Shimada Hanzo

It was early summer. Prime time for freshly graduate highschoolers to get tattoos of anchors and birds and nautical stars. Hanzo couldn't say he wasn't glad that it was almost time for it to be over. He rarely did those types of tattoos, his own prowess and skill lending him more to the traditional (for him) Japanese style tattoos or even an experimental watercolor style. But his coworkers would tattoo 18 year olds with whatever piece of body art they wanted, so there were currently teenagers in and out the front door at all hours of the day.

"You can't have your coffee back here," he snapped at a teenage girl and she jumped - any protests she was about to start spouting cut off at the severe look on his face. "In the reception area," he said, pointing. She went, and the front door opened with a chime. His appointment wasn't due for another fifteen minutes so he turned back to disinfecting his station, fussing with his autoclave.

Coverups weren't his usual thing, either, but the man had come to him on a recommendation from his brother - Genji had been insistent, and the man, Jesse, hadn't been completely insufferable, so he'd agreed. He could understand wanting to cover up a gang symbol, he had covered his own years ago, and done the same for Genji not long after.

Hanzo was a well-built man. For somebody who sat all day hardly moving, he was thick with muscle across his shoulders and back. He had two full sleeves, and tattoos working across his shoulders and chest and legs, and multiple piercings - pretty much willing to get a piercing to let one of his coworkers practice, he kept the ones he liked, which led to ears glittering with jewelry, several studs in his nose, and two barbells in his tongue. The name plate at his station didn't sat his name but instead careful kanji. He told everybody it was his name, but the characters really read 'dragon man'. A joke from Genji, thinking he was so clever.

Being on the street.... kind of sucks. Between avoiding dogs, avoiding cars, and trying to find enough food to not starve, he doesn't have much time or energy to think about anything else, like making his life any better.

Currently it is, of course, raining, and he's dragged a scrap of a trash bag over his head. Just enough to keep the rain off of his face as he peers out at the passing humans. The long coils of his body are still out in the rain, his tail tucked up beside him.

Once the rain passes he can go out scrounging - there's a cafe a few blocks away that will feed him if the young chinese woman working there is there. For now, he's left waiting. He's partially sheltered by a roof, but to leave where he is will mean going out into a chilly early spring downpour. Which will not be very great at all.

He lays his head down on his tiny paws and watches the world go by. His stomach is growling, the rain is ticklish where it's tracking down between blue scales, and his mane is sticking to his neck something fierce.