes into its open wound.
Hanzo jumps at the loud roar it lets out, and scrambles forward when it starts to shake and seize against the ground. “Stop, stop,” he yells desperately, trying to pull its hand away from its wound. But the wolf keeps it there, superhuman strength winning even in its weakened state, until the wolf is unconscious.
Hanzo immediately checks its pulse, and then its wound. It’s still alive, and the wound is healing, black veins receding. The color is returning to its face. He sighs in relief, and immediately frowns. Relief? It's supposed to be dead! He's supposed to have killed it! Instead he's let it heal itself right in front of him of a poison Hanzo specifically got to kill werewolves!
Hanzo groans and lets his head fall into his hands. Stupid, he berates himself. Father is going to have your head.
Eventually, he pushes himself to his feet with a sigh and lifts the wolf onto his back. The weight is staggering, but Hanzo has no choice here. He carries it carefully through the path they made to get to the clearing and puts it in the bed of his truck. As he drives home, he tries to figure out some lie to report to his father to cover the truth of his first failed kill.