
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9716717.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, Multi, M/M
  Fandom:
      Overwatch_(Video_Game)
  Relationship:
      Widowmaker_|_Amélie_Lacroix/Hanzo_Shimada, Jesse_McCree/Genji_Shimada/
      Angela_"Mercy"_Ziegler, Soldier:_76_|_Jack_Morrison_&_Angela_"Mercy"
      Ziegler, Jesse_McCree/Genji_Shimada, Genji_Shimada/Angela_"Mercy"
      Ziegler, Jesse_McCree/Angela_"Mercy"_Ziegler, Jesse_McCree/Sombra, Hanzo
      Shimada_&_Widowmaker_|_Amélie_Lacroix, Gérard_Lacroix/Widowmaker_|_Amélie
      Lacroix
  Character:
      Hanzo_Shimada, Widowmaker_|_Amélie_Lacroix, Genji_Shimada, Ana_Amari,
      Angela_"Mercy"_Ziegler, Jesse_McCree, Soldier:_76_|_Jack_Morrison, Satya
      "Symmetra"_Vaswani, Tekhartha_Zenyatta, Sombra_(Overwatch), Sojiro
      Shimada, Gérard_Lacroix, Original_Shimada_Clan_Character(s)_(Overwatch)
  Additional Tags:
      Drama, Angst, Post-Recall, Polyamory, Slow_Burn, venomous_arrow,
      widowhanzo, spiderdragon, McGenji_-_Freeform, Gency, McMercy, Hanamura_
      (Overwatch), Watchpoint:_Gibraltar, Coming_of_Age, Young!Hanzo, Mcsombra,
      McGency, Ritual, Amelie's_parents, Post-Traumatic_Stress_Disorder_-_PTSD,
      Drug_Use, Implied/Referenced_Alcohol_Abuse/Alcoholism, Young!Genji
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-02-14 Updated: 2018-03-17 Chapters: 11/? Words: 121986
****** Variations on a Theme ******
by kumulonimbus
Summary
     A reformed Amelie and a still reluctant Hanzo join Overwatch. But
     when the woman reveals who’s actually hiding behind Soldier: 76’s
     visor, mistrust begins to take over. Meanwhile, Talon advances in
     Japan and reaches Hanamura as an attempt to gather former members of
     the Shimada Clan. The dragons must return home and face their past,
     in order to protect their future.
     Set one year after the recall.
Notes
     This is post-recall, and it’s heavily inspired by the latest comics
     and seasonal voice lines – even so, I took some liberties in order to
     make this work; the biggest one being that, in this story, Ana is
     back. I had intended this fic to be a Valentine Day’s fic, though
     given the fact that it’s about Hanzo and Amélie, I didn’t want this
     to be exactly shippy so, as expected, lots of angst and drama between
     these two.
     Dedicated to my friend, the talented Kingston Ryan. We miss you,
     girl.
***** Variations on a Theme *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
                             Variations on a Theme
                                     Act I
===============================================================================
                                        
   “I found myself both touched and irritated by the discovery that she was
                                 vulnerable.”
                      Françoise Sagan ― Bonjour Tristesse
                                        
“Actually, I’m extremely frustrated by having to be myself. Not by my looks or
 ability or position. Just by my being myself. I feel it’s extremely unfair.”
   Haruki Murakami – The Kangaroo Communiqué (from "The Elephant Vanishes")
 
===============================================================================
 
.
.
.
I – Blood (Those old wounds)
When he saw his younger brother jumping freely from one rooftop to the other
with the grace and the poise of a professional acrobat, Hanzo Shimada smiled
bitterly to himself and cursed in his native language. Being a clandestine
citizen of the world was not enough to break the sounds of his Japanese roots,
the portion of the land that had seen him rise and fall ever-present inside the
old archer’s battered spirit. Heart, mind, body and soul – all four elements
had succumbed to the irony of the moment: according to his own beliefs, he was
a man way beyond redemption. Yet the ship hovering over him and the solitary
beating of his heart were stating otherwise.
A hero.
Genji had just made him a hero.
Ever since the night of their bittersweet reunion his brother had tried to
convince him into joining the still small and very much illegal Overwatch. He
had spoken about a changing world, even when Hanzo, still too absorbed in his
own past, was completely unable to see it: how could this world dare to change,
a world he had been once supposed to rule, when his feet were still pinned to
the ground; his eyes reliving that moment – the steel of his blade damaging
skin and altering bonds that should have remained untouched.
After each one of Genji’s sporadic visits, Hanzo would always find reasons to
believe the brother he had once known was still present inside the shape of
that cyborg ninja. The color green, for example, was the living proof that some
things remained the same – Genji’s spirit dragon, the clumsy strands of hair he
still remembered from their youth and the flickering lights of his younger
brother’s visor seemed to be all united into one incorruptible notion: that
metallic vessel in front of him was not the Genji he knew – but the Genji he
knew was still inside, somewhere deep below those many layers of artificial
muscle and intricate hydraulics.
According to his brother, the world was changing once again, and even if that
notion alone was enough for his tired brain to struggle, Genji had opted to go
far beyond it – “it is time to pick a side,” he had sentenced.
He wanted his older brother to join Overwatch.
He wanted his older brother to finally fight the good fight.
But then the younger Shimada disappeared. Hanzo waited for him but to no avail
– until one night, the survivor reappeared. At first, it had seemed like a
hallucination: the small, silver figure had presented itself in Hanzo’s
kitchen. When the archer turned around to look over his shoulder his younger
brother was already there, staring intently at him. Mesmerized by Genji’s
obvious augmented mobility, Hanzo was left with no other choice than to accept
the fact that the clumsy, irreverent sparrow had now become the living
embodiment of subtleness.
Or perhaps, he was simply getting older.
Hanzo raised both hands in a defensive stance: he was way too tired to listen
to his brother go on and on about the organization. Furthermore, he knew that
even if Overwatch was still small and recruiting, he was always going to be the
last person they would accept. They were Genji’s friends, after all. It was
only natural they were going to wonder whether he had joined to finished what
he had started back in Hanamura or not.
He couldn’t blame them. Rancor and mistrust were the only things that peculiar
group of individuals had to offer to a man like him.
“I need help,” Genji said quietly as if being able to read his older brother’s
mind. His gentle voice and his serene elocution successfully concealed the fact
that he still understood Hanzo’s stubbornness like no one else. His countless
attempts had led him nowhere – it was time to approach the situation from a
different angle. “I’m going after the Widowmaker, brother. But I’m afraid I
can’t do this on my own.”
“Why don’t you call your friends?” The archer spat disdainfully, and even if
Genji’s face was concealed behind his mask, Hanzo could have sworn his younger
brother was smiling back at him.
Being the ex-heir to a criminal empire, the older Shimada didn’t need to be
debriefed on what Talon was or the sort of jobs they were interested in. Nor
was it necessary for Genji to explain who the Widowmaker was or why she was so
dangerous. But where others saw a blinding death wish, Genji saw an
opportunity; the biggest chance for his brother to be accepted into the
comforting arms of Overwatch. Only thing was, for his plan to work, reality
needed to be adjusted just a little.
“She knows them all too well by now, the team can’t afford to be anticipated by
this woman. We need to surprise her. We need to show her skills she hasn’t seen
before.”
The charade was working. Hanzo scratched his chin in silent contemplation –
even after all those years, it was still hard for a man like him to resist the
luring call of flattery when it came to everything he was capable of while in
the battlefield. Plus, if Genji was telling the truth, it was just going to be
the two of them against the woman, and even if she was indeed dangerous, the
archer suddenly felt quite positive that the two Shimada brothers alone could
put an end to her days as a Talon asset.
The idea seemed delightful for Hanzo: sniper against sniper; the chance to
fight fire with fire. His brother by his side; and no other sides involved. No
foreign eyes to pry into him or his intentions; neither doubtful looks nor
rancorous faces to tell him off.
It was a little too good to be true, he knew, but Genji didn’t give him any
time for his wary mind to ponder.
“Tomorrow night in Lille, France. She’s using the old Église Saint André as her
personal base of operations. Only two Talon operatives are with her.” The
younger Shimada informed him before leaving a plane ticket on Hanzo’s counter.
By the time the archer had picked the folded piece of paper, his brother was
already gone.
The events of the following night in the cold winds of October hadn’t gone any
differently. By the time the archer had successfully reduced the Widowmaker and
captured her, his brother was already gone.
It had been too easy, he should have seen it coming from a mile away; it had
been, indeed, too good to be true. Taking out the two operatives had been
rather simple: the second they saw the brothers coming they started to fire
their weapons at them but Genji simply deflected their bullets, hurting them
with their own rounds and from that point on, it only took one of Hanzo’s
scatter arrows to finish them off. The woman put up a fight for as long as she
could but eventually fell, subjugated by the skills both brothers had been
honing since they were but little children.
Genji flanked her, Hanzo captured her: the intricate mechanism of the brothers
uniting their abilities towards the same end still functioned with the
precision of a clock.
Genji handcuffed the blue-skinned woman and both brothers walked back to the
entrance of the church; the deceased Talon operatives were nothing but an
extinguished distraction back then.
“What now?” The archer asked, brushing his right shoulder with his left hand.
He waited for his brother to answer but the only sound that was left to be
heard in the cold October night was the woman’s laugh, quiet at first but
gradually becoming louder as seconds went by. He knew he should have said no,
knew he should have overcome the ancestral need to prove himself superior. His
brother, after cheating death, had been graced by a stronger body, his
instincts had been augmented – there was no reason for him to doubt Genji’s
capability. But no, he had said yes, he had accepted – partially because his
truncated dreams were still telling him that he had something to show,
something to prove. Partially because his consciousness would not leave him be,
and knowing his brother was willing to put himself at arm’s length as an
attempt to satisfy the morals of an organization that was still very much
illegal was not something Hanzo was comfortable with.
It was still little when compared to the collection of things he had single-
handedly taken away from Genji. Yet it still was something; a first step maybe.
The sounds of the Widowmaker’s laughter quickly dissipated once the aircraft
landed in front of them. The faces emerging from the ship were unfamiliar for
the archer yet they all shared the same puzzled expression: it was clear he was
not the one they were hoping to find.
Confused grimaces quickly turned into darker, muted accusations. It was
painfully obvious that even if he didn’t know their names they knew who he was
and what he had done.
The first one who dared talk to him was a small, short-haired woman. She
clicked her tongue as if looking for some extra courage to speak; she seemed
clearly distressed by Hanzo’s unexpected presence.
“What are you doing here? Where is Genji?” she asked in her unmistakable
British accent.
Only then, when the perplexed archer was still struggling for words while
Tracer, Winston and Reinhardt were closing in on him, the cyborg ninja
descended from the copula where he was observing the scene and, with just one
smooth movement of his silver hands, greeted his comrades.
“What is he doing here?” The woman asked, still visibly moved by Hanzo’s mere
presence – only not in a good way. Her expression had lighted nonetheless now
that she was seeing Genji with her own brown eyes.
“He…” The younger Shimada began as he snaked one of his arms around his
brother’s neck – “He captured the Widowmaker; I merely helped with a couple
Talon operatives. Hanzo is the real hero here.”
The archer flinched under his brother’s cold touch; it didn’t take much longer
for the older Shimada to be free of Genji’s affectionate gesture. He stared at
the group in silence, not exactly sure of what to say to them. Yes, it was true
that he had been the one reducing and capturing their primary target yet that
word… that word was still not meant to be his.
From that point on, everything happened so fast. The archer, reduced to a
perfect nonplus, witnessed their smiles and received their congratulations.
They were suddenly trying to make him feel welcome; make him feel like
he belonged. He recalled his brother’s words, “it is time to pick a side,” he
had said. The thought was unsettling for the nearly forty-year-old archer:
Genji had made the choice for him and even if the weight of a war that wasn’t
even his was slowly leaving him, another part of him was still trying hard to
fight the last bastions of an indoctrination he thought he had left behind.
In a matter of seconds, they were airborne. The ship was leading the team back
to Gibraltar and, along with them; the captured Widowmaker – still handcuffed
in the back of the aircraft – was quickly becoming the first trophy earned in
the crusade against Talon.
Hanzo sat down right next to the blue-skinned woman and inspected her: he
couldn’t help but to feel the concurrence of their paths united, even if only
briefly, even if only circumstantially, now that they were both being led to a
place where they surely didn’t want to be.
“It’s a shame you’ve chosen them…” Widowmaker whispered as soon as she noticed
the archer seated next to her. “We’ve been watching you for some time now; I
was certain that a man like you could only choose our side… Guess I was wrong.”
She leaned in closer, even when her movements were restricted: “Anyway, from
one sniper to another: I never really liked the whole concept of competition,
so maybe it’s better this way. I like a good challenge; besides – blood will
always be blood. Can’t blame you for choosing your brother…”
“I didn’t choose Genji – I was played by him.” Hanzo retorted with his usual
stern expression.
“Keep telling yourself that, Shimada…” Widowmaker whispered again as she looked
the other way, “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” The archer furrowed his
brow but he didn’t say a word, he knew it was pointless to try and have a
discussion with that venomous woman. He stood up and left her side but as he
motioned to leave, his left arm brushed slightly against hers – it was cold as
ice and smooth as silk. She didn’t even care to look at him as he left; in a
way, it almost seemed as if she was incapable of addressing the fact that he
had touched her, even if involuntarily. There was something intriguing about
that woman, he quickly acknowledged: something about her eyes, something about
that cold, blue skin of hers. Blood will always be blood, she had said only
moments ago, and yet the few moments they had shared were enough for Hanzo to
believe that blood wasn’t exactly running through her veins. Not anymore.
.
.
.
II – The look in their eyes
It wasn’t the first time Gibraltar had had to endure the aftershocks of an
unexpected commotion. Life after the recall still felt new and uncertain. Many
new members had been recruited and some old faces had already shown up,
answering a call that not only meant the chance to right their wrongs but also,
the ever seducing possibility of a brand new start. But when the ship touched
ground all of those faces coincided into one massive expression of surprise:
they all knew the mission was risky; capturing the Widowmaker was not meant to
be an easy task yet they had all hoped for the best. Genji was a strong,
capable asset; after all, they were positive the cyborg ninja was the right man
for the job.
But Genji wasn’t on the ship.
It was as hard for Winston to explain that Hanzo had been the one responsible
for bringing her in as it was for the rest of the Overwatch members to
assimilate the news. The look in their eyes was unmistakably speaking of a
subtle sense of mistrust: was he one of them now? They all knew Genji had
forgiven his older brother; he had been quite vocal about his intentions: he
wanted his brother to join their cause so they all knew, deep down; there was
no real reason for them to be so surprised by the archer’s presence.
They accepted him. Even if there was neither a celebration nor an official
statement about his brand new status as an Overwatch member they all welcomed
him – each in their own way. The younger ones, the ones closer to his brother,
were cautious and suspicious whenever he was around. The older ones, the ones
who still carried the weight of past mistakes and countless regrets wrapped him
up in silence. It was not an uncomfortable silence, though; far from it – it
was more of a quiet lullaby for a man that had been alone for far too long.
The first days were the hardest ones.
He was still trying to decipher his own motivations: why was he there? Why
couldn’t he leave, and just go back to the life of the penitent mercenary that
he had embraced years ago?
Every hour was an act of concomitant introspection for him, but most of them
didn’t seem to know and those who knew, didn’t seem to care. “You could be
mistaken for any piece of furniture here!” Lena had joked one day, trying to at
least get him to say something – anything, in return. The only reaction she had
gotten from him had been his thin lips, pressed hard into a tight line and yet
more silence. He stood up and left the room, his pace calm yet lacking a clear
destination.
There was only one notion and one notion alone resting inside the archer’s
mind: this new version of Overwatch was still operating in the shadows; they
didn’t have any real authority, any real jurisdiction to keep the Widowmaker
confined inside a distant room in the last wing of the facility’s Med Bay. But
that was exactly what they were doing.
“What’s going to happen to her now?” He asked Ana one day.
“We’ll see…” The one-eyed sniper let out quietly.
He was a complete stranger to their history. But he was positive there had
once been history.
The look in their eyes was irrevocably indiscreet when it came to that
treacherous woman, or so it seemed. There were flashes of an old, heartbreaking
pity inside their eyes. Tints and hues lacking real color but still talking
about a shared past. If feelings were colors, he was rather sure what they felt
for him was nothing but a dull, lackluster shade of gray. Yet the Widowmaker
was a sepia-colored flag for them; nostalgic and evocative, pure and corrupted,
everlasting and yet, definitive.
She had been brainwashed by Talon, and she had killed her own husband.
It was a Tuesday afternoon when he finally learned those two intimate secrets
about her. He had gotten up early, just like every other morning. After a light
breakfast, the cool breeze of Gibraltar’s dawning hours had found him training
alongside Reinhardt. It’s not that they were actually training together – it
was more like they were simply occupying the same space.
Hanzo’s armored boots were not enough for the archer to successfully climb atop
the old antenna facing the bay. The older Shimada fell rather brusquely, even
when the German engineer had tried to help him by raising his shield as an
attempt to mitigate the effects of the unexpected impact to some extent.
Forcing his shoulders and neck forwards to maintain stability, Hanzo’s left
ankle touched ground in a rather unnatural position; the gestures of pain and
discomfort getting instantly written all over the archer’s face.
A concerned Reinhardt tried to assist him but Hanzo flinched, and refused,
frustrated by his own misfortune.
“You should let Angela take a look at that ankle…” Reinhardt suggested before
picking up his fallen shield. Hanzo sighed inaudibly but obliged, finally
allowing the German warrior to put both his hands on his broad shoulders to
help him up.
Reinhardt left him right outside the infirmary door. There was a silent
understanding inside the old man’s eyes; as if subtly telling Hanzo that he
wouldn’t tell a soul about his clumsy climbing session. The archer nodded and
offered Reinhardt the first genuine gesture of approval and appreciation ever
since joining Overwatch: a minuscule pat on the shoulder; concomitant and shy
but powerful and intrinsically symbolic all the same.
It only took him a couple of seconds to understand why they would all refer to
Mercy as a true miracle worker.
The touch of her hands turned out to be gentle and balsamic. The softness in
her eyes was truly mesmerizing, almost as if she could understand everything
about everyone. Forgiving.  Calming.  The pain in his damaged ankle disappeared
with mere seconds of her staff and only a few adjustments from her fingers. He
considered, if only for a moment, to let her know about his delicate ankles, a
condition that had always accompanied him, even during his childhood years –
only now, pushing forty, the ache in his bones felt worse than ever – Even if
the repulsion he had always felt towards doctors was still pretty much alive
inside of him, those gentle eyes and that tender smile of hers were making him
believe that maybe, just maybe, she could actually help him.
His silent elucubrations faded from his mind the second the yellow luminescence
emanating from Mercy’s staff had ceased to exist.
Ana entered the room, a worried expression written all over her face.
“She’s up,” she said, “I think it’s time…”
Hanzo left the stretcher instinctually; he didn’t need much to
understand who they were talking about. With both feet on the ground, the
archer noted his pain was gone, yet the uncertainty regarding that woman was
persistent. He was about to leave the infirmary when the old sniper placed her
hands on his shoulders and made him turn around to see her:
“We might need some help. We could use a strong man like you, Shimada.” She
caressed his broad shoulders as cold sweat ran down his spine. Ana guided him
through the Medical Bay until they stopped in front of the last door, still
waiting for Angela to join them. When the Swiss doctor appeared on the scene,
she was carrying a small black box and a white, disposable bag.
Ana produced a rusty-looking key from one of her coat pockets and opened the
door – the room was silent; the curtains were closed, preventing light – life –
to visit that woman resting on the stretcher. Mercy leaned in and examined the
Widowmaker’s lifeless eyes while Ana opened the black box to fill two different
syringes with their respective vials.
Standing alone and confused in the back of the room, Hanzo scratched the back
of his neck. He had no idea what was going on or what was exactly going to
happen to that woman from that point on yet he couldn’t help but feel
distraught and discomforted by the eerie scenes he was being forced to witness.
“Is she dead?” he asked, even when he remembered Ana saying that the Widowmaker
was up only mere minutes ago.
It was the one-eyed sniper the one who came clean to him about the French
woman.
She had been brainwashed by Talon, and she had killed her own husband.
“I need you to hold her in place for me, Hanzo,” Mercy addressed him with the
same soft tone adorning her voice. “Can you do that for me?” It was like she
was talking to a small child, too frightened to even look in her direction.
When the muscles in his legs finally found the strength to move his body
towards the stretcher, Ana indicated him to hold the Widowmaker by her
shoulders. It wasn’t like she was able to move, anyways, he thought as he
obliged.  There were cables and wires all around her body; monitors beeping
with the sounds of artificial miracles. They had tied her legs and her arms at
the sides of the bed, it wasn’t like she was going to break free from their
unusual imprisonment and yet they needed a man to hold her in place all the
same.
Mercy grabbed one of the syringes and looked him in the eye as if silently
asking him not to judge her for the actions she was about to do. The good
doctor was now telling him all about medical procedures; explaining a
collection of notions involving multiple chemicals and powerful sedatives.
The first injection was meant to erase Talon’s corruption from her brain.
The second one was a sedative; the sleeping potion that would help her rest
until the process was complete.
He placed both his hands on the sides of the Widowmaker’s slender shoulders –
at first, his touch was barely connecting with the woman. But as his eyes found
hers, Hanzo buried his fingertips in her cold, blue skin. As the needle
approached her neck, the Widowmaker’s eyes found an anchor in Hanzo’s
incredulous stare: that was the first time he saw her fight.
It should have been a premonition: she wasn’t fighting because she didn’t want
to give up her days as a Talon agent – she was fighting because, deep down, she
knew what they were trying to do: they were going to try and retrieve the woman
she had been before Talon.
Even when her body was completely still, her eyes were begging him to stop
them. The pain of becoming Amélie again was unimaginable for her. The
Widowmaker, even if supposedly unable to feel anything, feared Amélie – she was
scared of the one she had been before, scared of everything the Widowmaker had
taken away from that woman.
As the vial disappeared from the syringe, Mercy tried hard not to look at
Hanzo. Instead, she busied herself with yet more clinical explanations, as if
trying to justify herself, as if trying to reaffirm her reasons for doing what
she was doing.
Hanzo closed his eyes thinking that maybe Overwatch was nothing but a
consortium of weeping souls seeking all sorts of redemptions. Maybe that was
why his brother had wanted him to join their cause, after all. To bring him
closer to a sense of redemption he still felt alien. When he opened his eyes,
the second needle was already going through the Widowmaker’s skin. Her eyes,
still fighting their peaceful kind of inner war, were still breaking his heart:
even if completely still, even if completely silent, he had never seen someone
fighting so fiercely, not even when they got her, not even when they brought
her in. And even when the cold numbers were stating that her kill count was
bigger than his, her current situation was making him feel a nostalgia so
ancient and unparalleled, powerful enough to bring tears to his tired eyes.
One last spasm of her body. One last shock of adrenaline to run through her
system. Then she closed her eyes and the skin beneath his fingers relaxed; as
if laxly indicating the man it was time to let go. The green line in the
monitors coming to life every once in a while: she was still alive; even when
her cold body was stating otherwise. He let go of her and moved away from the
stretcher. He understood the cold; he understood the blue. Sleeping peacefully
now and traveling through the oneiric lands of artificial slumber, that woman
had silently asked for his help – her skin, colder than ever, had fought its
final fight – a warmer skin would wake her now; the laconic comeback of the one
she had ceased to be.
He didn’t wait for those women to tell him he was free to go.
Hanzo abandoned the Medical Bay with the image of those eyes of hers buried
deep inside of him. She wasn’t fighting them; she was only fighting to get
to him. The fear inside of her was the same fear he had always felt inside of
him – the fear of becoming the ones they were before, the ones before losing it
all.
And now that he knew her story, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for that woman.
Unlike him, she hadn’t been born a killer.
.
.
.
III – Broken toys
Even if the voices in his head were telling him not to, he still went to visit
her every day. Early in the morning, right after his training; and half an hour
before going to bed each night. Even if she was still under the effects of the
sedatives, too far from him in the land of fabricated slumber, he felt glad to
know that every light; every sign flashing through those lifeless monitors was
stating that she was doing fine.
The blue and the cold gradually left her skin as days went by.
The color fading little by little was such a fascinating sight to see, he
pondered.
It took her three weeks to wake up. Three weeks to go back to normal. Three
weeks for her body to reject the effects that Talon had tattooed all over her.
He was the first face she saw when she opened her eyes; the archer rose from
his chair and smiled, unexpectedly. Then ran to find Mercy, to share the good
news with everyone’s favorite doctor. He hadn’t felt so invested in someone
else’s story in what seemed to be a lifetime now and even when he still
couldn’t find the reasons why, it still felt right all the same.
Comforting. Warm.
He followed Mercy back to the Widowmaker’s room then opened the curtains to let
the light in – Angela leaned in and examined the woman, her blue eyes traveling
relentlessly from that body reacting on the stretcher to the monitors connected
to her being and vice versa.
“Can you tell me who you are? What is your name?” Mercy asked, unable to hide
her excitement: the blue and the cold of that woman’s skin was gone, it was the
first time she had successfully completed such a complicated procedure.
Removing Talon’s darkness from someone was tricky, she knew. There could always
be consequences.
“Amélie Lacroix.” Her tone was soft, drowsy. “Angela?”
Mercy smiled, satisfied. She could already see the woman she had known so long
ago inside those dilated pupils staring back at her. Amélie had recognized her.
Amélie was back.
“I need you to remain quiet while I check…” the doctor began, but the French
woman interrupted her.
“What’s going on, Angela? Why am I here, like this?”
Mercy looked at Hanzo and the archer moved nearer the stretcher. Amélie didn’t
even look at him but he understood it was only natural for the woman to act
that way; there would be time to explain, time to talk.
“Where is Gérard?”
Ana and Reinhardt entered the room just in time to hear Amélie’s bittersweet
question. Unable to answer, Mercy walked towards the stretcher and untied the
woman, helping her sit down with her back against the pillows. Amélie stared
into her blue eyes all the while, noticing the tears about to cascade down her
pale cheeks.
“Ana, what happened to your eye?” Amélie asked the second she saw the old
sniper. Reduced to a perfect nonplus, Ana held Hanzo by the hand, as if looking
for stability.
“You did,” Reinhardt said, looking down.
Amélie covered her mouth with her hands yet her eyes, still desperately trying
to get to Mercy, were begging for another answer.
“Angela, where is Gérard?” She insisted.
“You killed him, Amélie.” Mercy confessed, unable to contain her tears any
longer.
“No…” Amélie whispered to herself as she looked down at her own hands – the
sight of something so fragile, so small had her wondering whether that was true
or not; she had loved that man with all her heart – there was no way she could
have ended his life.
“You were brainwashed,” Ana explained, brokenhearted. Yet her words were not
enough to lessen the asphyxiating pain Amélie was feeling. “This is what they
do, this is what Talon is – they break people from the inside, you…”
“I killed my own husband.” Was all she could say, oblivious to the comforting,
soothing words Ana was trying to tell her.
Hanzo, with his back glued to the nearest wall, saw the storm gathering inside
her eyes. Saw the unleashed fury, the uncontainable fear, the trepidation, the
anger. The sadness; those rainy eyes were about to drown them all in an ocean
of impotence.
She was a broken vessel. Nothing more than a beautiful, broken vessel. The
fiery woman he had crafted inside his imagination was no more. He doubted if
she had ever even existed, maybe that stronger version of Amélie he had created
inside his mind during those three weeks of waiting for her to wake up had been
nothing but a palliative for his loneliness, meant to find hidden connections
and intricate metaphors between them.
He didn’t stay to see the storm when the first scream roared across the room.
All those connections were indeed there, towering over him, linking him to her
in a bridge that was less romantic and much darker than what he had
anticipated. The romanticism of their bond was nonexistent, the pinkish ribbons
that should have adorned the lace connecting them were gone alongside the blue
of her skin.
It’s not that he had been expecting to find love inside her eyes – far from
that; the feeling was still too peculiar, too forbidden for a man like him. The
romance he had expected to find in her, the romanticism in the nature of their
bond was deeply rooted in a common past; in a condensed, unified suffering.
But she was nothing but an empty vessel.
He left the room in silence, only to glue his back to the deserted walls of the
corridor, his legs failing him, his body sliding down to the floor.
Alone and disheartened, the archer heard the symphony of her feelings being
unleashed, lacerating his ears and devastating what was left of his tortured
soul. He covered his eyes with his hands, yet he soon found himself realizing
that the sounds that followed could have easily belonged in the scenes of
mundane life inside a mental institution.
Her screams and her fury were his own screams and his own fury, way back then,
once adrenaline had abandoned his body and he could finally see the image of a
broken Genji lying on the bloodied floor of Hanamura.
He had broken him.
He had broken his own brother.
Amélie’s screams gradually mutated, becoming softer in time, weaker. The silent
tension emanating from her profound cries was becoming contagious, enveloping
his body in the same uneasy shivering ricocheting through the inside of that
room. Then she wept, like a helpless child.
Then there was only silence.
Alone in that deserted, empty corridor, Hanzo realized there was nothing around
him – there was no light, no darkness, no outside, no inside.
Only Amélie’s demons, summoning his own old demons.
As he stood up and left that dreadful place he finally understood the irony of
their story: Gérard and Genji, those they had broken with their own hands to
answer the call of someone else’s wishes and orders were not the broken toys in
their troublesome tale.
They were.
.
.
.
IV – A certain talent for sin
“You should train her,” Ana suggested one morning over breakfast. “It could
help her feel useful again.”
It had been more than a week since Amélie had learnt the truth about her days
as a Talon agent and, even if he still had had neither the heart nor the
strength to come visit her after the incidents in the Medical Bay of the
facility, he doubted the woman was ready to become a deadly sniper once again.
“A man with your sense of commitment and discipline is exactly what she needs
right now.” Ana went on, certain that the French woman could handle the heat.
Hanzo shook his head as his hands embraced the hot mug of coffee resting right
in front of him.
“I can try,” he began, sounding distant and indifferent, “but I doubt this is
what she wants.” Ana furrowed her eyebrows but nodded nonetheless. “It’s too
soon, and you know it.” Hanzo sentenced coldly.
“I know, but she could use the distraction.” The old sniper retorted with such
motherly concern in her voice.
“She barely remembers who she is; she has no recollection of her days as a
Talon operative.” The Japanese archer indicated before finishing his coffee.
“Muscle memory…” was all Ana said before getting up and leaving him alone with
his thoughts. “We can’t undo the things she’s done – but maybe her skills can
be retrieved and used for something good.” He heard her say as she walked away.
The way she had said those final words had been abrasive – collecting from him
an unexpected impact that left him breathless. In a way, it was like she was
also talking about him: it was impossible for Hanzo to undo the terrible things
he had done. In their eyes, they were actually expecting him to help her
recover; they were actually expecting him to help her unbury her deadly skills
and her talents for sin.
Maybe that way he could also be retrieved from the darkness dwelling inside his
chest.
Maybe he could also be used for something good.
.
.
.
V – You (I see you)
Muscle memory... it would have been an option if Amélie had actually
shown any signs of interest. A whole month had passed since they had begun
training together and Amélie’s progress was simply nonexistent. The first week
she hadn’t even shown up. The second week Hanzo himself had gone looking for
her, and she had accepted to meet with him and talk about her training. Despite
the fact that she wasn’t interested in training per se, a part of him felt
grateful that the woman had been polite enough as to not tell him off right
away.
She listened when he told her who he was, and why they wanted him to help her
with her training. She stared at him, nodding her head every now and then as if
to prove him she was paying attention to his every word. A simple gesture of an
education and nothing more, he acknowledged, finding himself inside the mirror
of her innocuous attitude.  
The third week she had come to him.
She had found him alone, his naked shoulders kissed by the orange lights of the
sunset. His bow and the quiver of arrows resting quietly by his side. He was
facing the bay, too absorbed in the maze of his own mind to notice her
approaching. When her shadow covered him, he turned around to meet her: she was
carrying her sniper rifle in one of her hands; her grappling hook in the other.
“I thought you didn’t want this.” Was all he could say.
The woman sat down beside him; acknowledging the beauty in that landscape
before them that had captivated him only moments ago. Her eyes got lost in the
waters before her; as if trying to undress the horizon stretching itself into
the untouchable distance. She didn’t say a word; she couldn’t exactly discern
her own thoughts from the ones they were all projecting towards her. Her
expectations, the melancholic sadness in her eyes – as if trying to summon the
woman she had been, and embellish her with the skills of the one she was no
more. Feeling a stranger inside herself, an undefined travesty of foreign
personalities, Amélie took a deep breath and let her rifle rest right next to
Hanzo’s bow.
“I don’t.” She whispered after a while.
“Whenever my brother and I were angry or frustrated while growing up, we would
go to the Dojo, and let our weapons do the talking.” He said, biting his lower
lip and trying hard not to remember that perhaps, way back then, his weapon had
been much too loud for him to listen carefully to the things it had to say
instead of succumbing to his darkest impulses.
After that day she was on time for their training sessions, but little had
changed. She never even touched her weapon. She would only stare at it from a
comfortable distance and wait for Hanzo to tell her she was free to go. As
exasperating as it was, the archer couldn’t help but to feel confused by her:
she still wasn’t even remotely interested in picking up the gun and honing
those skills that had once been hers yet she was there with him, every day –
every single day.
Perhaps she was lonely.
Perhaps she could feel he was lonely too.
Perhaps she could sense the void, the fragile frontier of those struggling to
find their place in a foreign land.
The fourth week had been slow and repetitive – the scene was pretty much the
same: Hanzo was still the only one training, and Amélie was still the one
sitting alone, facing the bay. The rifle resting right next to her hand – so
close, yet so far.
One day Hanzo kneeled down in front of her; “You know they won’t offer you a
behind-the-desk position, right?” he placed his hands on her knees but the
woman looked away, as if ashamed. Sighing, the archer picked up her gun and
guided one of her hands to it; the instinctive thumb finding the trigger rather
quickly. She stared into his deep brown eyes; she could see his chest in the
scope.
He told her his story. By the time he was done, he could feel the tip of the
gun pressed hard against his heart but she wasn’t the one directing the weapon
– he was.
Amélie flinched but Hanzo’s grip was strong. Only minutes ago she had despised
that very same weapon and now Hanzo’s life was in her hands.
Hanzo understood the danger and even when he knew his strategy was risky, to
say the least, he needed to know for sure that the Widowmaker was gone, that
the woman in front of him was just Amélie – that the vessel was, indeed, empty.
He needed to know that she wasn’t holding back; that she wasn’t fighting the
residual effects of Talon’s corruption. The tears falling from her eyes and
streaming down her face were giving testimony of this: the vessel was empty.
The Widowmaker was gone.
The archer let go of her hand and the rifle fell down to the ground. He
collected her in his arms effortlessly, lending her a shoulder for her to cry
on. Something about that woman was truly fascinating, and for the first time,
his thoughts were clear enough for him to translate them into words.
“I wish my own corruption could be removed like yours was. To be able to wake
up one day without knowing what I’ve done; without the memories, without the
nightmares.”
She broke the embrace but the look in her eyes was cold as ice. His honesty had
wounded her. His words had hurt her.
“You are the embodiment of second chances, Amélie,” he went on, trying his best
to make her see that his words weren’t meant to hurt her, “you make me believe
that if you can find your place in this world after everything you’ve been
through – then maybe I can too.”
She stood up and kicked her rifle off the cliff – the weapon disappeared in the
blue waters, never to be found again.
“You’re only doing what’s easier for you – you’re living your life through
somebody else’s life.” She stated coldly. It was impossible for the shaken man
to tell if she was actually angry at him or not – a curtain of dull gray had
taken over her face, masquerading her every emotion. “Learn from your mistakes,
archer. You’ve already been here before, you’ve already lived your life
according to the plans the Shimada clan had for you when you should have
lived your life; you should have been the man you wanted to be, not the
man they needed you to be. Going down that road should have already proven to
you that choosing the easy way out always brings the hardest, most difficult
repercussions.” She turned around to leave but she froze in place after just a
couple steps. Without facing him, she asked:
“You always talk about your brother and you while growing up in Hanamura. You
talk about the Dojo, and how fighting was always the best option. Tell me,
Hanzo, do you have any memories of you and your brother that are not related to
weapons, or fights, or violence?”
Only then she dared look inside his eyes.
“Do you remember the real sounds of his laughter? The type of women he liked?
His favorite meal? His deepest fear?”
He didn’t.
He had spent so much time mourning a glorified memory that the real memory had
faded and vanished inside him.
“I remember Gérard. His favorite color was blue, he didn’t like ballet but he
was always encouraging. Thunderstorms made him uncomfortable, just like talking
on the phone. I remember how his hands were always warm and that he would
always bring me my favorite cake after a long period of absence, or maybe a box
of chocolates, depending on the occasion. Chocolates meant I missed you; the
cake… the cake was more of a heartfelt I’m sorry. He never really explained
this code to me, never got the chance, really. I just figured it out, as years
went by, you know?”
Amélie wiped the tears still cascading down her cheeks as she walked back and
stood right in front of him. She caressed his forehead and his protruding
cheekbones with salty, wet fingers.
“Which one of us is the empty vessel, then?”
.
.
.
VI – Spiderdragon
That night he couldn’t sleep. He turned and tossed in bed countless times yet
slumber was still elusive. Looking at the ceiling, the archer wondered where
she was, what she was doing now, why she had affected him so much. The simple
trigger of vacant memories assaulted him with the wrath of a hundred demons –
he struggled to remember the smallest things about his brother but he came up
short every time. What was Genji’s favorite color, the name of his best friend,
the last gift he had gotten him for his birthday – all of Hanzo’s missing
answers were now lost in a nebula of extinguished moments.
He got up and covered his body with a black robe. The nocturnal chill of
Gibraltar’s midnight hour enveloped the thin material rather quickly; the cold,
silken sensation brushing against his skin.
Hanzo stepped into the dimly lit corridor determined to make his way to the
kitchen. But as his feet ventured the deserted corners of the base, the sounds
of his loneliness were met by another sound – a cascade of chords and harmonies
coming from one of the storage deposits. It was music. Soft yet irrevocably
dramatic; magical – but intrinsically dark.
He found her dancing alone. The sounds coming from the small device had become
her compass in a world that wasn’t hers anymore. The weak streams of moonlight
fighting their way through the old, filthy curtains were enough to eclipse her
saddened face.
She didn’t notice him approaching. The silent spectator of her own private
ballet, mesmerized and confused.
She was on her tiptoes; her arms like broken wings trying to soar in the night.
The death of the swan. Those wings coming to life only to die again; their
agony and their jubilee only meant to be fleeting; the circle of life as the
overture of death and vice versa.
“I knew you weren’t being sincere.” The archer let out. His jawline was rigid –
inside his eyes, there was no candor, no emotions.
Unfeeling.
Amélie turned off the music and placed her hands on both his shoulders but the
man took a step back, separating his body from hers.
“You don’t remember how to pull a trigger but you remember an entire
choreography.”
“Hanzo, you don’t understand,”
“I do.” He spat disdainfully. “Like the language, for example. I asked Ana. She
told me you could barely form a sentence in English while you were married to
Gérard. Your fluency in the language was yet another one of Talon’s traits.”
He needed reasons to be angry at her even when he knew the ballerina had
preceded the sniper, even when he knew that maybe Ana had been wrong. That
woman standing right in front of him had undressed his fears and had played
with his emotions – all of his uneasiness was contained inside the shape of
her; dressed as her, molded by her. She tried to speak but the man didn’t let
her; he simply left the room and left her there. Alone.
But not for long.
Her steps were quick and determined. She moved now with a clear destination.
Amélie followed him through the facility until she found him standing alone,
facing the bay.
“Overwatch, Talon, your family… it’s all the same, Hanzo; can’t you see it?”
She demanded, not ready to make eye contact yet close, near, as if asking that
cold man for permission. “Why are you here, Hanzo? If you don’t want to be
here, if you don’t belong with these people, why don’t you just leave?”
He turned around and stared into her eyes,
“Why are you here, Amélie?”
“I want to stay close to those who knew him.” She answered, honestly.
“He’s gone. He’s not coming back.”
The woman surrounded him then, her hands stopping midair, as if afraid to touch
him. She moved closer to the edge and picked up his bow and the quiver of
arrows he had forgotten there that afternoon after their fight. With the poise
and the elegance of a professional, the woman readied one of the arrows and
aimed for his heart.
“You should treat me better, archer. I was your golden ticket after all.” She
said.
“What are you doing?” Hanzo asked, challenging.
“Muscle memory.” She replied, noticing the arrow trembling only inches away
from her face. “It’s all the same, Hanzo, we’re still their puppets. They
couldn’t just kill me; they needed to reform me, they needed to prove the world
they were better than the one I was. They couldn’t even hand me over a higher
authority because, technically, Overwatch doesn’t even exist anymore.”
She was right.
The machine of better pasts and memories of a time that was never coming back
known as Overwatch had played them. Their manufactured redemptions had stopped
the clocks, had made them go back in time in their own way.
And yet the dichotomy between them was still alive, as if completely alien to
time and its complex mechanism. As if unable to let go. She had killed her
husband but she hadn’t felt anything while she was ending Gérard’s life – he
had almost killed his brother but he had felt everything. There was no escaping
their realities – she wanted to feel what he had felt, she wanted the option of
actual tears, the option of actually knowing what had happened that day. Hanzo
wanted to forget. Everything he had felt that day was still stirring inside of
him; the memory of a broken Genji was still stronger than the fact that his
brother had cheated death; his brother was still alive.
Hanzo lowered his head as Amélie let the bow fall down to the ground. The arrow
clicked helplessly against the concrete; unused. Then she motioned towards him,
placing her arms around his neck and his shoulders.
She was exactly like him, he thought. She was not a second chance; she was no
redemption.
The blue shades that had abandoned her skin were now vividly present in his
arm. It was as if the elaborate patterns and creatures tattooed on his skin
were actually trying to come to life. Unable to look away, Amélie was left with
no other choice than to accept the fact that the ink inside his system was,
indeed, pulsating right through him, awakening something inside. He knew the
feeling all too well; he knew what was going to happen. He closed his eyes and
tried to control it; his senses trying to hold on to that fragile woman in his
arms. As the wind blew harder in the night, the woman observed the storm
gathering inside that man and the thunder emanating from his arm. The shape was
whimsical at first, yet it was magnificent all the same. The mesmerizing blue
luminescence coming from those hazy shapes was the most beautiful thing she had
ever seen.
She knew she should have been afraid. Knew she should have run.
Yet never in her life had she experienced something so magical; never in her
life had she witnessed something so beautiful.
She brushed her lips against his then shifted her body inside his warm embrace,
unable to look away from the blue light emanating from his arm.
“You taste like blood; and pain.” She said.
He fought his anger, as he tried to reassure himself that she wasn’t the source
of his own nightmares. Tried to savor the taste of her lips on his lips but the
moment had already passed him by; the gesture had been bittersweet – sour and,
above all things, not meant to be his.
“So do you, Amélie.” That was all he could say. He closed his eyes as he prayed
for his dragon to be benevolent. He knew there was no turning back now; the
beast was struggling – it wanted out; it needed out. Hanzo held on tight to her
with his free hand, her mouth agape, contemplating the man fighting the spirit.
When the beast appeared her irises turned blue; the reflection of its perfect
shape embedded inside her bewildered gaze. It all happened so fast. The dragon
was gone before she could bring her mind to fully understand what was going on:
the man and the beast were but a single being; intertwined in a divine sense of
protection for the archer to be safe from the world outside; to be safe from
the biggest threat of all: himself.
As the light faded, though not yet completely, the residual blue of the
creature shone its light across his skin. The spectacular carnival of shades,
shadows and color was vivid before her eyes. Amélie leaned in closer, gently
brushing Hanzo’s chin with her forehead and stretched one of her arms – her
fingers reaching out for that light; reaching out for that blue.
It wasn’t the same blue, she knew. It didn’t mean the same – his colors and her
colors, even if similar, were not the same.
The archer bit his bottom lip the second he felt her hand landing on his still
bright blue arm. She was fascinated by the beast and all its shades of blue. It
stung. It hurt. It was a pain she couldn’t quite describe, not with words – it
was a kind of torture she was sure, wasn’t meant to be endured by a simple
mortal.
As the blue light disappeared completely, the woman removed her hand from his
arm and took a good look at it: a bloody palm was all she could see but that
wasn’t all; the effects of her romancing the dragon had also marked him, traces
of her were still scattered across his arm – her blood on his skin.
She looked him in the eye, then.
Silence had never said so much.
.
.
.
VII – Tenses (imperfectpastfuture)
December found them rather quickly.
Even when no more words had been spoken between them after that night, and
Amélie’s training sessions had ended due to her evident lack of interest, the
snowy season finally had come for everyone to take a break. None of the members
of the new Overwatch remained there, in Gibraltar, during those days. They all
had a destination – a friend they were longing to see; a family to go back to.
Amélie was the first to leave.
She walked around Paris for days, trying to remember the moments she had spent
with Gérard. Her trail of memories and lost instants led her straight to his
grave – there she kneeled down, her hands on her own chest.
Gérard Lacroix; treasured friend, beloved husband.
She collected herself from the ashes of a grief she couldn’t even remember. Of
all the missing pieces of the puzzle that was her past, Gérard’s grave was the
first solid clue to finding who she was meant to be now. No longer the loving
wife; no longer the deadly sniper. Maybe an agent of good; maybe the one to
finish what Gérard had started, maybe the one to hunt them down – the real
masterminds behind Gérard’s cruel execution – and make them pay for what they
had done to him – and her.
Hanzo packed his bags ceremoniously and traveled to South America.
Her words still rang in his ears with the vehemence of everything that is
undeniable:
“You’ve already been here before, you’ve already lived your life according to
the plans the Shimada clan had for you when you should have lived your life;
you should have been the man you wanted to be, not the man they needed you to
be.”
It was time for the archer to dust off the one they had buried inside of him –
time for the one he was meant to be to finally reach the outside, to breathe
some air, to shape his body and his soul with the forms and the colors that
should have been his and his alone.
He started with the outside.
He cut his hair, and he even got a piercing: a nose bridge. There was even an
earring adorning the contour of his face now.
Then it was time for the inside.
It was time to try the traditions of a different culture; time to wander the
streets without a clear destination, without a hurried pace. It was time for
spicy food and forbidden sweets.
He didn’t think of her during his trip. His new liberty was all he could see;
displayed right in front of his eyes. Until that evening, as he was making his
way back to the hotel where he was staying at. That cake caught his eye; so
tempting and nearly self-indulgent.
There was something comforting about pastries, he mused, smiling quietly to
himself.
Like simple pleasures, like ordinary sins.
Chocolate, whipped cream and strawberries. Nothing more, nothing less.
Alone in his room, the archer fantasized about the idea of not going back to
Gibraltar – of traveling the world alone, trying to find a deeper sense of
introspection that could, in time, reunite him with himself. The vigorous,
renewed version of himself he was discovering was full of surprises; going back
to a life of duty and obligations seemed vague and pointless now. He looked
down and grinned softly: Genji had done such incredible things to have him near
– his brother had gone to such extraordinary lengths for them to be finally
reunited. Perhaps Overwatch wasn’t the best option for them, but it clearly
meant something to Genji.
With time – and patience – it could mean something to him too.
.
.
.
VIII – Time and place
 
“On s'est connu, on s'est reconnu,
On s'est perdu de vue, on s'est r'perdu d'vue
On s'est retrouvé, on s'est réchauffé,
Puis on s'est séparé.”
 
When Hanzo returned to Gibraltar, it was already February. He had clearly taken
his time; had explored his every color, his every shape. The younger ones
smiled at his new looks, a sight that meant that they actually approved of his
detachment from all those things that had defined him before. The older ones
were not exactly fond of piercings – they could live with the tattoo; they
understood its meaning and its importance. But piercings and earrings…
The archer smiled tenderly as he made his way back to his designated room. The
feeling was surprising: even if he still didn’t feel home, this new arrival was
making him feel more at ease than the first time they had opened their doors
for him. No longer mistaken for a piece of furniture, the Japanese sniper soon
found himself realizing that maybe it was the first step.
Unlike before, now he was somebody. From that point on, it was completely up to
him to make them feel comfortable around him.
He rapidly resumed his daily routine of training and exercises. Even if it was
colder outside, he still chose to spend his nights facing the bay, alone with
his thoughts.
He saw her many times around the kitchen. Saw her talking to the rest of the
agents over breakfast; he even saw her joining their table for dinner most
nights. Her politeness was still there, embellishing her innate sense of
elegance yet no words were spoken – it was clear, after that night, things had
changed between them. She didn’t need him anymore: according to Winston, she
was now training under Ana’s indefatigable tutelage. She was finally
progressing, and soon she would be able to join them on their missions. She had
finally found her place – it was time for him to do the same.  
He was meditating with Genji that evening. Even if his brother had chosen a
different spot, Hanzo had no choice but to admit that the view from that side
of the building was absolutely captivating. The blue bay, seen from the outside
of the fuel storage unit, offered a quiet view of the waters below them. The
sun was setting on the horizon when Mercy came looking for Genji.
The cyborg ninja stood up and walked towards the doctor. The smile on Angela’s
face was enough for the archer to understand she wasn’t there to talk about
medicine or anything that could be considered as remotely clinical. They moved
away from Hanzo, yet their conversation reached the archer’s ears nonetheless:
“I got you some chocolates, Genji. Swiss; they’re the best.”
“Thank you, Angela. Perhaps… you could share them with me?”
Even when Genji’s face was covered by his helmet, Hanzo assumed his younger
brother was smiling under his visor. Genji accepted the little box of
chocolates that Angela had bought for him – then leaned in closer, and added:
“I have some chocolates for you too… not Swiss.”
The woman sighed, a sound Hanzo wasn’t expecting to hear.
“I suppose it would have to do. Thank you, Genji.” With that, the doctor left.
In a matter of seconds, Genji was kneeling down right next to his older
brother. One artificial index finger crossed the distance between them and
landed on Hanzo’s lips, as if begging his brother not to say a word about the
scene he had just witnessed.
The archer nodded, still unable to contain his laughter.
“Any chocolates today, brother?” the cyborg ninja asked as he got up to leave;
one of his hands landing on his older brother’s shoulder.
“Those were your amusements. Not mine.” Even when he wasn’t trying to sound
harsh his voice was still judgmental and definitive. Genji patted Hanzo’s
shoulder lightly before turning away to leave. The archer stayed there, by
himself, only the tender sounds of the waters moving below the stones remained
there, to keep him company.
He had never been interested in such a day.
Yet that day, when he got up in the morning, he had left the facility in order
to find a clear destination. A bakery. Something so mundane, so basic. He
bought the cake and left it by her door – no note, no message. Even when he
knew he was not Gérard, he still hoped she remembered her late husband’s code:
Chocolates meant I missed you; the cake… the cake was more of a heartfelt I’m
sorry.
He heard her heels approaching. The unmistakable sounds of her presence were
hard to ignore. He didn’t stand up; didn’t look over his shoulder. Eyes fixed
on the waves before him, and the unreachable horizon growing darker, blurrier
by the minute.
“So, this is where you hide now,” Amélie said as she sat down beside him.
“This is where I come when I’m feeling lonely.”
“So, this is where you live now.” She smiled.
A short-lived hmmm escaped his throat to express his disapproval. Broken pasts
and women with an attitude had never been his forte.
“I’m just going to assume you’re not currently looking for a roommate, then.”
They stayed like that for a while – sitting in silence, welcoming the night.
“Thank you, Hanzo.” Her voice broke the spell even when her eyes were still
absent, as if she was actually trying to reach that distant horizon stretching
itself before them. It was her very first Valentine’s Day as a widow – as
a conscious widow.
“I do remember Genji.” He confessed. “His favorite color is…”
“Green.” Amélie interrupted him.
“No, it’s actually orange. He was always a real player with the ladies, even
when most of his porn was animated…” His confession made her laugh and he
laughed too, finally relaxed. “One day, when we were little, our mother asked
us what we wanted to be in the future… I told her I wanted to be a
good kumicho, I couldn’t see another path for me; I was already indoctrinated…
But Genji wasn’t; Genji said he wanted to be an astronaut. And our mother told
him: “What are you going to do up there, so high up in space, all by yourself?”
He scratched the back of his head, looked her in the eye, and said: “Then I’m
going to be a pilot. The sky’s not as high as space; plus I wouldn’t be alone
on a plane with all the passengers. I think he was five; maybe six.” He
reminisced. “Looking back, I guess she was only trying to protect us from all
those things the clan had in store for us.”
“I’m sure she was,” she said, as she cupped his hands with her own. She stood
up after a while and placed a soft kiss on his forehead. “See you around,
Hanzo.” She whispered as she walked away.
“See you around, Amélie.” He whispered back.
Chapter End Notes
     Translation:
     “We knew each other, we recognized ourselves,
     We lost sight of one another; we lost sight of one another
     We found ourselves, we warmed up,
     Then we broke up.”
     From Jeanne Moreau’s – Le Tourbillon De La Vie
***** The Second Awakening *****
Chapter Summary
     76’s rather radical take on justice had brought her back to her own
     room; to the bed she had once shared with the man she loved – to the
     very feeling she herself had been forced to destroy.
     In the blink of an eye she had lost everything – Morrison’s tough
     determination had made her witness the most iconic image of her own
     past, like a silent, helpless spectator forced to watch the
     reincarnation of their own worst nightmare.
Chapter Notes
     So, welcome to the second part of the saga, I promise you won’t have
     to wait another 6 months before the next chapter is out... It took me
     such a long time to finish this second act, surely longer than I
     thought, and even so, I ended up dividing the chapter in two because
     I had 12.000+ words already and I thought it was long enough.
     Anyway, now that it’s posted, let me tell you that this chapter
     follows the same structure of the previous one: it’s divided into
     different sections, the sections are (of course) in progressive order
     and you can read each section as a little story.
     The events of this act take place two months after the end of chapter
     one.
     Warning: NSFW content up ahead. (Even if nothing too explicit was
     written for this chapter, I still felt the need to warn you, guys)
     I sincerely hope you enjoy your reading! Feedback, as always, is
     highly appreciated.
     Love, L.
                             Variations on a Theme
                                    Act II
                             The Second Awakening
===============================================================================
 “His contagious conviction that our love was unique and desperate infected me
  with an anxious sickness; soon we would learn to treat one another with the
circumspect tenderness of comrades who are amputees, for we were surrounded by
  the most moving images of evanescence, fireworks, morning glories, the old,
 children. But the most moving of these images were the intangible reflections
     of ourselves we saw in one another's eyes, reflections of nothing but
 appearances, in a city dedicated to seeming, and, try as we might to possess
       the essence of each other's otherness, we would inevitably fail.”
                      Angela Carter ― A Souvenir of Japan
===============================================================================
.
.
.
I - Hero
He was silent, as if absent, staring at her from a comfortable distance. If she
hadn’t known exactly who that man was, she would have easily thought that he
was lazy, expecting the woman to do all the work as he simply watched the time
go by… But then she knew, for she quickly recognized the true identity
carefully hidden behind that visor: there was something else behind his lack of
words – a certain apathy, a given discord rapidly transpiring his evident
mistrust.
Yet the woman knew better than to trust her own senses, knew better than to
succumb to his ill-advised pantomimes: no, he wasn’t absent, and he definitely
wasn’t lazy; he wasn’t just trying to watch the hours fly by ever so lightly.
There was more to him than meets the eye, she was certain. His silence meant so
much more than mere somberness and indifference.
Shelter.
His silence, in a way, also meant shelter – even if his silence could only
contain the man himself alone, far and detached from her existence, and
barricaded inside his own thoughts.
His soundless words seemed to reverberate all around her.
His was a twisted kind of silence, the woman pondered. Still, it was well
received by her tired ears. Still, it was appreciated by her and her newborn
senses.
But it just wasn’t like Hanzo’s silence; the nothingness of complete
understanding the archer had meticulously crafted just for her and that she had
grown to love during their cold nights in Gibraltar. That man, albeit still
tormented by his past, was the only man she had ever known that was fully
capable of sharing her passion for silence.
Silence, for most individuals, was essentially uncomfortable.
People would often think of silence as the tremulous sign that something’s not
right. There would be questions, and hundreds of loud speculations, all in
order to kill that goddamned silence. Hanzo’s love for silence was her own love
for the element, in a way, as they would both embrace the tranquility of a
peaceful, voiceless night. Hanzo would never try to hide behind his own silence
for he had no reason to, at least not when she was around. Hanzo would cherish
it, just like she herself would. He would never ask her if something was wrong;
if her complete lack of phonemes was actually hiding something else: apathy,
discord, even resentment.
Hanzo understood silence. Probably, like no-one else could.
Even better than Gerard had ever been able to understand back then – though
this, of course, she would never say. Not with words, yet not even with
silence.
But this twisted, sickening lack of sounds still echoing words of mistrust all
around her was making it hard for the woman to concentrate.
She sighed clumsily through parted lips, a futile attempt at breaking that
deafening silence of his – but to no avail. As soon as the air had left her
mouth the same old disturbing silence came to embrace her once again, causing
her to curse under her breath.
Hanzo would have been the perfect man for the job.
This older, tougher man, standing just a few meters behind her with his back
glued against the wall and his arms folded over his broad chest was not the man
she would have wanted to accompany her nervous, anxious bones during her very
first mission as a reformed Overwatch agent – But Ana’s words, quickly ruling
out the Japanese archer from the very beginning and stating that there was “no
real need for the team to be composed by only two snipers” felt like a cold
shower against her skin.
The mission was simple enough, that much was true – that’s why they had decided
it would be a fine chance for the woman to finally step out into the world
again and show what she was truly capable of. Athena had successfully tracked
the exact date and location where a meeting between two low-ranked Talon
operatives was about to happen. The small team required for the mission was not
meant to engage in battle – they were simply supposed to gather as much
information as possible; the task, per se, was simply meant to be just another
small step in the never-ending crusade against Talon.
But when Ana ruled out Hanzo, Amelie braced herself and hoped for the best,
even when she couldn’t understand the decision. If the mission was so simple,
if they weren’t even supposed to engage in combat, why couldn’t he be the one
working with her? Maybe Tracer would have been a better pick, or perhaps
McCree. If looking for subtlety, Genji would have been a fine choice too… but
when the old man raised his hand and took a step forward, volunteering for the
job, Amelie felt the blood inside her veins begin to freeze all over again.
She never liked him.
Not then, when he was the adored poster boy, and one of Gerard’s best friends.
And definitely not now.
As expected, Ana agreed with him rather quickly: the vigilante seemed capable
enough for such simple assignment. A resourceful, skillful man with an innate
sense of leadership. An experienced old dog that was going to test Amelie’s
truest reasons: he wasn’t only interested in finding out whether or not the
former Talon operative was ready to strike again – the only thing he was
actually trying to unveil was Amelie’s most intimate sense of loyalty, he was
only trying to test her to see if she was worth his time and trust – and
furthermore, he was surely going to use the mission as a way to corroborate
whether the woman knew about his true identity or not.
The elephant in the room, she knew…
The older agents seemed comfortable enough around him so Amelie was pretty sure
that Ana, Reinhardt, Torbjörn and even Winston knew who this vigilante truly
was. The younger kids seemed to pay no mind. Yet the ones in the middle, like
Angela, Tracer, Pharah, the younger Shimada, McCree and many, many more were
still in the dark.
Hanzo, as a brand new recruit, wouldn’t have any reasons to suspect his
identity.
But Amelie’s case was an entirely different story. She had known him back then.
The only question remaining inside his head: could her still struggling memory
decipher who he was?
“The meeting’s over,” The woman said, her words trying to breathe some life
into that somber motel room. Yet the man didn’t even flinch, he didn’t want to
leave when the meeting came to an end. Without using a single word, he insisted
they stayed right where they were so they could follow the agents, concealing
his true intentions behind his completely unreadable expression. That damn
visor could hide most anything from the rest of them, yet his voice would give
him away every single time. Raspy, intrinsically masculine. Harsh, and eerily
merciless.
Hence the silence…
He could fool everyone – everyone but her. Soldier 76 had sheltered his true
identity in the shades and shadows of the vigilante who doesn’t give a damn
about the law. But that reformed woman, the one facing the hurricane of old
memories rushing back at her at every turn with the virulence of everything
that’s new, was perceived as a threat by him.
She had once been the wife of a long-lost friend. She knew things about him,
things she could tell, in case she still remembered them – about the real man
he had been before that not even his closest friends knew.
The silent stare of a wife, hovering over him and Gerard like a camera
capturing their every move, like a radar monitoring their every adventure… a
radar they could not escape from.
The woman paid no mind to his wordless suggestions and quickly reached into her
bag for her phone to contact the extraction team. Yet he snatched the device
from her hand, tossing it aside.
He couldn’t talk to her now, couldn’t afford such luxury. His unmistakable
voice would give him away every time, he knew.
That’s why he would always stop talking whenever she was around.
If she was trying to remember him, he was not willing to help her.
He hadn’t liked her back then, and her recent past as a Talon assassin was only
deepening Jack’s profound mistrust towards that woman.
Amelie picked up her phone and placed it back inside her bag. Then she walked
back to the window. Still watching the world from her scope, the woman
witnessed the entire scene play out before her eyes: both Talon agents were now
leaving the cafeteria – a crowded place, of course – stopping only to shake
hands on the doorway. The younger agent started to walk northwest yet the older
agent, the tall, dark-haired man who seemed to be in his early forties, went
back inside the hotel the second his partner was gone.
With a minuscule ‘tsk’ 76 demanded her attention. The meeting had been briefer
than expected and, if the man had to be honest, the agents had been careful
enough not to reveal a single thing about Talon or any of their upcoming
operations. But the older agent’s uncanny behavior seemed promising enough, to
say the least, and that was a fact they both could agree on.
Understanding what he was trying to explain without words, the woman sat back
down and resumed her surveillance. Overwatch had wired the entire building just
in case, from the fancy cafeteria downstairs to the very last room in that
hotel. Embracing Jack’s silence as her own, the woman observed as the agent
disappeared from her sight only to appear again, seconds later, when the
elevator doors opened again, welcoming him to the fifth floor. A short walk was
all it took for the man to find his final destination: room 535 but he didn’t
knock on the door – surprisingly enough, he had his own key.
Amelie quickly busied herself, narrating the scenes she was witnessing for her
partner to know exactly what was going on inside that room across the street,
but the words faded from her mouth the second she understood what was actually
happening.
A woman was waiting for the man.
She was considerably younger than he was, wearing black lingerie and quickly
throwing her arms around his neck. The man kissed her passionately, his hands
landing on her waist with such unprecedented urgency.
Two fingers tapped on Amelie’s shoulder, trying to get her to speak again. Yet
her constricted throat wouldn’t let the words flow free. Even when they both
were hearing every single sound coming from that room thanks to the many
microphones Overwatch had set all over the place the day before, truth was that
neither the woman nor the man were actually speaking. The symphony of sounds
that Jack was being able to hear belonged in the soft-spoken world of privacy
and intimacy. Such sounds, Amelie pondered, did not need to be explained. Least
of all, to Jack Morrison.
She still remembered him, in the back of her confused yet not so clouded mind –
the man he had been back then; one of Gerard’s closest friends. The poster boy,
the heartthrob with the baby blue eyes and the devilish smile… the one always
trying to convince Gerard to go for a couple drinks after each mission; the one
always so confident, so irritatingly confident.
She paid no mind to his insistence. As her sight went back to the scope facing
the window her mind traveled back to that distant time.
How many times had she heard that man say to her own husband that he could do
better? That settling down for a ballerina wannabewas not the right choice for
a man like him? That she was surely after his money, that he should have never
told her about his real occupation…
“Shoot.” His unmistakable voice, finally exhibiting his true identity, caught
her unaware. She had never thought he would dare speak to her but the command
he had just voiced, the harsh course of action he was willing to follow was
enough for the woman to stand up and turn around.
“What for?” She demanded, determined.
For a brief instant, Amelie could have sworn that a bitter smirk was taking
over his face. Even if it was impossible for the sniper to tell if the gesture
was real or not now that the visor and the mask were covering most of
Morrison’s aged visage, it was easy for the woman to image the same disdainful
smirk he had given her on countless occasions in the past.
“We got what we wanted – information.” She continued, “I know it’s not much,
but our job here is done.”
As she stepped away from the window and motioned towards the door his hand
landed on her shoulder, stopping her in place.
“He’s Talon.” He said.
She looked down, confused.
“He’s the enemy.” 76 stated 
“They said do not engage.” Her voice, colder than ever, reached his eardrums in
just a matter of seconds. “What are you trying to do now? If you wanted to kill
them off why didn’t you shoot them when both agents were out in the street
after the meeting was over? Why did you wait?” she struggled under his touch
until she released herself from his grip, “If you wanted to
eliminate your enemies why would you want to kill one agent, and spare the
other?”
A fleeting laugh escaped his lips, she should have seen this coming; should
have been more careful.
“My enemies?”
His simple words made it crystal clear for Amelie: it wasn’t a matter
of us versus them anymore, it had never been. Morrison was not interested in
the mission; he couldn’t care less about the little information they had
managed to gather.
Morrison was only interested in her.
He was testing her, studying her. Like a lab rat, diminished and limited under
somebody else’s scrutinizing gaze, he just wanted to see her in action; see her
crack under pressure, make sure her true intentions would be bare right in
front of him for his eyes to judge whether she was worthy of their trust or
not…
As if it was up to him to decide… 
Feeling like a cornered beast, with her back trapped against the wall, the
woman massaged her own temples trying to relax. No matter what Jack was trying
to prove, she just couldn’t bring herself to kill that man, regardless of his
evident Talon connection. That man, just like her, deserved a second chance.
“Jack,” she said, even when the sound of his name sounded too unrealistic, too
unnatural for the both of them to even try to acknowledge the man behind those
four letters, “we got what we wanted, shouldn’t we…”
Morrison contemplated her expression change as the sounds coming from the
microphones interrupted Amelie’s words. Her mouth agape; her breathing,
agitated and uneven. Her mind, long gone and drifting helplessly towards a past
that was hers no more. Sounds of love and lust, intertwined with scattered
pieces of dialogue, summoning the revelation - the woman and the man making
love in the room across the street were not husband and wife.
She was his mistress. She was forbidden.
“What’s wrong?” 76 asked, mildly concerned.
His question only brought her closer to the edge. The sickening parade of
images she was crafting inside her convoluted mind was clouding her judgment:
now she couldn’t bring herself to envision that cheating pig as somebody
deserving of a second chance – the idyllic notion of marriage she had cherished
for so long was simply too sacred for her to justify what the man was doing to
his wife.
“Amelie?” 
The voice trying to summon her now wasn’t helping at all. How many times had
Morrison tried to convince Gerard that she wasn’t woman enough for him?
She walked back to the window, embraced the brand new rifle that Overwatch had
recently given her and let her fingers find the trigger.
“Widowmaker, wasn’t it? Your call sign while working for Talon? Let’s find out
whether it was an accurate name for you or not.”
Widowmaker.
The one that breaks families.
The one who tears apart the solemn bond between a husband and his wife.  
The one that spreads her own corruption, the rotting symptoms of her own sins,
all over the place.
The one who contaminates others with her own sad, sad story… 
No.
No more.
She stood up and took a few steps back. Slowly, hesitatingly.  She couldn’t
afford to cave in now. Wasn’t that exactly what he wanted? To prove that she
wasn’t worth their time, that the Widowmaker was still pulsating inside of her,
waiting for this new version of Amelie to finally invite her to come out and
play?
Past the fear, and beyond the repulsion she was feeling, she witnessed the
sounds beginning to change once again. Endless symphonies of lust, like a tidal
wave reaching for her, were now caressing her confused ears. The second
awakening. Sex, in its purest, simplest form; feelings she hadn’t felt in such
a long time – fingers roaming, hands reaching, arms soaring in the night.
Gerard.
Gerard had been the last man she had slept with, the last person she had
allowed to explore the meridians of her body. The ancient touch of his loving
agony, now buried underneath the thick veil of time, in the shape of countless
years she had lost in the bonfire of oblivion. Years and years; entire seasons
of her life that could never be recovered – a missing lover, a broken family,
an entire universe of missing moments, like fragments and figments of her
imagination, scattered somewhere in between dreams and reality. The feeling
now, intoxicating and brand new, was trying to summon the woman she had once
been. It was trying to wake her up from her slumber and guide her towards a
light she couldn’t quite recognize anymore. The face of desire, blurry and
distorted just like her own future, offered no true solace for her troubled
soul.
It was like watching a faceless ghost hover over her and cover her bones in its
complex, burning white halo. The melting fusion of bodies coalescing into one
common anima, whilst turning and tossing in bed, equally calling on angels and
demons – carnality, it seemed, had a face she couldn’t quite recall but, at the
same time, it still felt oh so eerily familiar.
He watched her in silence; saw her longing for something that wasn’t there,
thriving almost maniacally, raptured inside the eclipsing symphonies they were
both hearing.
Still, she looked so forlorn, he thought. So confused by the sounds and the
memories… So disoriented by all those things she had been forced to leave
behind, each and every single thing she had yet to feel again…
She saw him walk towards the window, positioning himself behind the scope; his
experienced hands reaching for the trigger, activating the deadly mechanism –
taking a life.
“No…” she whispered, brokenhearted. The man, lying dead on the bed now, with
his arms spread out in front of his horrified lover, was the vision of a past
so familiar it could still brand her skin with such impeccable wrath.
Blood. Blood on their bed.
Amelie’s eyes, fixed on the bloody bedsheets, remembered the echoes of her own
story. How she had killed her own husband in his sleep.
Blood. Blood on their bed. 
76’s rather radical take on justice had brought her back to her own room; to
the bed she had once shared with the man she loved – to the very feeling she
herself had been forced to destroy. 
In the blink of an eye, she had lost everything – Morrison’s tough
determination had made her witness the most iconic image of her own past like a
silent, helpless spectator forced to watch the reincarnation of their own worst
nightmare.
A second bullet traveled from one room to the other, ending the shaken woman
instantaneously. And there both lay, the unfaithful agent and his forbidden
lover, naked and covered in blood, in a bed only destined to grow colder with
each passing moment. The fire, extinguished.
She didn’t say a word when Morrison grabbed her by her nearest arm and dragged
her out of that room. Words were far beyond her now, and completely out of her
reach. The audacity of that man… using her own rifle to end those people… her
brand new rifle, the one Ana had given her, her new beginning… – he had
corrupted her new beginning.
As they were walking down the corridor, Amelie looked over her shoulder only to
see that murdered love just one last time. Like a scene of broken passion,
tainted red and perpetually doomed to die the most cynical death over and over
again.
Maybe that was the message, after all, she thought.
Perhaps there was no such thing as a new beginning for people like her. 
.
.
.
II – Name (Pray tell)
Relief came quickly, in the shape of an improvised extraction team. Hovering
above them, the small ship sent by Overwatch was not only going to take them
back to Gibraltar; it was also a reminder of just how small and almost
insignificant that mission had been. Two young men were waiting for them,
following Winston’s orders as expected, dressed up in their brand new navy blue
uniforms. A touch of distinction, Amelie thought bitterly – Just like the blue
of her skin had mutated and turned into something new, the old blue that had
ruled the organization in the past had changed now; yet it seemed darker now,
denser than before.
The two aspiring agents, completely oblivious to the obvious discord between 76
and Lacroix, were simply there to accomplish their mission: get them back home
safely; please their superiors and nothing more.
It was better that way – if they had sent Tracer, for example, the speedster
should have noticed… yet these two kids, simply following orders and trying
their best to become the new teacher’s pets were some sort of panacea for both
troubled soldiers.
They would ask no questions, after all.
Jack took a seat behind the pilot but didn’t stay there for long. As soon as
they were airborne he unfastened his seatbelt and walked to the back of the
ship where the ex-Talon operative was sitting on her own.
He kneeled before her, observing those vacant eyes staring aimlessly at the
heavens above, and all around. Many minutes passed – stretching the very
concept of time into a whole new dimension. Her silence, so startling and calm
at the same time, was beginning to get to him.
“Are you alright?” 76 asked for the hundredth time, trying to make amends. No
matter just how much he had disliked the woman back then, and beyond his
current, persistent mistrust towards her, truth was that if she was going to
stay with Overwatch, antagonizing with her would prove itself pointless in
time. They were on the same side now, he knew. Yet the woman still didn’t say a
word; it was painfully clear that the storm inside was making it impossible for
her to muster whatever it took for her words to escape the prison of her tight
lips. When she looked over her shoulder and graced him with a bittersweet grin
her eyes could finally see his uneasiness growing stronger by the minute – of
course, Morrison was never going to understand silence, she found herself
pondering once more. Not in the way that Hanzo could…
Hanzo understood silence, he really did.
It nearly broke her heart to find him waiting for her, standing all alone by
the hangar door. The dark bags surrounding his eyes were enough to let her know
that he had stayed awake, waiting for the ship to bring her back home. He was
nervous, she could tell, using his silence to shelter all his doubts.
She felt compelled to wrap her arms around him the second she set foot on the
ground. Perhaps the gesture could not only quiet his fears but also mute the
many ghosts talking loudly in her head. Hands reaching for his neck, shapes
falling into place for the briefest and yet longest of times.
It was hard to explain – but she belonged there. Not in Gibraltar, not even in
the organization. But in those arms. In that silence.
Even when he had never made such demands it was painful for the woman to admit
that she still couldn’t give him exactly what he wanted from her; that her
silence and her borderline naïve affection would have to do. That the only
thing she needed from him was his silent complicity; that even if they had
created the weakest bond of all, she had never felt so safe. The fragility that
such a strong man could provide was fascinating and frightening at the same
time – keeping her near, almost gravitating towards him yet never fully
landing.
He could sense the tension between the former Talon agent and the vigilante. It
was palpable, menacing – disquieting like the dark clouds that precede the most
vicious, villainous hurricane.
76 was walking behind them, the echo of his heavy footsteps a constant reminder
that they were not alone. Once inside the facility both Hanzo and Amelie began
to sense the hurried, quick steps guiding the man through the corridors –
debriefing sessions were meant to be boring only this time, that man was
tacitly offering a race and Amelie knew, instinctively, that refusing to join
him was not even an option. Just as her own heels began to click harder against
the concrete the archer grabbed her by the wrist and paused her march, even if
only briefly.
Perhaps it was better that way, to let 76 go first. To just let him talk, tell
them everything he had seen in her during the mission. She was strong, capable,
confident… at least those were the words Hanzo would use to describe her now
after the long path she had walked ever since her recovery. The image of that
initial woman inside his head, mutating rapidly as days went by and reshaping
her - from her imaginary fire he had envisioned in his mind to her resolution
not to touch her own weapon – was no more than the shadow of the woman she had
become under Ana’s tutelage.
He stayed by her side when the vigilante’s body disappeared behind the door,
his hands resting on the sides of her waist ever so gently.
“Why are you so nervous?” the archer asked, noticing her slender figure
shivering under his touch.
She had grown used to those hands of his, he knew, even if his touch had never
dared to explore her beyond the crumbs she would always throw his way.
It took her a moment to find his eyes.
And yet another moment, longer, duller than the previous one, to collect her
thoughts.
“I’m curious about my report,” she said, “76 was sent to supervise me, so…”
She lied, but only partially. What else was she supposed to tell him? He had
his faith in her, that much was painfully obvious – and his unquenchable thirst
knew no boundaries: it was not merely romantic, it was also profoundly linked
to a professional desire; the need to know that she was ready to become a full
agent, that she was willing and able to fight the good fight – that the
darkness that had enveloped her in the past was gone for good, that there was
only light ahead.
She looked down, as if ashamed of her half-assed truths.
Yet she couldn’t find the strength to tell him what had happened in that room –
that 76 had shattered her balance with just two words; that the true identity
hidden behind his voice had shaken her from within, igniting the fire of
memories she thought lost to the agonizing flames of oblivion… that the scene
taking place in the room across the street had awakened something inside, the
feeling now unstoppable and stirring deep within. That the final scene with the
lovers sleeping forever in a sea of blood would only haunt her endlessly during
the nights, like a missing piece in the tenebrous puzzle that was her own past…
When minutes stretched themselves across the fabric of time, she held on tight
to him, trying to find an anchor in the tranquil silhouette standing beside
her.  One by one they stack upon her shoulders, the doubts in her mind speaking
of renewed uncertainties: what was taking them so long? She had done her job
well after all – at least, the job they had assigned to her. What had happened
after that could only belong in the convoluted mind of 76 and in his twisted,
sick sense of justice, and even if the man had succeeded in his attempts of
watching her crack under pressure, the woman was still positive it would not be
enough to stain the good she had done.
Tension began to call her name when she noticed they had an audience. Rising
from the pit of her stomach and constricting her throat all those younger faces
were prying in on them as if anticipating each possible verdict.
Hanzo let go of her, even when his concerns were placed somewhere else: among
the many faces surrounding them now, only one was missing.
“So, how did it go?” Mei asked, rubbing her hands together in anxious
anticipation.
He could see how their friendly pressure was working against her. Their kind-
hearted questions were suffocating her.
He looked sideways one last time, still trying to find the missing face amongst
the sea of joviality displayed right before him – but to no avail.
But when the cowboy touched Amelie’s hands ever so slightly and greeted her,
the unwanted jolt of energy opened up the gates for her uneasiness to come to
life. One last thought crossed her mind as she walked through the door: the
mission had been simple, if Jack was taking that much time to debrief it, then
it surely meant he was trying to convince the older members of the organization
that she wasn’t a good asset. Still, Overwatch was small and illegal – but if
they were truly determined to seek international validation once more they
couldn’t afford to exclude competent agents based on personal disputes.
Amelie left the door opened as she pinned her feet to the ground – the young
spectators that had gathered around the two snipers followed her closely inside
the conference room, some of them were even craning their necks trying to, at
least, get a glimpse of the facial reactions going on inside that room. Hanzo
stayed where he was, his back still glued to the wall, waiting for the scene to
finally end.
As expected, the faces waiting on the other side of the door welcomed the group
with stunned expressions. No matter how much had changed, some things were
bound to remain the same: respect for protocols, still at the very top of that
list.
76 stood up the second he saw her. His hands at the side of his waist, and that
petulant smirk of his adorning his face once again.
Ana was about to speak when she spotted her daughter’s velvety black hair among
the crowd that had gathered around the door. Pinching the bridge of her nose,
the old sniper let out a loud sigh and placed both her hands on the table,
staring intently at 76.
“This is what I was just telling you about,” the vigilante said calmly, even
when the general atmosphere of the room had been strained by tension. “Her
skills are intact, but I wouldn’t trust her instincts on the field. She lets
her emotions overwhelm her – she lacks control…”
A worried Angela interrupted him, her arms quickly making way through the
curious crowd:
“Are you implying that there could be some problems regarding Amelie’s neural
functionality after removing Talon’s reconditioning?”
76 folded his arms over his chest and the disdainful smirk on his face
disappeared as if it had never existed.
“You are the doctor. I just gave my professional opinion about her recent
performance.” He said, “I’m not saying that we shouldn’t have done what we did
– she deserved to be free of Talon’s conditioning, and I’m positive we made the
world a safer place by erasing the Widowmaker. But perhaps we shouldn’t have
recruited her. Maybe we should have just let her be free to live her own life.”
His tone, more amicable now, was trying to make amends with the harshness of
his speech. “Maybe that’s what we should do: let her go. Let her be free.”
“If we let her go – if we let her be free, Talon will try to get her back,”
Winston affirmed.
“We could keep an eye on her, guard her, make sure she’s safe.” 76 offered.
A long gap of silence filled the air. But once again, that deafening sound had
nothing to do with the pleasant lack of sounds that only the archer could
provide. She looked over her shoulder, trying to find his face in the crowd –
but he wasn’t there. Still, she could sense him near, could sense he was
listening to that same silence.
And he was.
With his hands balled up into furious fists.
The old German crusader considered the words said by 76 – “That doesn’t sound
like freedom to me…” He let out, contemplatively.
Standing by the door, nearly petrified by the words she had just heard, Amelie
opened her mouth but no words left her lips – too many thoughts were swimming
furiously inside her head, trying to even articulate them into reasonable
sentences was beyond her now.
All eyes were on her now.
And the feeling was eerily disturbing.
The older members of Overwatch, still gathered around the large circular table,
were staring at her with eyes tainted by doubt. The younger agents crowded
together by the door were giving her looks of complete desolation, worry and
concern now written all over their faces just as if she was a broken doll no
one could repair.
76, making his way to the door, had played her right from the start.
As he walked past her, she finally allowed one of her hands to touch him.
“Why didn’t you save me?” She asked, her lifeless voice reverberating all
across the room. “Before I could kill your friend, before I could hurt Ana?”
She took a step forward, shortening the distance between them.
“You saved so many people… why couldn’t you save me as well?” her voice,
gradually coming to life, was beginning to sing the song they had tried not to
listen to for so long. “You took this organization between your hands and toyed
with it and everyone inside it until you broke it. Still, they take care of you
– theylisten to you. I was treated like an animal when I first arrived here…”
She paused for a moment, remembering her first days in Gibraltar. “The hero,
the poster boy… the one who got the statue… where were you, Jack Morrison, when
we needed you the most?”
She could feel the crack dividing the ground beneath her feet.
She could feel the black void swallowing them all into such unreachable depths.
Pitch black, like night itself. Godless and sacred at the same time.
The fracture dividing them all, alive once again.
As she turned around and started to leave she could see the palpable doubts
reflected all over their faces: the younger ones, the ones who hadn’t been
around back in the day. Could see a million questions suffocating the ones in
the middle: the ones who had cried for him, the ones who still missed him.
Silence enveloped her shape then, encompassing the countless answers resting
inside the souls and minds of the older members. The ones who knew. The ones
who had chosen not to say a word.
She walked through the door, looking down.
She could see it: the fracture dividing the ground once more.
A brand new fracture.
The same old man. 
.
.
.
III – Midnight Theorems I (The first night)
As soon as she left the conference room, she began to wander aimlessly around
the base until the moonlight became visible through the curtains. It was like
visiting a ghost town, in a way, knowing that everyone was still inside that
room, demanding explanations. A part of her felt sorry for them – the old and
the young ones. The old ones would surely have to face reproach while the
younger ones, the ones who had poured their hearts all over Morrison’s loss,
were now sinking in a sea of useless tears.
They had mourned somebody who hadn’t died.
That man had walked right through the door, had looked them in the eye – and he
had lied to them.
When every deserted corridor and every single closed door began to fully shape
the labyrinth of twisted thoughts inside her head, her feet led her to the only
place she knew she would feel welcome.
His room.
The chamber of his precious silence.
She knocked on his door and waited patiently for the archer to come to her.
Grateful as she was that he hadn’t chased after her after leaving the
conference room, now she was positive that the solace she was seeking could not
be granted by anyone other than him. Sage, Shimada – had given her the time and
space she needed, in the inconspicuous shape of his absence, molded inside his
most metaphorical presence.
But she didn’t throw her arms around him when he opened the door. She simply
motioned her dormant body inside his private room – a limited, sterile place
where his ancient roots could only live in the shape of decorative souvenirs.
He let her use his shower and lent her one of the many training t-shirts
Overwatch had given him.
“They must hate me now,” Amelie whispered, sitting down on his bed.
His body barely moved underneath the bedsheets. His eyes trained on his own
hands, as if afraid to find her gaze.
“They have better things to worry about.” He said, sounding harsher than he
would have wanted. Still, she knew he was right: before worrying about what she
had done, they would have to learn how to trust each other again.
“But I caused this,” she sobbed, “All of this.”
“No,” his hand, leaving his stomach and landing gracefully on her nearest
shoulder, made her turn around, “you exposed it.” She felt his hand pulling her
body down, and closer to his. With a swift movement of her legs, the woman made
her way into his bed, finally allowing her head to rest against his warm chest.
It felt natural, in a way, like the expected progression of their bond. It
worked that way, or so it seemed, after nearly two months of getting closer and
closer to each other. Almost intimately, yes - but not romantically. Loyally,
yet not ruled by the paradigmatic voices of adoration. It still amazed her how,
without having to use a single word, they had successfully put themselves in
such a place. This time, the very first time when she would be asking him if
she could stay, she wouldn’t even have to use words to let him know, and his
approbation, mutually muted, would find her in return.
She had let her own cowardice blind her more than once – always on the verge of
asking, always wanting – but never staying.
As Hanzo busied himself, tangling and untangling his fingers in her wet hair,
the troubled woman closed her eyes for a brief moment, cherishing the soft
ministrations and the immaculate silence the archer was giving her.
Still, his voice, softer than usual, brought her back to reality.
“What’s the story between you and that man?” Hanzo inquired.
She shifted in his arms, insecure.
“Do you know who that man really is?”
“I don’t know the story – but I know who Jack Morrison was.” Of course he knew,
she figured. Being a former crime lord, a Yakuza man, he surely knew the names
of the ones trying to take him down. Morrison, just like her own husband and
the rest of the agents of Overwatch, had once been his enemies. “I thought he
was dead.”
Her lips created a perfectly straight line and she soon found herself scoffing
at the archer:
“That’s the problem with the people in Overwatch – they don’t like being dead
for too long.”
He pulled her closer against his chest – the gesture more affectionate than
romantic. Still, she stayed in the warmth he had to offer, savoring the
manufactured familiarity of it all.
“They all came back,” she whispered, “Mei, Tracer, Jack, Ana, your brother… and
the list goes on. The only one who never made it back, the only one stupid
enough to remain dead was Gerard.”
He offered her his renewed silence, the voiceless understanding she was seeking
from him.
As expected, she didn’t have to ask him if she could stay and spend the night.
His arms and his silence, like a house he had built all around her to keep her
safe, were eloquent enough for the both of them.
He truly seemed to be able to understand everything.
He really did.
He would have been the perfect man for the job.
.
.
.
IV – The True Face of a Dragon
A timid kiss landed on his cheek, as the tepid winds of a new day made the
curtains dance almost as if a ghost had tried to whisper hello.
Early morning, she left his room in silence.
Dawn had barely begun to grace the rooftops with its yellowish incandescence.
The disquieting tranquility of those corridors seemed to echo the laments of
those hearts that had been broken by her careless revelation the day before.
It was weird, seeing the place like that for the very first time since her
arrival – early morning was a ritual in itself; crowded corridors and the
perpetual voices coming from each room to receive the brand new day were the
most common elements anyone could find every single day, in the mundanity of
Gibraltar.
Perhaps a name meant more than an identity, she pondered, as her ears began to
receive the only sounds breaking the silence.
Tired footsteps, the dynamism of clicking metal against the concrete – armor,
and youth, collided into one single being.
His brother.
Now she understood who he had been searching for the day before. It had been
truly obvious: of all the faces that had gathered in front of the conference
room, of all souls seeking answers – Genji hadn’t been one of them.
He was walking down the same corridor as her, only in the opposite direction.
He was walking towards her.
His head down, shoulders screaming for some rest.
He wasn’t wearing a mask this time. He was carrying his helmet in his hand,
balancing the metal against yet more metal as his fingers danced before him.
She tried hard not to look. Tried hard not to stare. It could be potentially
rude, she knew.
“Hello,” He said, as he walked on by. And his gentle voice guided her chin
upwards, her eyes already searching – her education longing to reciprocate the
cordial gesture.
She tripped as soon as her eyes explored his visage. Cold fingers landing
gracefully at the sides of her shoulders, keeping her from falling.
He smiled, tenderly, before walking on by.
And there she stood, in the epicenter of that deserted corner of the base,
looking over her shoulder, observing Genji disappear from her sight. The vision
was already tattooed on her brain – his naked face, his warm sympathy still
there, in spite of everything.
She felt the air leaving her mouth.
She would never be able to look at the Widowmaker right in the eye, but for the
first time since meeting the archer, the very ghost haunting his troubled
spirit had finally acquired a face. A scarred face, contaminated by the ashes
of a pain that still refused to go away; a pain bound to remain by his side,
defining his brother’s skin and deconstructing the ones they had been before.
It made her feel sad – to see the lie standing naked before her: both brothers
were thinking they had found their freedom, they were thinking that, each in
their own way, were making their own ways in life but that wasn’t true: Genji
still was what Hanzo had made of him, and Hanzo was still what the clan had
forced him to be. They would never be fully free of those darker specters:
peace and liberty would forever be stained by the flags of their past.
Hanzo’s change was more physical than real – the man struggling beneath this
renewed body was still struggling. And he would forever remain that way:
struggling, fighting the one living underneath his own skin.
The beast she had seen, the blue of its wicked magnificence…
It was hard for the woman to acknowledge the face she had just seen for what it
truly was but still she tried, until the thought became crystal clear: Genji’s
scarred face was the real intervention of Hanzo in his brother’s life, and to
find that face somehow mirroring the real intervention of Talon in her own life
was making her feel uneasy now that the archer’s face had shown in the theater
of her mind. It pained her to realize that all the connections the archer had
been so adamantly trying to find between them were paling in comparison to the
brand new bridge she had discovered: she could see her own hell imprinted
vividly on Genji’s face. The wounds that would hurt them forever were real –
like every single scar she had seen on that visage, like each one of the
tattoos illustrating her otherwise immaculate body.
Genji’s wounds were Hanzo’s testimony.
And the spiders crawling all over her skin were Widowmaker’s.
Every single feeling she held in her for the archer began to coalesce into one
chaotic shade; like an unreadable prism, casting all colors at the same time
and hurting her eyes.
The awakening had finally begun to take its toll on her.
So many feelings and emotions had been put to rest by Talon that now they all
seemed to be struggling to get out. All those images she had seen, all those
ones she had yet to see, were now walking past her in a perpetual gallery of
mirages she could not fully understand – their shades and shadows tainting her
world in colors she could not fully identify.
She sighed, almost soundlessly, then turned around and left.
.
.
.
V – Selected Mistakes
That dreadful day stretched itself through time for as long as humanly
possible. Languid hours, filled with tension and reproach, contaminated the
entire bay, trapping everyone inside its insidious cage.
She found him again that very same day, late at night, all alone in the kitchen
with a smoky cup of green tea resting between his artificial fingers and with
his elbows, as if defeated, resting on the lonely table before him.
Amelie walked up to him yet froze in place just a few inches away from the
table before sinking down on the chair right in front of him, as if waiting for
permission. It surprised her when the young ninja, instead of voicing an
answer, simply reached the back of his skull, proceeded to remove his helmet
and addressed her with his eyes.
There was an unexpectedly peaceful element inside his honeyed gaze – perhaps
his time with Zenyatta had provided him with such a lovely trait. His eyes
traveled back to the cup in front of him and then back up to the woman keeping
him company now: without saying a single word the younger Shimada offered her
his tea, extending his fingers parsimoniously in her direction.
His tea and his eyes, like silent offerings of his most intimate sort of peace,
began to make her feel comfortable after such a long and miserable day.
“Why don’t you drink it yourself?” The woman questioned, as her fingers
ventured the distance and reached out for the cup.
Genji shook his head in silence, before sighing softly.
“It was for Angela. But she’s not going to drink it. So why don’t you taste it,
before it grows cold?”
The sweet scent of jasmine and green leaves mesmerized her for a brief moment.
“Where is Angela?”
Genji looked over his shoulder and back at Amelie’s curious stare. Then he
signaled the second door to his left.
“Her room. Turns out I’m more of a calm down kind of guy. Jesse is the true
consoling type.”
She was confused by his simple elocution but chose not to ask any questions.
“So, what is it like?” He asked, casually, “Having to spend so much time with
someone like Hanzo?”
There was a strange tone wrapped up around his voice – much like a subtle
implication, or a rather sophisticated sense of bitterness.
“I don’t haveto spend time with him. I choose to – there’s a difference.” She
offered quietly, once again choosing not to ask any questions, this time,
regarding the true meaning of the words someone like Hanzo.
“I see…” He said in all simplicity, folding his arms over his chest and
observing her as she finished her tea. “At least tell me how he’s been doing.”
She cocked her head to the side, lightly, taken aback by his sudden question.
“I brought him here because I wanted to have him near; see if the bond between
brothers could be repaired, somehow.” He paused to offer her an intensified
gaze, “But you’ve been taking up most of his time lately.”
It was hard for the woman to understand if he was being friendly or not. His
words felt like an exceedingly intricate maze she could not escape from: one
minute he was gentle and kind, the next one he felt bitter and sharp.
Perhaps the whole Morrison affair was beginning to take its toll on him too.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, raising both his hands in a defensive stance, “I
think it’s good for him to spend some time with a woman – reminds me of when we
were little, he would always scare them off with his uptight solemnity. If
anything, I’m grateful you’re taking the time to sentimentally educate him,
especially considering you’ve been through a lot yourself.”
A sentimental education… Was there such a thing?
“We’re not sleeping together.” She rushed her answer.
Genji shrugged, unpreoccupied.
“I never said you were.”
None of the scars exhibited all over his face could masquerade the sultry
implications of his gestures. Like a scarlet-colored flag, the former playboy
made himself visible in the shape of that reconstructed existence of his.
“It’s the creases of the language, don’t you agree?” he said, “Because you
aresleeping with my brother – or at least you slept with him, he told me that
much. But you’re not sleeping with him.”
In her mind, she pictured the broken lovers once again. Their blood had
precipitated her answer. And now she had to pay for letting them get the best
of her. She tried her best to formulate an intelligible answer, something,
anything to say to him but she found herself coming up short every time – their
bloody kind of love was still contaminating her every thought, and as the faces
coalesced into just one big mess of red, both the archer and her dead husband
found themselves trapped inside that room, the receding lights of their broken
bodies slowly leaving her. The magnificent dragon, crimson and wounded, trying
to soar through its painful last flight.
The ninja leaned in closer, as if he could actually see inside the furious
images firing up her mental screen.
“Do you feel as if you’d be betraying him?” he asked, visibly moved, “Your late
husband?” artificial fingers broke the distance separating them.
He cupped her hand with his own, with eyes about to rain, as if lost in a
painful memory of his own.
“The first time feels like you’re backstabbing them – the ones we left behind.”
He said tenderly. “You explore a new body and somehow you wish you could turn
it into something else, a combination of both bodies, perhaps... You feel like
apologizing to both: the memory you’re betraying and the one who’s actually
with you.”
He stopped, abruptly, and removed his hand.
That door had been sealed for far too long. It was best for it to stay that
way.
She watched him in silence, as he gradually regained his composure. He had just
invited her into a blurry portion of his past that he clearly could not control
– like a macabre pendulum swinging right before her stupefied eyes, his
fractured story was almost hypnotizing her.
She saw his eyes, swimming into focus once again – a clear sight that knew no
mist, that endured no hazy tragedies.  
“He told you I slept in his room last night?” She finally asked.
Genji nodded in silence, almost on the verge of thanking her for not trying to
delve deeper into the ghost that had just dawned deep within him.
“It’s a good thing then, I guess,” She let out pensively, “If he managed to
tell you that much, you must be bonding nicely. Even if it’s over me, and even
if it’s in a rather indiscreet manner…”
He looked down, but not in shame. A tender smile took over his lacerated face,
then. Brief, but unmistakably eloquent.
“I’m having a hard time coping with this Jack Morrison revelation. Seems I
cannot bring myself to fully take it in stride.” He said, pensively, as his
eyes darted around the room, finally breaking eye contact, “If I said something
that made you upset or uncomfortable, I apologize.”
Amelie shook her head in silent contemplation. She didn’t know his story, and
she knew she was in no position to ask him to open up to her and let her in.
Still, the blazing truth he had said was setting her soul on fire: it did feel
like a betrayal, she knew. Every touch, every shared moment of silence: it felt
like backstabbing Gerard’s lifeless body. It was like killing him all over
again.
She felt compelled to apologize for what she had done, even when she still
didn’t know the true extent of Genji’s involvement in the whole Morrison
ordeal.
Reaching out to him, she let her warm fingers find his artificial wrists.
She squeezed gently, sensing his fears.
“She didn’t know.” He said, “Angela. None of us knew but she… she said she had
her suspicions, but she didn’t know it was really him behind that visor.”
“Then you should be with her now,” Amelie whispered softly, as she let go of
him.
“I told you: I’m more of a calm down sort of guy. Jesse is the one consoling
her now.”
He stared at the empty cup resting right before his eyes. Then her figure
became a blurry landscape moving in the background, as she stood up and walked
away. He stayed there for a while longer, still sitting all alone in the quiet
kitchen.
“So, any celebrities you’ve danced with?” He asked, taking her hand in his.
“Ballerinas are not celebrities,” she said, smiling tenderly at him. “Sure some
names are bigger than others but… well, there was someone: Amelie Lacroix, she
was very good… Though the real celebrity was her husband, Gerard Lacroix, an
Overwatch agent.”
The young man shook his head in silence: Overwatch agents were indeed
celebrities, the world treated them as such; there was no doubt about it.
“What you mean ‘was’?” He asked, snaking his arms around her waist, “She
retired?”
“She disappeared.”
His rage summoned by the old visions; the empty cup, colliding helplessly
against the floor, shattered and broke into countless tiny fragments. But much
like the pieces of all those distant memories he had just begun to recover,
there was no use trying to put it all back together now.
.
.
.
VI – Midnight Theorems II or The Monsters That Live in Our Dreams (The second
night)
There were too many people on that bed. Even if she couldn’t see them, even
though they weren’t there, she could still feel their ghostly presences hover
over her.
It was good having him all for her again. Even if it was just a dream – even if
she knew she was only dreaming. The body she had known was there for her,
sheltering her once more from the world outside that room. His arms, like
strong walls secluding her in his intimate type of affection, were guiding the
dance once again, after eternities without him, after countless hours of
dreamless dreams.
Her skin was blue.
Cold to the touch, deprived of all feeling.
She climbed on top of him and positioned herself. Graced by his silent
admiration, she welcomed him again into the depths of her dormant body – the
heat emanating from his core fulfilling her once more. Her every desire, moved
by the rhythm of her body, was finding an echo in Gerard’s calm satisfaction:
each gesture she had come to adore, every change in his features…
The man snaked his arms around her waist and sat down on the bed. He looked
over his shoulder minutely – perhaps he could sense their presence too. With
eyes closed, he allowed his lips to find her breasts, like blue mountains
guiding his way through the night. Beacons of lust and love, cold and
mesmerizing. When his tongue began to circle one of her nipples she felt him
stop, all motions of his body coming to a sudden halt. He looked up, offering
her a puzzled look.
Damn, she was cold.
And his warmth was not enough to make her feel the heat. Instead, her skin was
making him cold, as he shivered, and questioned her with desperate, silent
eyes.
She tried to hold on to him, wrapping his face in her hands and bringing him
closer to her. The kiss felt alive, yet his lips were dead and unmoving. When
she let go of him she saw the blood covering her blue fingers, the wounds
around his skull and the scarlet rivers pooling around her legs.
There were too many people on that bed.
As the blue woman cradled her dying husband in her arms, like a brokenhearted
mother rocking her child to eternal sleep, she heard the sobs and the desperate
pleas: the young lady she had seen in the hotel, crying over her man’s dead
body and staring at her with reddened eyes. The simultaneity of their stories,
converging in the cruel desolation of a bed made of death, made her close her
eyes and wish it all away. She ordered herself to wake up but when her eyes
swam back into focus, she realized she was still trapped inside that room.
Gerard had died once again.
Then she heard the gunshot, ending the woman instantaneously. The ocean of
blood had painted her whole world red yet her skin was still blue and cold,
inalterable in all its mutilated essence. Only a few crimson drops, like beads
of a profane rosary, were left to stain the soulless paradigm of her body.
When she finally opened her eyes and realized that it had just been a dream,
she felt deceived by her own senses. She stared at her own hands as if actually
expecting to see Gerard’s blood covering them – yet her immaculate fingers had
nothing to show, nothing but the emptiness of a disturbing dream.
As if guided by the enchanting song of a mermaid, Amelie left her bed and made
her way to the storage deposit. There she found them, the venom mines that
Overwatch had confiscated from her the night they brought her in. Small and
deadly, cold and appealing, that poison whispered mad tales of sins and
desolation.
Before she knew it, one of the crystal spiders was resting on the palm of her
hand. It would be so easy to use it, so easy to inflict pain and allow that
cold blue to overcome her once again – perhaps the Widowmaker could do that for
her, maybe she could anesthetize her conflicting emotions, maybe she could put
her sorrow to rest.
Frightened by her own thoughts, she left the venom mines where she had found
them and abandoned that place. The empty corridors led the way for her, her
long legs welcoming the cold of Gibraltar’s lowest hours. His door appeared
before her eyes, like a guiding North in a broken compass or a possible horizon
for a wounded castaway. Breathing through parted lips, she let her hands touch
the metallic barrier separating her from him yet she couldn’t bring herself to
knock on his door, so she simply pushed it open, as silently as she could, and
made her way to his bed.
He looked so peaceful while he slept…
She knelt down on the floor before his bed, reaching out, her hands caressed
his temples.
“Don’t you think it’s all a dream?” she whispered.
He opened his eyes and sat up on the bed, his arms, like solid bridges, lifting
her up and pulling her close.
“Can I stay the night?”
“You don’t need to ask.”
Curling up beside him, she let her head rest on his bare chest.
“I killed Gerard in my sleep again tonight.” She said.
He answered nothing. It was pointless to even try to tell her that he had
already killed Genji a million times in his dreams. Every new dream was darker
than the one before. More violent. More tormenting and vicious.
When she used her elbows to shift her position in bed and looked him in the
eye, he could sense the void inside swallowing her whole. He watched her in
silence as she took off her clothes – the anatomy of pain and frustration that
she had to offer differed greatly from the pristine body he had envisioned in
his mind.
When she pressed her lips against his he felt the ghosts fly over them. His
thin lips did not reciprocate the kiss, still, he breathed into her mouth:
“It’s hard to see you as a woman when the only name that escapes your mouth is
Gerard.”
He could offer her many things. His silent comprehension, his devoted
affection, even his confused love, still at the verge of his own sentimental
awakening – but he could never bring himself to offer her his body as an empty
vessel for her tired mind to toy with.
She stared intently at him, eyes confused yet exhibiting signs of
understanding. It was unfair to force him to play this sort of game, she knew.
It was wrong to utilize his body as a catalyst for her to be free of her own
demons – not when she still could not bring herself to think of him as a man.
At least, not yet.
She covered her body with the bedsheets and turned her back to him, ashamed.
She was offering him a body he could not call his own – as if he wasn’t allowed
to think of her as a woman; he was being forced to watch her undress and long
for him in a macabre way.
Perhaps she wasn’t feeling woman enough. Perhaps it was her way to replicate
her power over him, he pondered.
“My skin was blue,” She said, her voice nearly extinguished.
“You won’t return to Talon, Amelie,” Hanzo whispered, caressing her shoulder.
“Should you ever find yourself in such a situation, I’ll stop you. You have my
word.”
Only then she finally allowed herself to cry. When she felt his arms wrapped up
around her stomach, she exhaled and closed her eyes – yet sleep was still
elusive for her. Images of those bodies, the blood staining the blue and
Gerard’s final breath were still haunting her. The blazing flames of that
ancient lust, washing over her and waking up needs she hadn’t felt in such a
long time – “In that hotel – I watched a couple having sex,” she finally
confessed, “it’s hard to explain, but as I was watching them, I could feel
something stirring inside. I could hear an old voice trying to guide me through
the darkness.” She turned around, staring at him, still trapped in his arms, “I
want to feel that again.”
He understood then, that the many years she had spent with Talon had repressed
her every emotion and now that they had opened up the gates again, everything
she hadn’t felt during that time was rushing its way inside her, overwhelming
her with a million conflicting emotions.
He remembered the night when he showed her the beast – her lips tasting his for
the first time.
It pained him to realize she hadn’t awoken that day, he hadn’t been enough for
her to finally open her eyes. His kiss had only brought her closer to the edge,
but she had not fully crossed that line.
Maybe his brother was right.
Maybe he had never been sentimentally educated. How could he bring himself to
shine his light on her, when he was still living in the dark?
.
As soon as she noticed that Hanzo was asleep, she got up, dressed up again and
left his room in silence. Back in the endless corridors of Gibraltar, her legs
didn’t stop until the cold breeze coming from the bay became a reality
colliding against her skin.
There she saw the cowboy’s shape, sitting alone, facing the water. A cigarette
pressed between his lips and the melancholic aura that would always accompany
him.
She approached him silently, sitting down beside him.
He was wearing nothing but his underwear, yet he didn’t seem to mind the cold.
Love marks had tattooed his neck yet he didn’t seem happy.
She remembered such marks, just as she remembered love.
She remembered the thrill and the longing.
Yet the desolation written all over his face was narrating a completely
different tale. He was reluctant to speak at first, though he wasn’t exactly
hostile either. When his cigar became a memory, his lips were finally free to
tell the story. Angela was theirs. Shared. She belonged with them: the ninja
and the cowboy. Jesse had been the first man she had loved, and the pulsating
memory of their rekindled past had recently been brought back to life. But she
was also Genji’s. And that was alright with them.
Love was meant to be simple, she remembered.
It was supposed to flow from one person to another, and maybe triangulate and
reach yet another person willing to share that same devotion. For them, it
worked that way.
She contemplated his warmed up face as he told her about his loves – different
types of love, they were, but they all belonged in the same symphony of
feelings.
It was, indeed, such a simple thing.
But the threat of a complication was knocking on their door: when McCree left
Blackwatch many years ago, leaving Angela alone, she had found solace in the
comforting arms of Jack Morrison. But then the man had gotten himself killed oh
so recklessly. Both Jesse and Jack had left her all alone – and Genji could not
help her, still trying to recognize himself in the shape of that artificial
body they had given him…
After the recall, they had found their missing balance. All wounds had healed
up. It was simple.
She was theirs and they were hers. It worked that way.
But finding out that Morrison was alive, that he had been there all along,
sitting at their table, laughing at their jokes…
“Turns out I’m more of a calm down kind of guy. Jesse is the true consoling
type.”Genji’s words were ringing in her ears with the virulence of an enraged
god – The man that Angela had loved had looked her in the eye and had chosen to
lie to her. “She didn’t know… Angela. None of us knew but she… she said she had
her suspicions, but she didn’t know it was really him behind that visor.”
The balance they had found in each other, the perfect cycle of shared love was
facing its darkest hour. And they didn’t even have to say it out loud, it was
written all over their faces: their plural kind of love could not sustain
another actor. Their community had been compromised, and she had been the one
resurrecting the dead.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, feeling guilty and powerless, finally
acknowledging the true extent of her thoughtless actions.
McCree nodded his head in silence and turned his back to her.
It was meant to be simple – like silence. She lowered her head and went back to
the corridor. Looking for that door. Looking for that silence.
.
Her slender figure, even if featherlike and graceful as it landed on the bed,
should have been enough for the former mercenary to open his eyes. It was
unlike him, to be so far from her reach while traveling the ethereal confines
of slumber. Her paperweight body shifted on the mattress as she reached out for
the archer with one adventurous hand – he barely moved under her touch, a
minuscule, nearly imperceptible bridge between his eyebrows was all the proof
she needed to understand he was somewhat aware of her presence. Still, the
Japanese man wouldn’t grace her curiosity with his imperturbable gaze. Far from
it, his body turned and tossed on the bed - one muscular arm soared in the
night, exposing the ancestral beast.
The dancer smiled quietly as she placed her hands on her knees and watched him
sleep. There was something so peaceful about him – something so eerily foreign,
wrapping him up in a laconic sense of peace that, she knew, was his no more.
Peace wasn’t something they could bargain. People like them – they simply could
not wager.
She extended one of her arms and let it hover gracefully over his shoulder.
Pale and long digits meandered across his illustrated skin as if desperately
trying to commit the shapes and colors to memory. Then the woman leaned over
him, her body lingering nearby, the smile on her lips already caressing his
arm.
He moved again, causing the woman to lift her hand instinctively. That wasn’t
her room, that wasn’t her bed and her midnight escapade could potentially make
her look like a moody teenager. Just as she tried to prop herself up with her
elbows like she had done earlier that night, the archer turned again in his
sleep and trapped her fragile figure under his torso. It was pointless to even
try to get away from such an awkward position, she figured – any movement would
be enough to wake him up.
It was true that she was longing to spend the night with him, but she had never
imagined she would have to spend the night under him, and pray her bones were
strong enough to survive that suffocating weight of his.
As Amelie closed her eyes and tried to join him in the lands of unspoken
dreams, she found herself smiling at the irony – even when she still couldn’t
quite discern why she had decided to go back to his bedchamber this late at
night, it was funny to think that such a cold-blooded mercenary like Hanzo
would not notice a stranger coming into his room.
She bit the insides of her gums trying to contain the laughter. The assassin,
the man who would have been in charge of the Shimada clan was completely at her
mercy – she could have killed him a thousand times already…
The smile curling up her lips remained yet the colors had now changed.
Suddenly she realized he really was at her mercy.
She tried to shake herself out of that thought – they had helped her after all;
Talon’s corruption was not painting her world black anymore. Then why was she
feeling like that? So tempted by blood, so desperate to hurt him…
She moved under him until she was able to free one of her hands. Her lascivious
digits traveled across his collarbone, nails leaving red trails of fire that
had nothing to do with the ever tempting flames of desire. When the first
rivulets of blood appeared and began to stream down his torso, her dark smile
faded.
Her lips became a thin, tight line.
She had hurt him.
As her hand landed on his skin again, eager to clean the blood and hide what
she had done, the archer cupped her hand in his and opened his eyes. He didn’t
look surprised to find her there – maybe he had always known, all along, ever
since she got on her tiptoes and walked through the door…
There was a brief moment of silence; interrupted only by the sounds of the
bedsheets moving as he allowed her some space to maneuver – to maneuver, not to
leave the bed. Just as if nothing had happened, the archer rested his head on
the pillow and closed his eyes again. His arms wrapped around her waist and his
hands landing on her smooth stomach.
Suddenly it was natural, or so it seemed. To be able to share a bed without
even mentioning it. To draw blood from his skin for no reason, without even
saying “I’m sorry.”
Hanzo could sense her uneasiness. Her eyes glued to the ceiling; her arms
crossed over her chest.
He rested his chin on her shoulder and exhaled loudly yet he still refrained
from talking. He knew himself – knew how the words tended to sound when coming
out of his mouth – too harsh, too abrasive.
“Sometimes I feel like hurting people for no reason,” Amelie finally confessed,
holding on to him. “What if Talon’s…”
He cut her off as he hid his face between her neck and her chest:
“That’s not Talon, Amelie – that’s human nature.”
.
.
.
***** The Girl From The Ramen Shop *****
Chapter Summary
     One memory. Two points of view.
Chapter Notes
     Author’s notes: So, I told ya you wouldn’t have to wait that much for
     a new chapter, didn’t I? This, in spite of being labeled as the third
     act of this tale, is a continuation of the previous chapter. Remember
     when I told you I had to split that one in two because it was getting
     significantly longer than expected? Well, here’s the other half of it
     and it’s even longer than the previous half!
     Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, following and giving
     kudos!
     Love, L.
                             Variations on a Theme
                                    Act III
                         The Girl From The Ramen Shop 
===============================================================================
                                        
    “That's what the world is, after all: an endless battle of contrasting
                                  memories.”
                            Haruki Murakami ― 1Q84
===============================================================================
.
.
.
I – An Invitation
Morning light found their bodies still together in his bed. Their shapes calmly
receiving the whispers of a brand new day, warm bedsheets covering their skins.
She woke up first. Turned around and looked over her shoulder just to
contemplate the archer’s quiet expression as he slept. It still amazed her how
peaceful he could look during such moments – like a fragile being, only she
knew that he wasn’t. He was many things, of that she was sure… and yet his
fragility was still a mirage that could confuse her, but not blind her from the
truth: inside that man was a restless soul, a ferocious beast waiting for the
final rapture.
As she smiled tenderly at herself, the sleepy sniper made a mental note not to
forget about that fact, and to not get confused by such crystalline illusions
of him; to acknowledge the ancestral beast forever dwelling inside the man.
Just like she had done the day before, she slowly got out of his bed and took a
quick shower. Then she exited the small bathroom, her body wrapped up in a
white towel. Still asleep, the archer hadn’t moved an inch during her absence.
She sat down on the edge of his bed, peeling off the towel and discarding it
quickly on the ground as it pooled around her ankles, then proceeded to put on
her underwear – one more look over her shoulder was enough for the woman to
refrain from putting on the rest of her training attire. Folding her legs
together and making her way underneath the bedsheets once more, Amelie indulged
herself in the warm calmness of a brand new morning by his side. Lying face to
face now, the Frenchwoman traced the outline of his cheekbones with her
fingertips, trying to imagine whatever dreams he was having. It made her
envious, albeit in a positive way, to know that he was able to sleep like a
child without having his dreams plagued by endless nightmares.  
At least, so it seemed.
She felt his hands reach for her waist and pull her closer to his chest.
Without opening his eyes, the Japanese archer buried his face in the small
space between her neck and her shoulder – but only for a brief instant. As
droplets of water fell from her still wet hair and tickled the tip of his nose,
the former crime lord stretched his arms and yawned, confused by the uncanny
sensation.
She smiled and laughed quietly to herself as she turned around in bed, her wet
hair now greeting his entire face and forcing him to wake up.
“Amelie?” Hanzo mumbled groggily, still too sleepy to grace his voice with his
usually stern tone. Then he shook his head and allowed his forehead to find her
back, and there he stayed, his hands now holding tight to her stomach. “Five
more minutes.”
“Alright,” she said, closing her eyes.
“Make it ten, then.”
Their schedules were almost empty for that day – besides a single training
session later, during the afternoon, they would be pretty much left to their
own devices for the rest of the day. Just as Amelie was beginning to feel the
warm pressure of his calloused hands rubbing gently against her stomach, the
peaceful scene they were sharing got interrupted as soon as Genji stepped
inside Hanzo’s room without even knocking on his older brother’s door.
Hanzo let go of Amelie almost immediately when he saw his brother approaching
them then sat up on his bed, stretching the bedsheets as far as his arms could
reach in order to cover the Frenchwoman’s body. Disapproval written all over
his face, the older Shimada questioned his brother with a silent, scornful look
as he felt Amelie’s legs moving under the sheets, much like as if she was
trying to cover her whole existence with them.
“Father taught us manners. We used to knock.” Hanzo spat disdainfully, his
hands traveling rapidly across the bed to make sure his younger brother could
not see Amelie in anything but her underwear.
“Hanzo,” Genji began, casually, “Nothing I haven’t seen before – and talking
about manners, when we were young and you would be the one entering my bedroom
without knocking, at least I would always ask you if you wanted to join.”
The older Shimada breathed hard through parted lips. The insufferable brat he
had known a lifetime ago seemed to be alive and kicking inside his younger
brother’s indefatigable spirit. Annoying and brash, as usually, he would always
find a way to make him feel uncomfortable.
“Not that you ever said yes to any of my invitations but even so, I always knew
I had to ask.” The cyborg ninja went on, as he approached the bed at such a
steady pace, “Was the least I could do for my favorite brother, besides… you’re
right, father taught us some pretty good manners.”
Hanzo grunted angrily, almost on the verge of feeling offended by his brother’s
cynical words.
“Don’t feel threatened by me now, brother. I’m not that man anymore.” Genji
assured, his hands in the air. “Besides, you and I have had our differences in
the past, and we have fought over many things. A woman, never.”
Kicking the archer gently on his nearest ankle, Amelie finally opened her eyes,
understanding it was pointless to pretend to be asleep for much longer. She sat
up in bed as well, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Oh, Amelie,” Genji greeted her, “I went to your room but you weren’t there – I
figured you’d be here again today.”
“What do you want, Genji?” A nearly exasperated Hanzo asked, “It’s early.”
“Worry not, brother,” Genji chuckled, “you might as well go back to sleep. I
only wanted to see Amelie.”
Surprised, the woman scratched her chin and offered the newcomer a puzzled
expression:
“What can I do for you, Genji?” she asked, still wrapped up in the same awkward
feeling she had experienced the night before, during their brief encounter in
the kitchen: the complete impossibility to tell if Hanzo’s brother was being
friendly or not.
“Jesse told me you two talked last night, and he said you made him feel at ease
with himself. If I had to be honest, that’s the same feeling I got when we
talked last night.” He sounded genuine, she thought, “Today is Tuesday and,
like every other Tuesday night, the three of us get together and have a few
drinks after dinner. We thought, as a token of our appreciation, it would be
nice to have you joining us tonight.”
Amelie opened her mouth but before any words could reach the outside, Genji
went on:
“You know this is a particularly hard time for us, for the three of us –
especially for Angela. And I also know that you feel responsible for what
happened with Jack…”
“About that,” Amelie interrupted him, “is Angela okay with this? Both Jesse and
you told me she’s having such a hard time processing the news about Jack being
alive… I don’t know if she’ll feel comfortable around me.”
“I told you – it was not your fault.” Hanzo tried to reassure her, patting her
shoulder gently as he spoke.
“Angela is okay, Amelie. She understands.” Genji said. “So, tonight, after
dinner. What do you say?”
“I say it’s an invitation.” The woman answered softly as Genji nodded in
silence. “I’ll be there.”
Just as the younger Shimada was beginning to leave, Amelie’s soft voice made
him stop and turn around one last time.
“What about inviting your brother too, Genji?” she asked, timidly, “Thought I
heard you say you always invited him, in case he wanted to join.”
“Not this time,” the ninja said on his way out, “He might actually say yes.”
.
.
.
II – Friendly Fire
“So, what did he mean when he said nothing I haven’t seen before?” She asked as
she balanced one of her brand new venom mines in her hand. The texture of the
petite purple glass sphere seemed smoother than the spiders that Talon had
given her while she was still Widowmaker. Angela had supervised the development
of the brand new toxin – unlike its deadly predecessor, this venom was meant to
simply paralyze the targets for a little less than two minutes and, with a
little help from Torbjörn, once the venom had begun to work its magic, Amelie
could be able to see them, just like immobilized and static targets on her
visor.
The quiet hours of the afternoon were humid and warm. The bright, pink hues
painting the sky were only interrupted by a few small clouds rolling their way
towards the bay – anticipating sunset, the wind caressed the figureless shapes
as they made their way near the shore for both snipers to see the dark core
moving inside. Black roared patiently inside the white shapes cruising the sky
above, waiting for the rain to come.
Hanzo was already aiming for his chosen target. His sight focused on the
distant red dot adorning the silhouette’s head. Far from his reach, standing
helplessly on a solitary rock only inches away from the shore, the target
seemed to be almost peacefully awaiting in its artificial sort of lethargy, for
an arrow to come its way. 
“I don’t know.” He said simply, too concentrated to care.
“Come on… did the heir of the Shimada clan bring many girls home back in the
day?”
The distraction that was her voice was not enough for the Japanese archer to
take his eyes off of his target. His bow already hungry, his mind almost drunk
in anticipation.
“What? No.” The man replied as he shook his head dismissingly, without even
looking at her, “He was the one who would always bring his companions home.”
Only when the selected arrow had silently traveled the distance and reached its
target he finally turned around and said: “At least he did, when he was much
younger. The last couple of years he spent with the clan he would always take
hisbusiness away from the Shimada castle.”
Looking through the scope of her sniper rifle, the woman beckoned him to take a
closer look as she spoke quietly: “And you were the wallflower,then, when you
both were younger? Always interrupting your brother’s pleasure?”
“My brother’s pleasure knew no interruptions back then.”
His muscular arms were wrapped around the scope. The surprising sight startled
him: the red mark was still intact. He had missed.
“At least he was polite enough to ask if you wanted to join.” Amelie pushed him
slightly with her hip. Now it was her turn to hit the tricky mark.
“Quit it,” Hanzo warned her harshly as he finally stepped aside, making room
for the female sniper to position herself behind the rifle. She winked at him,
before embracing the scope.
“Did you ever…?” He heard her say, her voice a mere whisper.
“Did I ever what?” A confused Hanzo asked as he crossed his arms over his chest
in a rather despondent fashion.
“Joined.”
Unlike his arrow, Amelie’s bullet disrupted the peaceful afternoon and hit the
mark. Splinters of what used to be the target were soaring now across the pink
and orange sky.
He saw her, as she took a step back and smiled triumphantly at him.
“You heard him. Not even once.” He seemed somewhat proud of his answer yet his
gesture of absolute confidence vanished from his face the second he noticed
Amelie’s eyes aiming for him with renewed intent. “Wait, why are you looking at
me like that? You don’t think I’m a forty-year-old virgin, do you?”
She waved her hands dismissingly. Almost laughing at him.
“You’re not forty. Not yet.” She started to walk, rifle resting now on her
shoulder, “And if I recall correctly, you didreject a naked woman in your own
bed last night.” He followed close behind as the woman motioned her body
towards the next target. “An easy prey…”
He stopped at once and got on one knee, his fingers already retrieving an arrow
from his quiver.
“If anything, I like to think I was more… discreet.” He mumbled, almost to
himself.
“Then why would he say something like that? Nothing I haven’t seen before?”
Hanzo breathed out, getting tired of the conversation already yet still focused
on finding the perfect arrow.
“Can’t you see he was talking about you – and just trying to make me feel
uncomfortable, like when we were younger?” He remembered, “I think he saw me
trying to cover your body with the bedsheets so he said that meaning that I
shouldn’t worry, that he was already familiar with the shape of a woman in
nothing but her underwear.”
Hanzo looked up and found her gaze but instead of showing her his increasing
discord he found his own cheeks turning warmer and redder than ever before.
“You could have put on a shirt or something before getting inside my bed
again.” He reprimanded her.
“I was comfortable that way. And you were sleeping – I thought you wouldn’t
mind because you wouldn’t notice.”
“I was going to wake up eventually.” He finally got up, a scatter arrow between
his fingers. Now it was Amelie’s turn to fold her arms over her chest.
“Plus, I didn’t know Genji would come in without knocking.” She said, looking
into his eyes, “Besides, it’s not like he caught us in the middle of something…
we weren’t doing anything, you made yourself perfectly clear last night.” She
took a step back as a darker shade covered her face.
It was just a coincidence – a solitary cloud rolling by in the sky and taking
away her light. But only momentarily.
He sighed, absorbed by the eerie eclipse.
“What I said to you last night… It was cruel and completely uncalled for. I
apologize.” As soon as the words had left his lips the woman moved closer and
cupped one of his hands in hers – he realized she felt colder now, somehow. Not
as cold as she had felt back then, but colder than the Amelie he had grown so
used to during the last couple of months.
“You don’t have to – I was confused. The nightmare I was having; you know what
I saw that day, with Morrison… I was the one who stepped out of line. Not you.”
The distance between them had been reduced to zero. Amelie planted a soft kiss
on his forehead as she whispered:
“It’s okay, Hanzo. Let it go.”
He saw her, as she moved away and began running towards the antenna where the
second target had been placed. Then she used her grappling hook to reach the
exact location. Unsticking the red mark that had been glued to the head, the
woman smiled at him and then descended – the red mark she had retrieved from
the target could now be spotted on her training shirt, a few inches above her
heart, near her left sleeve.
She stood in front of him and smiled yet the archer offered her a puzzled look
in return.  
“Hanzo…”
His competitive spirit was finally matched, rivaled by her determination. He
shook his head, forcing himself out of the thought.
“Hanzo…”
“No.”
He took a step back, clearly annoyed by her idea. It wasn’t the first time that
Amelie was trying to suggest they played such a dangerous game. If he had to be
honest, he knew exactly what was going to happen now: a silent discussion was
about to take place, his harsh looks would try their best to convince the woman
that that wasn’t training, that it was dangerous, unnecessarily dangerous, that
even if he understood that those targets were no fun at all, they could find
other ways to make the most of their training sessions. She would always tilt
her head just a little and offer him a look of complete desolation, as if
touched by his solemn determination and unparalleled concern. Most times it
would not be enough, though, and she would insist. Yet each time he would
convince her, with nothing but silence; that such games were simply not worth
their time – and definitely not worth their blood.
It would generally take a few more moments for the French sniper to accept her
defeat. But she would never struggle against it – once Hanzo’s determination
had finally prevailed, she would simply embrace the fact that the Japanese man
had won.
Not this time.
The woman rearranged the red mark near her sleeve, then shook her head twice,
allowing her long hair to brush her own shoulders. The man watched her
silently, as he put away his unused arrow, the quiver already hanging from his
shoulder and resting against his back.
“If you don’t like Ana’s targets, we could try using the firing range instead,
we still have twenty minutes to go, you know?” he suggested, knowing a bit too
well that Amelie found the immobile targets that Ana was so fond of to be
obnoxiously boring.
If he had to be completely honest with himself, he too found the idea of
immobile targets to be a tad bit old-fashioned. Ana was old school, he knew
that much, still he felt the need of experiencing a far more challenging
training. The cowboy had felt that way too, so he had suggested they built a
small firing range in Gibraltar, similar to the ones they used to have in many
different watchpoints all over the globe back in the day. Training bots weren’t
the epitome of thrill either, but at least they could move around the range
providing a moderate sense of challenge.
Still, the woman refused.
She put her arm around his shoulder, taking a good look at the quiver of arrows
resting near his back. Her free hand came to scratch her own chin as she rolled
her eyes,  
“Just out of curiosity, does your brother still have a penis?”
The way she had said those words, oh so carelessly, almost as if she was
talking about something as trivial as the weather, made his cheeks turn a
furious red.
“A human penis, that is.” She insisted, not really caring about the stupor that
was written all over Hanzo’s face.
“What?” He was stunned, perplexed.
“Humor me, come on. Tell me.”
An elegant hand was sliding now against his back, barely brushing his shoulder
blades. He could have sworn she was touching his quiver, but the commotion was
blinding him even from the most obvious of truths.
“What?” Hanzo asked again, his voice raspier than before, his throat completely
dry.
The woman let go of him and started to walk towards the cliff.
“You know, with his cybernetic enhancements and the parts you mutilated…” she
was moving with such poise now, and the sultry tone of her voice was clearly
fighting a laugh.
“I never touched his…” He knew what she was trying to do: she was trying to
elicit a reaction from him, a blinding chain reaction that would force him to
play her game – and sadly, it was working. “How can you even suggest I could do
something like that?”
She used her grappling hook to travel the distance and positioned herself on
top of the tallest rock, facing the bay. The sunlight was beginning to
encompass her whole body, recreating her shape in mere particles of light. It
was hard to see her – the confusing rapture of light was toying with his vision
and they both knew: a sniper who cannot see becomes utterly useless.
“You killed him – that’s even worse.”
Her voice in the distance was reaching out to him and calling out the beast
resting inside. Even when he knew she didn’t mean it he could feel the thunder
beginning to stir inside his core. A poorly concealed half-smile adorned his
face, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes: he was older, wiser…. Yet he was
caught in the spider’s web all the same.
“Precisely. I was trying to kill him, what was the point in emasculating him?”
His fingers were already reaching for his quiver. “Dead people don’t need
penises.”
“Maybe some old Yakuza ritual? Like a souvenir or a trinket?”
Hanzo lowered his head, surrendering to her strategies. She clearly knew him a
little too well; knew what to say, and when to say it.
“I can’t believe it. I refuse to believe we’re talking about Genji’s penis.”
His voice was softer now yet his fingers had already found what they were
looking for.
“I think it just seems very unlikely for him to still have his human penis with
all those prosthetics.” Amelie continued. She had her arms folded over her
chest; the nearly unrecognizable being made of light that she had become was
facing the waters, still waiting for the archer to make a move.
“I… I don’t know. Can we please change the subject?” He readied one of his
sonic arrows: he knew he needed to see her clearly, but before he could even
take aim with his bow he noticed the small sphere that had been glued to the
arrow. Now it was much too late: her poison was only inches away from his nose:
he sighed, defeated, as he welcomed the dense cloud enveloping his face. His
muscles went stiff, he felt petrified, frozen in place.
Her laughter, coming from the distance, brushed his ears in the most sardonic
of ways.
“He didn’t tell you? If he still has his… you know… his…?” Amelie knew the
toxin couldn’t keep him paralyzed forever. As soon as she noticed its effects
wearing off, she readied her grappling hook again but before she could fly over
the nearest building, the archer made his move. The tingling sensation had
finally abandoned his fingers; the arrow cruised in a perfectly straight
trajectory, piercing Amelie’s training shirt in the process. The woman stumbled
on the rock and whimpered as soon as she noticed the sonic arrow now resting
idly above her hip – he had been careful enough not to hurt her, in fact, he
hadn’t even touched her – yet the arrow was still there, embedded in her
clothes and making her visible for him. The eclipse of light she had procured
for herself was no more. If anything, she had become a bright red silhouette
for the master marksman.
“No, he didn’t. And before you ask: no, I didn’t ask him either.” Hanzo finally
spoke, proudly.
“Why not?” She mumbled, mildly entertained. Her fingers were already busy,
trying to remove the arrow but then she gave up on her effort and simply ripped
that part of her shirt off.
“Cause it’s none of my business.” He retorted, watching carefully and paying
attention to her every move. She was swinging from one rooftop to the other,
visibly trying to find the perfect spot for her sniper rifle to reciprocate his
daring advance.
“But what do you think? If you had to guess…” Her voice was still soft, but he
couldn’t tell if she was near or far so he looked over his shoulder, trying to
find her.
“I don’t know. How could I know? I haven’t seen him fully naked since we were
little children.”
There she was – below the antenna facing the cliff, hidden by the stairs.
“I see…” She whispered, the shape of his body already clear in her scope; his
shoulders defined – his treacherous arms, even if seemingly innocuous, getting
ready - “But doesn’t it make you curious?”
Hanzo looked for another sonic arrow in his quiver but chose to go for a
scatter arrow instead – he didn’t have to learn her exact location, he already
knew where she was: it would be just a warning sign for her.
“No, it doesn’t. It doesn’t in the slightest.”
Spreading its blue in all directions, she saw the arrows raining all around her
and embraced the scope more tightly. She grinned to herself, confident: “Cause
now he’s with Angela, and she was the one in charge of his recovery. Sure
Torbjörn helped in designing his new body but she was the one commanding the
whole thing.”
“Don’t even say it.”
He was pulling the string closely to his chest; the new arrow seemed eager to
reach its target. It soared rapidly, aiming for her rifle – but only briefly.
Her bullet shattered his arrow mid-air.
Then she finally broke her cover, hands at the sides of her waist and a
satisfied, triumphant smile plastered across her face: “Maybe she liked him a
little too much back then, so she built something special for him, or for them,
I don’t know anymore…”
His dark eyes welcomed her – yet the coldness in his stare was revealing the
turmoil still aching inside: “Perhaps she even made it so that one of the
cowboy’s robotic fingers is secretly a vibrator.” He spat disdainfully, and
even if his commentary was worth a laugh not a single muscle in his face seemed
to be able to move. “Why don’t you ask them tonight, if you’re so curious about
it?”
He turned around and began to walk away.
“Haha, how funny…” she laughed, trying to win his attention back.
Nothing.  
“Where are you going?” The woman yelled, frustration written all over her pale
face. “It was just a joke.”
He didn’t stop.
“Time’s up, Amelie. I’m heading back inside.”
Her hands were still placed on the sides of her waist but her victorious poise
was nowhere to be found now.
A small sigh was followed by a deep breath.
“It’s not over just because you say it’s over.” She yelled again, his body
becoming smaller and smaller in the distance.
“Then why does it have to be on just because you say it’s on?” His voice, harsh
but soft at the same time, brushed her ears as he walked on by, “For once, I
would really appreciate some reciprocity.”
.
.
.
III – Pohs Nemar Eht Morf Lrig Eht  
The snipers’ table wasn’t as chatty as it had been, some weeks ago. It was
missing one component: Ana, the oldest member of the group, and while her
stories and anecdotes were missed by both Hanzo and Amelie, truth was the air
between them was still so tense and awkward after the events of the last
training session that they both knew, deep down, that even the most hilarious
tale wouldn’t be enough to help them relax. It was as if both snipers had felt
the need to embrace the tension and discord still wrapped around every other
soul in Gibraltar; their thoughtless interactions had done that much for them,
making them match the colorless scenes taking place around every table.
Even the younger members of Overwatch seemed distressed, somehow.
Ana, struggling against everyone and everything, was the only one sharing a
table with the now infamous Jack Morrison.
The ones in the middle had chosen silence.
It seemed healthier, somehow, to just remain quiet and simply try to move on.
When Angela and the cowboy beckoned the Frenchwoman to come join them at their
table, she simply refused by waving her hand: even if Genji was nowhere to be
found she knew better than to leave Hanzo all alone, especially after the tough
afternoon she had procured just for him. The cowboy smiled tenderly,
understanding her situation, then raised his artificial hand to indicate the
woman that they would be waiting for her outside the kitchen, once dinner was
over.
Only when they left the room they found the missing Shimada, waiting for them
outside, with several unopened bottles of beer resting on the floor. The ritual
had begun and Amelie, finally fitting in, felt the burden on her shoulders
starting to feel lighter and lighter.
Yet the burden returned in a mere couple of seconds, as soon as she observed
the chain of kisses taking place right before her eyes: Angela and Genji,
Angela and Jesse and finally Jesse and Genji. She soon found herself taking a
few steps backward, taken aback by their unrestricted affection, but even when
she moved without even realizing it, the three lovers turned around and looked
over their shoulders, confused.
“I don’t really get it,” Amelie let out, softly and visibly ashamed of herself
and the million questions plaguing her head.
“You don’t understand how this works?” McCree asked, signaling her to move
closer to them.
“Not exactly that…” she said as she walked slowly, moving towards them now,
“You two were friends during your time in Blackwatch, right?”
Both males nodded instantly.
“And Angela was Jesse’s girlfriend back then?” Amelie tilted her head, looking
confused by her own deductions, “But not Genji’s?”
The younger Shimada and McCree repeated their previous gesture only this time
it was more vigorous and resolute than before.
“And there was another time… when she was Genji’s girlfriend, but not Jesse’s?”
The fear of making them feel uncomfortable was making her voice weak.
This time, it was the doctor the one who nodded her head.  
“But what about the time you two spent together in Blackwatch when you were
younger? Did something happen between the two of you back then? Did you like
each other?”
“No.” The cowboy answered.
“You ask too many questions,” Genji spoke as well, folding his arms over his
chest and causing Angela to cover her face with her hands as an attempt to
fight back the laughter.  
“But what if Angela wasn’t involved?” Amelie asked, her voice a shy whisper
now, “Do you think the two of you would be together?”
The doctor laughed out loud, patting the French woman on the back ever so
gently.
“You know, for someone who likes my brother, you ask way too many questions.”
He was softer than before, calmer.  
“Don’t make this about me.” Amelie pleaded as she watched the cowboy already
leading the way towards the hangar. Genji followed him close behind, leaving
the two women alone for a brief moment.
“Well, the three of us know each other pretty well by now so…” As soon as
Angela said those words she began sprinting towards her men, leaving Amelie
behind as the Frenchwoman observed the trio in silence. McCree spread his red
serape on the ground for the ladies to be more comfortable and the four of them
sat down in a semi-circle, the bottles of beer taking center stage. It was the
cowboy the one in charge of sharing his alcohol; the first bottle traveling
from one hand to the other – yet one of the first things that Amelie noted was
that Genji, unlike the others around him, was not drinking. Even with his
helmet off, the Sparrow was the only one without a drink in his hand and it
made her wonder whether he was trying his best to stay sober or if maybe he
didn’t want her to see the true extent of the physical damage caused by Hanzo.
She thought about it as she let her beer bottle rest between her legs – all
things considered, she had never seen him eat or drink. Even the previous
night, during their brief encounter in the kitchen, he had offered her the tea
he had brewed for Angela instead of simply drinking it himself.
“I’m glad you accepted our invitation, Amelie.” The doctor said, brushing her
shoulder ever so gently. The sniper grinned tenderly, resting her back against
the wall. There was a small gap of silence – a comfortable silence – shared by
the two women as the cowboy began to hum an old tune. There was something so
soothing about him, she had experienced it the night before and the feeling was
still there, persistent and constant, like his simple melodies or the tranquil
expression on his face.
When she saw the doctor leaning against the cowboy’s broad shoulders she
couldn’t help but to feel the need to apologize to her – yet Genji’s ambivalent
moods seemed destined to break the moment of peace they were sharing. He stared
at the sniper, eyes cold and tongue sharp as a blade:
“How does it feel to be rejected by someone like Hanzo, Amelie?”
Someone like Hanzo… he had said it so many times already it was hard for the
woman not to feel tempted to ask him if he had truly forgiven his older
brother.
McCree’s tune faded out and Angela shook her head in disbelief:
“You don’t have to answer that.” The doctor intervened, visibly upset by
Genji’s rude question but even when her eyes had become as cold as his, he
didn’t seem intimidated by his girlfriend in the slightest. McCree was the one
who spoke next, trying his best to break the weird atmosphere created by the
Sparrow:
“I remember going against you a couple times, back when you were still
Widowmaker,” He paused and grimaced all of a sudden, unsure if talking about
her days as a Talon operative was the best topic he could choose in such a
moment, “I remember you were cruel – but hot.” He felt like punching his own
face for even bringing that up – Genji had been cruel and he had only wanted to
make their guest feel better… but remembering her days as a sleeper agent
seemed a little too much.
Mercy eyed him briefly, almost on the very verge of feeling defeated by both
her men.
“You don’t have to say anything about that either.” She suggested, giving up,
yet Amelie’s laughter surprised her.
“I get that a lot, actually.” Now it was her turn to pat the other woman’s
shoulder, a genuine smile still curling up her lips. She leaned in closer, as
if she was about to share a valuable secret with everyone’s favorite doctor:
“What they don’t know is that that bitch never got any action, if you know what
I mean.”
“Are you telling us Widowmaker never had sex?” The cowboy’s jaw was almost
touching his chest.
“Not even once.” She was proud of her answer. “I was thatdetached from
humanity.” Glancing over at Genji, she noticed the Sparrow lowering his head:
according to Hanzo he had been quite the playboy back in the day – now, living
his life somewhere in between the warmth of his mutilated humanity and the
impersonality and coldness of his robotic enhancements, Amelie was left with no
other choice but to acknowledge the fact that she had chosen to explore what
could be a touchy subject for him.
Understanding that acting like that was never going to help her make amends
with the Sparrow – even when she still could not fully understand why she
needed to make amends with him in the first place – Amelie sighed softly and
picked up her bottle again. “I actually haven’t had sex since Gerard,” she
confessed, “That’s why what I saw in that room made me snap – I’m finding all
these feelings I had lost, and I can’t seem to fully control them.”
She felt their unspoken understanding as she told them the whole story: the
lovers, the blood, the nightmares that followed. They weren’t judging her – far
from it: they all seemed genuinely touched by her honesty.
“But… why Hanzo?” Genji finally asked, pensively.
She had no answer.
“He was never… He doesn’t really know how to…” he couldn’t find the words to
talk about his own brother, or the man he had known a lifetime ago, “You were a
married woman, you know how love is supposed to… work. But he doesn’t. He just
doesn’t.”
She nodded her head.
“Yesterday you told me that you appreciate the fact that I’m taking my time to
sentimentally educate your brother.” She remembered, “I’m not sure if that’s
exactly what I’m doing; I don’t even know if such a thing exists.”
“It does.” Was all the Sparrow could say. “He has always lacked that kind of
education. I tried my best to help him back when we were younger – but he never
wanted any help.”
She stared at him for a moment, but then she looked away and her eyes found the
doctor and the cowboy. They didn’t seem bored at all by the conversation – in
fact, they seemed engaged, interested, as if they were hearing the most
fascinating story for the very first time. Thinking it over, it made sense –
Hanzo wasn’t exactly popular, and he wasn’t really interested in making any new
friends. Genji, on the other hand, still was rather cryptic when talking about
his older brother: the bitter experiences from their shared pasts were still
like a veil placed right before his eyes, preventing him from revealing too
much.
“Was that what you were trying to say today? When you entered his room and saw
us together in bed and you said it was nothing you hadn’t seen before?”
Shimada shook his head, a mischievous grin taking over his lacerated face but
only briefly.
“Not exactly.” The humorous gesture had now disappeared completely from his
face. “There’s a lot you don’t know. And there’s a lot he won’t tell.”
The sniper scratched the back of her neck remembering how flustered Hanzo had
looked when she had tried to ask him about his past.
“You know, when I asked your brother about this… we sort of had a little
fight.”
“I can imagine…” The doctor whispered, fighting a laugh. The cowboy smirked at
the remark, trying his best to suppress a smile as well.
“What?” Genji asked the group, his voice louder than before. “You don’t think
my brother is some kind of forty-year-old virgin, right?”
“Funny enough, he told me that exact same thing.” Amelie retorted quickly, “I
told him he was not forty. Not yet.”
Laughter encompassed the whole group, then. A loud thunder that knew no
tension.
“Hanzo is very uptight,” Genji explained. “Back when we were younger he would
often come inside my room while I was with somebody and I would always ask him
if he wanted to join. He never accepted, of course, and if I had to be honest,
I never invited him because it was the right thing to do – I just enjoyed that
moment when his cheeks would turn bright red and he would snort so loudly… I
loved making him feel awkward and uncomfortable around women, it was so easy:
same reaction, every single time…. This morning I saw a chance – and I took
it.”
“And he never said yes…” McCree wondered.
“There was one time when I saw he was on the verge of accepting my invitation.
But he chickened out before he had even opened his mouth.” He sounded
mysterious, or at least he was trying to. Still, his sparkling eyes betrayed
him and soon the group understood that he was only seconds away from sharing
the whole story.
“Wish I brought my old harmonica…” The cowboy found himself whispering, already
lost in anticipation.
“That’s not even remotely Japanese, Jesse…” Angela pointed out, smiling
tenderly.
“What are you, the culture police?” McCree’s laughter dissipated gradually,
leaving the small group in silence.
“A few weeks after I turned seventeen, I noticed Hanzo had stopped having lunch
with the rest of the family.” Genji began, voice low, as if afraid his brother
could hear him, “At first I thought they had changed his training schedule but
turns out he was never hungry. So one day I asked him why he was eating lunch
on his own and he told me that he wasn’t: he had been eating at this small
ramen shop, just a few blocks away from our home. Every single day, for several
weeks…”
McCree lit up a cigar and both the doctor and the Frenchwoman moved their hands
around instinctively, trying their best to dissipate the dense clouds of dark
smoke emanating from his nostrils.
“At first it was just lunch, but suddenly it was also dinner – and I mean… both
my brother and I have always loved ramen, when we were kids we would often joke
around and say we loved it so much we could have it every single day of our
lives… but he was actually eating ramen every single day, twice a day now and,
let’s be frank: nobody likes ramen that much.”
A small joke, followed by a small collection of quiet smiles – yet they faded
rather quickly, and the story went on.
“I was no fool, I could see that something was happening to him – so I followed
him one day, and joined him for lunch right there, in the shop.” He paused and
noted Angela and McCree smiling tenderly at him, as if encouraging him to go
on, to open up and let them in. Amelie was lost in thought – still there, but
barely registering their moves. Her eyes and her ears had traveled to that
shop. “When I saw the girl, I understood everything. He liked her. He really
did. She was gorgeous – long, black hair and eyes big and dark like night
itself. I don’t remember her name, but I do remember she was much, much shorter
than us…”
“And you’re not exactly tall men, your big brother and you.” McCree chimed in.
Angela laughed.
Amelie didn’t.
“She was the shop owner’s only daughter, so she was always there, working with
her father. She was very nice, very, very kind… I decided to join my brother
for lunch each day, show my support, even help him if necessary. But as days
went on, I realized my brother was a coward. It broke my heart: I knew he was
uptight and highly indoctrinated by the clan, but I could have never imagined
he was that bad – he wouldn’t even talk to her. He would only stare at her,
without even smiling, and the worst part was that he didn’t even have to order
his food because he had been there so many times already that the girl knew
exactly what he was going to order way before he could even open his mouth.”
Genji paused and took a long breath. He seemed agitated by the retelling of the
story, as if he was actually there again, with his brother, sitting side by
side in that godforsaken little ramen shop – washed by frustration: the
frustration of realizing his brother was not the man he thought he was.
“So one day, after leaving the shop, I decided to give him a little push. I
knew he didn’t want any help – but I also knew he really liked this girl so
perhaps I could do something to make him open his eyes and realize she wouldn’t
be there forever.” He stared at one of the bottles for a while before
continuing – then he shook his head pensively, his artificial hands lingering
around his knees. “I told him – as bluntly as I could – that I liked her too.
That if he wasn’t gonna make a move, then I would.”
McCree and Mercy stared intently at him.
Amelie didn’t.
“I thought he was gonna fight me… I thought he was going to punch me in the
stomach or slap me hard across the face, right there in the middle of the
street. But he didn’t. He just nodded his head… and I was furious. I had never
thought he could be such a helpless idiot.”
“Did you really like this girl?” The sniper finally spoke.
“She was nice. Not the kind of girl that would usually catch my eye but still,
she was fine. But fine for me was perfect for him – and he wasn’t even trying
to put up a fight to stop me. When he walked on by and left me behind that day
I understood my plan had backfired – he was never going to open his eyes, he
was never going to try. I cursed him that day, like never before. I told him
the most horrendous things – I asked him if it was easier that way because I
knew he was already promised to some other girl, someone he didn’t like,
someone he didn’t want to marry. But he was the heir – he was their fucking
heir. I told him the clan had lobotomized him. He didn’t even look at me,
didn’t say anything to me… anything at all. He just kept on walking.”
When they saw the storm in his eyes they all understood the story of the girl
from the ramen shop was the premonition of everything that would eventually
happen between the brothers: Hanzo caving in to the plans that the clan had
forged for him, and the Sparrow, alone, struggling to get his brother back and
failing every single time.
“I was blinded by fury, I wanted to smack him in the head but I knew that
wouldn’t be enough.” Eyes distant and cold, he was reminiscing the beginning of
his most futile war: the one he would ultimately lose to his own brother, to
the very man he was trying to help. “So I ended up making a move myself.”
There were many nights from his youth that time had erased from his memory. The
candor and luxuries of such a frivolous life, buried in the confines of his
subconscious – the boy he was no more, the man he had never been, both versions
of himself blended together in a continuous agora of past mirages. Yet that
night, meaningful and meaningless at the same time, decided to stay inside the
Sparrow’s mind, reminding him of the paradigmatic bond uniting him and
separating him from his brother.
He closed his eyes and exhaled quietly before breathing life into the nebula of
memories he was about to dust off.
He had returned to the little ramen shop that night, minutes after closing
time. A part of him was hoping for his wish not to come true – perhaps the girl
had gone home early that night, perhaps her family had a very strict sense of
punctuality… but another part of him, the restless predator longing to wake his
brother from his slumber, was already rejoicing in anticipation, imagining the
girl alone in the restaurant, probably finishing the day’s work…
Alone, she was.
She was waiting for some friends to come pick her up, Friday night. Such
lovely, lovely lights.
“Does your brother know that you’re here?” Was one of the very first things she
said to him.
He nodded, the most mischievous grin lighting up his face.
Liar…
He offered her his company, and she accepted, even when her eyes seemed to be
pleading for the Sparrow to turn into his own brother – as if magic was real,
or as if wishes were about to be granted.
She liked Hanzo. She really did.
Perhaps she thought his intentions were innocuous. Maybe she thought he was as
gentle as his brother – but soon the playboy took over, and it was only a
matter of time until the shy, nice girl from the ramen shop felt victim of his
endless charm. It was so easy for him, always had been -  in the end he knew,
he was sure of it, she would end up choosing his social skills over those of a
cave man.
He took her to a karaoke bar, far from his acquaintances, far from all his so-
called friends. The things she had in common with his brother showed up rather
sooner than later: for the life of her, and exactly like Hanzo, she couldn’t
sing.
Still, he thought it was cute.
Cuter, at least, than Hanzo’s torturing notes and harmonies – but still, not
enough to tantalize his ears.
She asked him about his brother. Not once, not twice, but a hundred times. Is
he always so shy? Is he always like this? Is he always…?
He drank until his name became just another name. Yet the question remained.
Is he? Really?
Is…
Does he even exist?  
After a couple empty glasses, he tried dancing. He took her hand in his and
guided her to the dancefloor but again, and exactly like his brother, she
couldn’t dance. Her graceless moves were those of a small child in the middle
of a tantrum: dispossessed of all rhythm, like a virulent spasm.
She was exactly like his brother: dull, boring, apathetic. Those two belonged
together he thought – she was just so different from the girls he was used to,
so different from the boys he was used to… so different, so far from his reach,
slipping through his fingers just like him – exactly like him.
Exactly like Hanzo.
They went back to their table. Many more drinks came and went between them yet
he stayed sober, fighting the dazing calls of alcohol. With eyes wide open, he
grabbed her hand in his for the very last time that night and they left the
bar. The dark streets welcomed them, and the echo of their awkward laughter, as
they walked on by.
He kissed her as soon as they had reached the little ramen shop. His hands
sneaking under her clothes, as if trying to summon the dormant woman in her.
She was hesitant at first, pushing him slightly away from her body – so he gave
her space, stroking her hair gently and whispering sweet words in her ear until
he felt her lips reaching out for him.
He invited her over to Hanamura.
The doubt returned but this time, the ignition in her eyes was more than
eloquent. The dimly lit streets found them once again, as they made their way
back to the castle. Sneaking his companions in during the night was second
nature for the younger Shimada. Still, he didn’t choose his room. He had a
different destination in mind.
He guided her through endless corridors graced by the sweet perfume of the
cherry blossoms dancing in the wind outside each window. It was easy to see the
radiant spark in her eyes, subtly letting him know that she was enjoying each
sight and each second of this borrowed time they were sharing.
They stopped by the old pagoda, the one their mother used to love so much, the
one facing directly at Hanzo’s bedroom. Their love session quickly became a
crescendo of sounds in unison; still, the girl from the ramen shop would not
say the only word the Sparrow was dying to hear.
His name.
He wanted his brother to hear her while she moaned his name.
Up in his room, the heir was biting his lower lip in desperation. Those sounds
and that voice, they could only belong to one person and one person alone. He
got out of bed and opened his window yet it was dark outside – he could only
distinguish the intimate carnival of silhouettes moving together in the
distance… but that wasn’t merely enough.
He left his room and made his way to the old pagoda.
And then he saw them.
Genji stopped as soon as he sensed his brother’s presence. He didn’t look over
his shoulder; he couldn’t afford to look at him. Still, he asked, like he
always did whenever Hanzo would walk in on him.
Brother, do you want to join?
The pause was as irritating as it was heartbreaking. The doubt inside the heir,
overcoming the fury he was feeling.
Genji tried to rejoice in his brother’s apparent weakness but his mind
wondered: what was he going to do in case Hanzo accepted his invitation? Even
when he knew, even when he was sure his brother would never say yes the doubt
was still there, his hesitation clear and evident.
So he pushed harder, hiding his face in the soft space between her neck and her
shoulder.
One last thrust to send them all right into oblivion.
And then she said it.
His name echoed through the night, freezing each actor in place.
Without saying a word, Hanzo turned around and went back to his room. After
that night, he never returned to the little ramen shop. The following morning,
a few minutes after breakfast, Genji finally confronted him – the argument was
heated but Hanzo did not participate nor did he say a single word. He simply
stared at his younger brother with a calm expression on his face and exhaled
softly when he realized what was actually going on: Genji was mad at him,
madder than he had ever seen his younger brother.
All things considered, it should have been the other way around, he pondered.
Answer me.
Lash out at me if you want, I know I deserve it.
Punch me in the face.
Do something.
Just say something.
Anything.
Anything at all…
“We’re going to be late for training, Genji.”
It was hard to go on and pretend that the night was still young and that their
moods were still intact. Even if he had spared them the details, all of them
could see the images transpiring through his abridged version of the story;
each carefully selected word was not enough to mitigate or lessen the effects
of such a painful memory. His eyes were darker than they had ever seen, and he
could see his own latent obscurity spreading around the ones he loved the most:
he had chosen to spill one of his darkest secrets for his boyfriend and his
girlfriend to hear – even Amelie, the only woman who had ever shown a genuine
interest in his brother, as confusing as the feeling connecting them was, had
heard it.
He was not proud of what he had done. If only he had known, back then, nothing
truly mattered, they were both beyond salvation back then – their fates had
already been sealed.
“That’s why I think it’s weird – the fact that he likes you,” Genji said, even
when his voice was only trying to breathe some life into the colorless thoughts
inside his head. “I never thought he could feel that way ever again. Let alone
act on it.”
“He hasn’t acted on it. So far, at least.” Amelie said. “You said it yourself,
I was rejected by him.”
The Sparrow shook his head quietly, the shadow of a smile beginning to
illuminate his eyes.
“He has been acting on it. And quite actively, if you ask me… His rejection was
way more than a simple negative.” He offered, conciliatorily. 
The cowboy cleared his throat – the increasing number of empty bottles resting
all around his feet was giving testimony that not even the hardest conversation
could ruin the night for him. “I think…” he began, leaning back and letting his
shoulders touch the wall behind him, “I think our boy Genji here is jealous of
his older brother. He used to be the one always getting the hot chick, but now
it seems to me that Hanzo is gonna take on that part.”
“But I do have a hot chick – and a rather handsome man, in spite of all the
drinking.”
“Yeah, but we’re not just yours, pretty boy. We are sharers.”  McCree added,
his words numb and somewhat moody.
“Anyway,” Genji continued, dismissing the cowboy with a simple movement of his
hands and watching as the doctor quickly wrapped her arms around her most
disheveled boyfriend. “If I had to be honest, I had my doubts about bringing my
brother over… and not just because I know some of them are still dubious of
him, expecting him to finish his job… I didn’t know if, after all this time, he
could still be domesticated.” He regretted using that word almost as soon as it
had crossed the barrier of his lips yet he went on, determined. “I didn’t know
if he could be just another one – he had always been the leader, his whole life
had revolved around being in that position of absolute power, but here…”
“He has adapted quite well.” Surprisingly enough, it wasn’t Amelie the one
saying that: it was Angela. “He’s been supportive, his discipline is remarkable
and he works very hard. He’s dedicated.”  
The cowboy nodded in agreement although, this time, he preferred to keep his
mouth shut.
“And you’ve been playing a rather crucial part in Hanzo’s adaptation.” The
doctor finished, addressing Amelie with a tender look.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to point out,” Genji spoke, voice lively and
louder than before. “You might think that I mock him too much, that I still
pick on him, or make fun of him, but neither of you can see what you’ve been
doing for him.” For the first time, in a really long time that night, his smile
finally reached his eyes, “My brother always tended to leave people on the
outside – always, even his closest friends, even me. Ever since we were but
little kids he always had this invisible barrier all around him, preventing
others from getting too close. I figured, when I was younger, that it was part
of his training, that the distance between him and the rest of the world, even
if only metaphorically, was needed, somehow. They needed to isolate him so they
could fully indoctrinate him. When our father died and even sometime after
Hanzo had already left the clan, he could still feel that distance stretching
further and further – it gave him superiority, it gave him authority. Now he’s
grown accustomed to solitude but in a very different way. Instead of
demolishing all the invisible walls that the clan elders had built all around
him he himself built up yet more walls secluding him from the rest of the
world. I guess being a lonely mercenary requires that much from you… especially
when you think you’re beyond redemption, and especially when you’re seeking
atonement but you’re not willing to forgive yourself. It’s a trick for the
mind, if you will, an endless domino that leads nowhere.” It was easy to notice
Zenyatta’s teachings shining through the student’s words – his time with the
Omnic had provided Genji with a renewed sense of introspection, a deeper
knowledge of those around him. “Even today it still is intrinsically hard for
me to try to break those walls and reach out to him…. Our bond was always ill-
natured, too many different opinions came to play very early in our lives,
contaminating the both of us – our ties were never simple and they will never
be simple given the events of our past. But you’re halfway there, even if you
can’t see it, Amelie. Rejected or not, you slept with him – two nights in a
row, that’s definitely something.”
Her eyes found his, the ignition inside her irises making room for her newborn
emotions to reach the surface.
“He thinks our stories are intertwined, somehow…” She commented, “Thinks we
have this darkness in common… this… thirst for light. And it keeps me there,
near him, but every time I tried to get closer he just closes off, leaving me
on the outside, looking in.”
“I understand what he has found in you: if you can find hope, then maybe he can
too – and that could have been his greatest motivation in the beginning but
now… now there’s something more, you can’t deny it.” The doctor whispered,
causing both the ninja and the sniper to look in her direction: the cowboy was
asleep in her arms, his hat covering his face.
They smiled at the image for a brief instant, allowing its simple grace to warm
them up inside. Amelie reached out for Genji, cupping one of his hands with her
own:
“It’s not easy. I saw those connections in the beginning – I could relate as
well. But lately…” her hazy eyes seemed clouded by doubt, “I understand what
the clan did to him… but every time I look at you I can see myself: the damage
is done, the wounds are real.” She stood up, getting ready to leave – then she
leaned over, and kissed the doctor on the cheek before saying:
“This morning, in Hanzo’s room, you said you two had never fought over a woman.
But your story…”
“We never fought over her. He never fought for her.” Genji concluded. “That was
the last time I tried to help him open his eyes and see the one he was
becoming… but after that girl, I saw the bigger picture: my brother was nobody.
They had made an abstraction out of him: my brother was not a person, not
anymore. My brother was power. Intangible. Unreachable. Inexistent –
untouchable.” He observed her as she stretched her legs, getting ready to walk
back to her room. When she leaned over to plant a soft kiss on his cheek the
Sparrow looked her in the eye and asked:
“What do you want with him?” He was determined to be blunt: as blunt as can be.
“Do you want to fuck him, or do you want something more?”
She stared at him in silence, dubious of her own irresolution. McCree saved her
from herself, as he yawned loudly and stretched his arms over his head.
“You’re leavin’?”
Amelie nodded. “It’s getting late, Jesse.”
“We talked so much about Hanzo, maybe we should have invited him too.” The
cowboy said as he kicked the empty bottles aside.
The doctor ran her hands through his hair and rearranged his hat for him –
“Maybe we should have…” she considered, standing up and joining Amelie.
“Just one last thing…” Genji’s voice found her with renewed intent, forcing her
to turn around and meet his gaze. “Does he ever talk about me?”
She didn’t want to let him down – but she couldn’t find the strength to lie to
his face either.
“We talked about you earlier this afternoon.” She said.
The Sparrow furrowed his brow, expecting the woman to go on.
“We were talking about your penis.”
The cowboy laughed out loud, snorting and slapping his knees.
“What about my penis?” Genji asked, visibly shocked by the revelation.
Amelie folded her arms over her chest, suppressing a smile and trying her best
to keep her composure. She couldn’t look at Angela now. She just couldn’t.
“We were debating whether your penis is human or artificial.”
Genji’s mouth was agape, and his cheeks were turning red - the cowboy was
laughing even louder than before. Angela’s giggles, albeit shy, were beginning
to ring inside their ears. 
“Oh, I got both versions.” Genji managed to say, still shocked by the topic
they’ve chosen but clearly trying to make a good come back. “We couldn’t
decide, really, and since I got a boyfriend and a girlfriend we thought having
two penises could be useful, you know? In the long run…”
“The long run?!” McCree laughed manically, feeling his belly starting to ache.
“We also talked about you, cowboy.” Amelie turned around, helping Genji. “Hanzo
thinks one of your mechanical fingers is secretly a vibrator.”
The laughter stopped. He was dead serious now.
He stood up and walked up to her.
“Just one finger?” His silver-colored hand was lingering right before her eyes,
“He thinks only one of my fingers is a vibrator? All my fingers are vibrators,
sweetheart. Except for the thumb ‘cause, you know, the thumb is… the thumb is
weird.”
Amelie covered her face with one of her hands yet it wasn’t enough to keep the
laughter inside. They all exploded simultaneously, the loud bursting of their
laughing and the warmth of all those tears of completely senseless joy
prevented the group from noticing the two men approaching them.
“Genji,” Hanzo said, keeping his distance, admiring the cheerful scene from
afar. “Winston needs us.” Standing right by his side, 76 took off his visor and
stared deeply into Angela’s eyes. It wasn’t hard for them to see that he was
having trouble trying to understand the dynamics of their love – still, he
struggled, as his eyes composed and decomposed the scene a hundred times in
only a fraction of a second.
“What is it?” The doctor spoke, her eyes unable to leave the aged face of that
man, as if trying to find the Jack she had loved and lost so long ago.
“Please, come with me.” The older Shimada said, already turning around and
walking towards the exit. He didn’t even stop to look at her – he had seen more
than enough. The way she was laughing, how she seemed to fit in almost
perfectly… he couldn’t afford to delve any deeper into those images: ever since
meeting each other, they hadn’t needed anybody else but now… now she was
slipping through his fingers, laughing with others, spending her time with
them.
It used to be just the two of them. Complicated, twisted, wordless. But just
the two of them.
Genji hurried up and joined his brother.
The rest of the group followed the Sparrow in silence, keeping their distance,
wondering what was going on. The vigilante closed the huge hangar doors as soon
as everyone had abandoned the place – his imperturbable gaze meeting Amelie’s
with renewed discord: that woman had exposed him.
Now she was laughing with the only woman he had ever loved.
.
.
.
IV – Homecoming
They weren’t allowed inside Winston’s office, Morrison had been pretty clear:
the scientist wanted to speak with both Shimada brothers - alone. Yet he didn’t
stay with the rest of the group to wait for the siblings. He simply left them
in the dimly lit corridor; their backs leaned against the wall.
They couldn’t hear anything. They weren’t yelling at each other, they weren’t
screaming from the top of their lungs. That strange type of tranquility gave
way for uncertainty to become anticipation. None of them said a word – the
cowboy had his hands on the doctor’s shoulders, his lips were pressed tightly
together. Angela seemed distressed by the whole situation – even when she was
trying her best to conceal her concern behind a fake smile. Amelie noticed
this, but still reciprocated the gesture with genuine affection.
It was late, it was unexpected.
It was challenging – for everyone.
Nearly an hour later, Winston finally opened the door for the Shimada brothers
to go back to their quarters.  They walked side by side until they found the
ones waiting for them – then distance overcame them once again as Genji joined
his lovers and Hanzo moved closer to Amelie.
“What’s going on?” The Frenchwoman asked, not even waiting for the lovers to be
gone.
“They’ve been going through the information you and 76 collected during your
last mission.” Hanzo began. “It’s not much, and I myself believe it’s a bit
far-fetched, but there’s reason to believe Talon has begun operating in Japan.
Winston believes they’re trying to recruit former members of our clan.”
“I thought the Shimada clan was no more,” Angela said, acting cautiously yet
intrigued by the archer’s words. She abandoned her men and moved closer to the
snipers.
Hanzo nodded his head in silent agreement, before continuing:
“There’s a ship waiting to take us both back home. We leave in an hour.”
“Back to Hanamura?” The doctor retorted – “Just the two of you?” It was
frightening to even say those words out loud.
Both brothers nodded, staring at each other as if no-one was watching and
sharing a peaceful kind of silence that still seemed foreign to them. Genji
walked up to Angela, grabbing her by her wrists and pulling her close: she was
worried; there was no denying it, no hiding it from their eyes – and her
reasons were irrefutable.
“We both agreed that, after all this time, for once, we could use Hanamura for
something good.” The Sparrow explained, staring intently into Angela’s eyes
now. “That place has been coated in blood in the past – it has shielded
criminals and it has divided us, for far too long.” Hanzo nodded his head in
silence, admiring his brother in a way he had never experienced before,
“Watchpoint: Tokyo does not exist anymore – but even if it did, we cannot
afford the luxury of being that blunt.”
McCree joined them, a serious expression taking over his face.
“We are not even supposed to be here – you have a point.” He said, folding his
arms over his chest. “Still, don’t you think going back to Hanamura, together,
is an equally blunt move?”
“Could be.” The archer said, “but as heirs, as the legitimate owners of Shimada
Castle, we would only be claiming what is rightfully ours. We’ll go first, see
the place, find out if there’s still someone in there – old maids, I presume…
Once we establish Hanamura is a safe place for us to operate, a small team will
be joining us. We already told Winston: the three of you are top priorities in
the list of names we suggested for this mission. We know it’s not entirely up
to us, but please know we did our best. ”
Silence enveloped the entire group as the brothers began to imagine what could
be one of the most crucial images of their lives: the gates of Hanamura,
receiving the dragons in all their magnificence.
Leaving the corridor, the brothers walked to their respective quarters. They
didn’t have any time to waste.
The dragons, together, were going home.
.
.
.
V – The Girl From the Ramen Shop
She followed him through the dimly lit corridors of Gibraltar and back to his
room. She stayed outside, her hands planted on the door for some stability.
When she entered his room, the archer was already packing up most of his stuff.
She sat down on his bed almost soundlessly and watched him as he folded his
clothes in a rather parsimonious way – judging by his simple movements, he was
more than used to leaving in the middle of the night.
When he took off his training shirt she could finally catch a glimpse of the
red lines that spread along his collarbone; the souvenirs that her twisted kind
of love had left for him to remember her. Then she stood up, walked up to him
and let her fingers trace the capricious patterns. Soft to the touch, yet
immensely wrong in their violent nature, the signs of her affection still
caused nothing but pain.
Dismissing the candor in her eyes, the Japanese man selected a black dress
shirt from his wardrobe and put it on. A matching black tie completed the
image: the heir was returning home, not a beggar, not a poor soul seeking
balance. For a brief moment she could have sworn even the look in his eyes had
changed: it seemed colder now, more distant and calculative than before.
Maybe he was still mad at her for everything that had happened between them
during their last training session.
Maybe the former crime lord was taking over, subtly transforming the frailty of
that wounded man she had known during his stay in Gibraltar.
“It’s alright, Amelie” He spoke softly as he rearranged his tie. He had noticed
her. He had.
She shook her head once but before inertia had a chance to return her neck to
its original position, the man grabbed her chin and pressed his lips to hers
but if she had to be honest with herself, his kiss didn’t feel like a kiss. It
felt like a scorching seal, secluding a very specific moment as if he was
trying to commit it to memory – a seal locking up a selected portion of the
time they had shared.
Shivers ran down her spine: his lips were determined, yet they were
intrinsically cold and definitive.
He turned around and went back to his wardrobe and there she stayed, frozen in
the epicenter of his room. Her arms hanging loosely at the sides of her body –
her eyes, as if searching, as if trying to identify which version of him was
there with her now.
Dark, he was – but even if the beast living inside was bright enough to light
him up she could only see bits and pieces taking form all around him, never the
whole man.
“Genji told me about you and the girl from the ramen shop.” She said.
“Why would he even tell you that?” He didn’t stop to look at her, didn’t even
try to address the curiosity missing in her voice but alive and afire inside
her eyes, “Such a dull story anyways.”
“It wasn’t dull.” She said, “Not in the slightest.”
He put on a long, black coat. His eyes still distant.
“You sure about that?” He said, going back to the bed. He began packing up
again, nearly oblivious of her presence. “Boy likes girl but girl doesn’t like
him back. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
She felt like crying. Even when she didn’t know exactly why.
She fought back the tears. Standing up, she motioned her body towards his,
stopping only inches away from where he was.
“You were a coward.”
Only then he stopped. He looked up at her, a half smile curling up his lips.
“Say that again.” He challenged her.
He didn’t give her any time to speak. He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her
towards his bed. Pinning her shoulders down, he forced her to sit beside him.
The woman stared at him with dubious eyes – she was sure she had stepped out of
line with her last remark yet she was positive he wasn’t looking for her fear.
“I really liked her.” he breathed out, his hand landing on her nearest knee,
“But that was not enough.”
“But you didn’t do anything… you just let your brother sleep with her as if you
didn’t care.”
“I cared too much. That’s why I didn’t do anything.”
The heir seemed lost, reminiscing a time that was never coming back. The
clothes he was wearing, the renewed solemnity in his voice… all foolish
charades in a game of shallow appearances for the prying eyes not to see the
real man struggling underneath it all.
“She was very shy… nice and caring, but mostly shy. I wasn’t an expert on love
back then, I still have much to learn today… but soon I noticed her father
would constantly try to get her to speak to me.” He explained, eyes clouded by
long-lost images. “One thing I knew for sure: the clan members would never
approve – I was the heir, I was already promised to somebody else… and there I
was, falling for the girl who worked at the ramen shop.”
“But your brother… all his freedom,”
“My brother was not the heir.” He cut her off, removing his hand. “He tried his
best to lure me into his liberties, even when he knew I had no other choice but
to remain loyal to the life I was meant to lead.” His jawline was rigid, he was
gritting his teeth venomously, “He knew nothing of responsibilities – always
sheltered under my father’s wings. Still, I loved him, deeply.” He stopped
before the contrasting emotions could get the best of him, allowing her some
time to collect her thoughts, and offered her his hand in response. Genji’s
words rang inside her head: the way the story ended, what the Sparrow had done
to his older brother, how pointless it had been for both siblings in the end.
He looked down, and stared at his own calloused hands – the warmth emanating
from her fingers was spreading across his skin, contagious and persistent, as
if trying to wake him up from his languorous slumber.
“I never knew if she liked me back or not, but I knew finding out was risky –
especially for her.” He whispered, “That’s why I chose to just stare at her
every day… It wasn’t much, but all things considered… it was enough.”
“All things considered?”
“Like I told you, the clan elders were never going to accept her, so the less
they knew about her, the better. Plus, her father seemed… quite interested in
the possibility of us getting together, and who could blame him? I thought it
wouldn’t be fair for her to be dragged down to the yakuza just to please her
father’s ambitions. I was a big shot back then, everybody knew who I was. And
she was just a nice, shy girl. Who was I to force her into all that shit?”
Her mouth agape, the words were fighting to escape her constricted throat.
“You were protecting her?”
Hanzo nodded in silence.
The notion dawned inside of her like the most obvious revelation ever: it’s not
that they had led different types of lives; it had never been a matter of
freedom versus duty. The brothers had never understood each other – that’s why,
even if they tried, they could have never overcome such unbearable barriers.
Genji was a challenge; a transgression. Hanzo was history and obligation. 
Genji was rebellion. Hanzo was tradition. Genji fucked the girl because he saw
the doubt in Hanzo, slipping through the cracks in his determination. He almost
said yes, only once… He only wanted to make sure his brother heard her moaning
his name – yet his name, the intrinsic symbol of everything he was and
everything his brother was not, was nothing but a sound… a simple, meaningless
sound in a sea of unintelligible echoes.
Moved by him and his unspoken defeat, the woman moved closer and wrapped her
arms around his broad shoulders. He seemed stiffed by her touch, like a
lifeless statue with no trace of a soul.
When he finally moved, he freed himself from her. He grabbed his bag and
motioned towards the door.
Trepidation invaded her then, as she stood up as well, and let her hands rest
on his back. He didn’t turn around, his fingers already toying with the
doorknob – his eyes were closed.
“Hanzo…”
The man took a deep breath before turning around to meet her gaze. His
movements were deliberatively slow now.
“Once the mission is complete, you will be coming back. Won’t you?”
His stare was long but vacant. For the very first time, ever since meeting that
man, she hated the silence he had to offer.
“Hanzo…”
He grabbed her furiously by her waist, her back slamming hard against the door,
and pinned her hands over her head. Then he kissed her, fiercely, desperately.
Her tongue, numb at first but showing some signs of life as seconds went by,
tried its best to keep up but his spirit was restless – merciless. When he
finally put her down she was a complete mess – breathless, covered in sweat.
The heat subsided, making room for cold shivers to run down her spine. Through
the black of his shirt, all the way up from his forearm to his shoulder, she
could see the misty sparkling of a blue she knew too well to ignore.
She traced the outline of his jaw with trembling fingers yet he removed her
hand.
“I may not know a single thing about love but you, Amelie… you really need to
get your shit together.”
The reprimand, long overdue and colder than what she had expected, helped her
realize that her confusing love was not his love. If anything, he was only
trying to push her away, just like he had done all those years ago. She could
scream someone else’s name from the top of her lungs and it wouldn’t matter:
the clan was no more, but the chains had not been broken – the man staring back
at her was still a prisoner of the trap they had built all around him.
He was content that way, admiring her from afar, keeping his distance.
He could allow her to sleep on his bed, to take off her clothes…
But he didn’t need her troubled mind to come toy with him. He didn’t need that.
He didn’t need anything.
Anything at all.
She grabbed his shoulders before he could leave the room. Even without knowing
what to say or what to do, she felt the urge to stop him, felt the need to look
at him, just one last time.
His mouth found hers again, devouring her whole and consuming the little air
still left in her – soon she found herself realizing that, if kisses were
speeches, his were definitely monologues. Before parting, he trapped her lower
lip between his teeth and didn’t stop until he tasted her blood. Then he licked
his own lips, looking satisfied.
“Now we’re even.” He said.
And he left.
***** Judas *****
Chapter Summary
     “After everything she’s been through she only gravitates towards
     others trying to experience what she once called love, lust, even
     trust. Now the untrained eye might find her interactions
     entertaining, warm even – genuine. But trust me, she feels closer to
     no one.”
     “Are we still talking about Amelie, Hanzo?” The Sparrow smiled
     underneath his helmet, “Because that’s the most accurate description
     of yourself I’ve ever heard.”
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
                       Introduction: Of Blood and Rain.
It was hard to see. The curtain of rain before her eyes was blinding – but, she
knew, it was not enough: the veil hiding the truth from her was slowly
beginning to disappear in the misty form of a stormy night.
The pinkish clouds that had rolled by during the afternoon had darkened and,
exactly like his moods, they had brought the rain and the wind. Only the three
of them were standing there, with their feet anchored to the ground and their
bodies, languid and nearly exhausted, only inches away from the threshold.
The hangar, large and vacant, stretched itself before them with a silence that
knew no harmony. The brothers were gone and with them, gone were the sleepless
nights and the tender smiles that now seemed faded in the howling wind outside
that space – colorless and eerie, the echoes of their joy reverberating all
around them and yet, producing no sound at all.
It seemed that, in a way, they had taken everything with them.
Gone were the days when they were young and free.
As the gates closed behind their backs, the doctor, the sniper and the cowboy
looked down, as if defeated. The sullen discord in their eyes, in perfect
concordance with the furious thunder, was speaking about a million different
uncertainties placed far beyond their reach. The persistent question mutated as
it traveled from face to face – the doctor feared the worst, the cowboy was
worried about her but the sniper… the sniper was still trapped inside a
potential goodbye.
Deep down she knew, she was almost certain of it: the heir would not be coming
back.
Oblivious to the sniper’s inconclusive farewell, the cowboy curled his arms
around the doctor and pressed her tightly to his chest. Each sorrow they
possessed, like each drop falling from the sky, had conveyed a different
meaning. Who were the ones supposed to ride the storm now; the ones traveling
the world inside that ship, or the ones they had left behind...
Somber as the night, the doctor broke the embrace and gazed up at the sniper.
“There’s blood on your lips.” She said as a timid finger began to trace the
crimson souvenir that the dragon had carved into the sniper’s lower lip.
Yet the Frenchwoman only nodded in silence.
And went back to her room.
.
.
.
===============================================================================
                             Variations on a Theme
                                    Act IV
                                     Judas
===============================================================================
              “A tongue like yours should be burned and branded.”
                          Sara Bareilles ― Lie to me
===============================================================================
                                        
.
.
.
I – Day 1
When the gates closed behind their backs, the brothers exhaled loudly at the
scene of a deserted Hanamura. Not much had changed, at least visually, but deep
inside they both knew that even if their house seemed to have endured the cruel
test of time, nothing really was the same anymore.
Hanzo was the first to venture his bones further into the compound, leaving his
brother behind, even if only momentarily. Nostalgia becoming him with every
step he took, the older Shimada had to shake his head to prevent his heart from
falling for all those mirages coming to greet him, like the subtle movement of
the leaves in the tepid winds, resembling the way his mother’s skirt would
usually dance around her ankles during the summer; or the stern shadows
covering up every stone in his path, exactly like his father’s indefatigable
guidance through his youth. This return felt so different from all those other
times when he would sneak in, like a thief in the night, to try to honor the
memory of the brother he himself had killed.
The sun in the sky, the compass that had guided them home, was more than a
symbolic flag for them to feel like they truly belonged there. Children of the
night no more, the present seemed as bright and diaphanous as a brand new day –
still the reality of the ones they had become was still traveling alongside
them, venturing the light they had found in spite of all the darkness they
still carried within.
They continued their way through Shimada castle in complete silence, taking a
few moments to carefully inspect each room with the circumspect respect of
those who know about loss as a means to revisit their own misfortune. Yet
everything changed once they reached the kitchen: hidden behind the large,
black counter, a group of people was waiting for them.
The cyborg ninja stood still by the door, signaling his brother to be cautious
in his approach. A stern Hanzo dismissed his younger brother’s suggestion as he
scoffed casually, and moved to rest his elbows on the counter. Much to his
surprise, the sights of yesterday came to his aid as, one by one, all those
long forgotten faces became a living memory pulsating right through him. The
family inside the family, he reckoned with a quiet smile upon his face, had
survived oblivion.
Her gray hair was barely showing right above the edge. Her old arms, like
houses, sheltering the ones she cared about most…
Meisa, the maid from their youth, the one always rushing behind them or helping
their mother; the one who had gained Sojiro’s trust after years and years of
hard work and loyalty – the one Hanzo had avoided, by all means possible, right
after attacking Genji.
Those eyes, he knew, they could really see it all.
Now time had taken its toll on her, reducing her shape and wrinkling her skin.
An old lady now, still surviving through the hourglass of complete despondency,
finding solace in the embrace of her own family, the one she had procured for
herself: her three daughters, and her five grandchildren.
As soon as he realized who it was that had been waiting for them, the archer
turned around and gazed at his brother but before he could even beckon Genji to
join him, the ninja’s loud guffaw made him turn and look over his shoulder once
again only to find Meisa holding a large rolling pin in her hands, eager to
strike the unwanted visitor.
“Meisa-sama!” Hanzo shouted, “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”
The woman put the rolling pin down on the counter and stared at him with
puzzled eyes: she had imagined, many, many times, what the boys she had helped
raise would look like as adults. Still that aged version of the Hanzo she had
once known differed greatly from the visions in her sugar-coated mind: the
expensive suit seemed nothing but a poorly constructed charade made to conceal
the real man behind the frivolity that is clothing.
She had heard some rumors about him or, to be quite honest, she had heard the
stories that the elders of the clan had told after he disappeared. If only he
had stuck around long enough to put all those rumors to rest… all those mouths
calling him a traitor, a crooked, corrupted heir would have known the real
meaning of silence. The Hanzo she had known back in the day, albeit absorbed in
responsibilities and pressure, would have never attacked his own brother. No,
the brand new leader, brokenhearted after Genji’s tragic passing, must have
felt the need to erase that rotting apple from his life, succumbing to exile as
a way to protect his own sanity.
It was utterly useless to try to hold back the tears now. Soon her fragile arms
were braced around his broad shoulders, pulling him closer to her chest as he
finally indulged himself in the tender embrace of his very own childhood.
Neither of them had the courage to speak for several moments – even the ninja,
still standing by the door, silenced his laughter as he folded his silver arms
across his torso. The old woman gazed up at the mysterious figure watching them
from a comfortable distance, her chin landing gently on the archer’s shoulder.
“Just like when we were little kids…” Genji whispered, “I guess some things
never change.”
His unmistakable voice, even if synthesized by artificial tricks, made her see
beyond the metal binding him, beyond the years and beyond death itself. She let
go of Hanzo, slowly, almost as if her heart could betray her if she were to
make any sudden movements. Behind them, still sheltered by the counter, her
family struggled to remember the tale of the fallen dragon and his brother
through the misty haze of their own past.
“I thought… I thought he was your bodyguard.” The old maid whispered. She
stared at Hanzo, a question burning inside her irises – the archer looked down,
sensing his guilt overcoming him once again with renewed tenacity. He simply
shook his head in response, as he watched his brother take off his visor and
helmet for the woman to look into his eyes after so many years. She moved
towards the Sparrow, trapping him inside her arms: unlike Hanzo, she clearly
didn’t care about his looks or his physical appearance. Unlike Hanzo, she could
still see the same old Genji inside those brown eyes of his.
The way she cried, like heaven and hell had collided all around her… There
would be time for words, they knew. The dragons were home now.
.
.
.
II – Day 3
Amelie checked her phone for the millionth time as she walked down the
corridor, headed for the conference room. Winston, Amari and 76 had made a
decision regarding the Hanamura case and even when she knew it was only a
matter of time before her name was called to join the brothers in Japan, the
truth was that she hadn’t heard from Hanzo ever since the archer’s departure.
He had never returned her calls, never replied to her messages.
It was hard for the woman to even try to break away from the feeling. It seemed
too personal, too straightforward in spite of his lack of words. The urgency of
his last kisses, the ambivalent moods he had shown during the last moments they
had spent together and his inability to answer a simple question: you will be
coming back, won’t you? were giving testimony to her doubt.
Now the information she could get about him was scarce, to say the least. Like
a starving pigeon, feeding on crumbs, the cowboy and the doctor would tell her
about the long calls they would share with their beloved ninja – ever gently
they would pat her shoulder and assure her that they were fine. That perhaps
Hanzo was tired, working hard, organizing everything for the team to be as
comfortable and safe as humanly possible… little did they knew about her
genuine concern – his apathy and his lack of communication, waltzing with his
gentle silence and transforming it into an abominable abyss of darkness and
distance.
She took a seat right next to Angela but before she could put the phone back in
her pocket, the doctor cupped her hand with her own.
“He will call.” She said, grinning softly at the sniper. “Just give him some
time… I can’t imagine what it must feel like to go back home after such a long
time, after everything they went through.”
Of course, the doctor was right, Amelie knew. The question regarding why Genji
had found the time to communicate with them while Hanzo hadn’t could be
answered in a rather simplistic sort of way: the cowboy, the ninja and the
doctor were in a relationship – compromise and commitment were a reality for
the three of them. What she and Hanzo had could not be fully explained nor
understood, not even by them.
Letting go of Mercy’s gentle touch, the Frenchwoman retrieved her hand and
smiled politely. No matter how logic her arguments were, the disturbing feeling
of rejection would not leave her be.
Jesse was the last to join the group of agents waiting patiently inside the
conference room. A quick tip of his hat, followed by a playful smirk was all it
took for the charming gunman to make them all forgive and forget his
unpunctuality.  Without much delay, Amari took the lead and explained that four
agents were to be deployed in the following days. The chosen agents would
arrive separately to avoid suspicion, and they would, one by one, join the
Shimada brothers in Hanamura. Faces changed surreptitiously then: not everyone
knew that the brothers had returned home, least that they were on their own.
The moment of terror was brief, as trepidation jumped from visage to visage.
Winston helped them out of their obscure trance by explaining that Talon was
trying to reform the fallen Shimada clan by hiring its former operatives –
Genji and Hanzo were merely keeping an eye on the exact spot that could become
ground zero in the not-so-distant future: the beginning of Talon’s operations
in the Japanese territory. But while the cowboy and the doctor kept their heads
down, Amelie entertained her eyes with the puzzled expressions taking center
stage all around her: none of those agents seemed to fully trust Hanzo.
Realization hit her, then, as a timid grin curled up her lips: Genji had been a
controversial figure for his own clan and family back in the day, and now,
ironically enough, it was Hanzo the one following his younger brother’s steps,
becoming the controversial figure for Overwatch to wonder whether he could be
trusted with his brother’s life or not.
“We have come to the decision, after speaking with both Hanzo and Genji, that
securing Shimada castle and setting up a safe perimeter for our team to work
should be our top priority at the moment,” Morrison said. “That is why we’ve
chosen Satya. We are sure your sentry turrets can act as an alarm system,
providing security for the rest of our agents.”
The sophisticated woman nodded her head in silent agreement, feeling a little
bit spoiled by Morrison’s words but accepting her skills, feeling proud of her
own achievements.
The sniper, the doctor and the cowboy stood up and left the room. The meeting
was over, yet the turmoil in their heads had only just begun: four agents were
to join the Shimada brothers in Hanamura but, contrary to their beliefs and in
spite of their confidence and what the brothers themselves had told them, none
of their names had been called.
.
.
.
III – Day 4
“Just out of curiosity, what made you think he was my bodyguard, Meisa-sama?”
Hanzo asked as he sat up on the bed and stretched his arms over his head. The
back of his neck was aching, just like it usually did during the morning. The
maid pulled out the blinds and let the light in – then she set the silver tray
that was waiting by the nightstand on Hanzo’s lap and waited… even when they
hadn’t really talked about his reasons and his motivations, the old lady didn’t
really need to know what had brought them back home: for the first time in more
than a decade, she had a master again and while there would always be time to
talk, the brothers were the legitimate heirs – there was no denying that.
“The way he was waiting for you…” She began, sitting down on the edge of the
bed and watching as the archer sipped the green tea she had brewed for him.
“Where are the men?” he asked, setting the cup down on the tray again and
crossing his arms over his bare chest, “Your sons?”
For the most fleeting of instants, he saw the disappointment in her eyes
setting in, and making a home out of those tired irises of hers. Then she
exhaled loudly through parted lips, “I knew miracles don’t really exist, but I
swear Hanzo… when I saw it was you… I thought God himself had sent you back
home to make things right.”
The question had burned the back of his throat when he found them that day,
hidden behind the kitchen counter – yet it had been so long and the commotion
was so strong it was impossible to reason and act logically as a consequence.
Meisa-sama was a mother of five: three girls and two boys, twin brothers, three
years younger than Genji.
“They took them.” The woman confessed, “That’s why I thought you had returned
home – perhaps you had heard about them, and had decided to come over and help
us.” She looked down, “But since you didn’t even know about them, that
possibility seems unlikely now.”
Hanzo cupped her hands with his own as the ninja approached the scene – the
green lights of his visor flickered relentlessly, trying to catch his brother’s
attention.
“Meisa-sama,” Genji began, gently allowing his artificial hands to land on the
old maid’s shoulders, “who took your sons?”
Silence engulfed them all, for a little while. Then the woman beckoned Genji to
join them on the bed and the ninja obliged patiently.
She gazed over at Hanzo, then back down at her own hands.
“Ever since you left; ever since the clan fell apart, I stayed here with my
family. I know that it wasn’t the right thing to do – but your father and your
mother had done so much for us that the least we could do was to remain here,
and keep the place safe in case, someday, you decided to come back home.” A
timid smile began to show at the corners of Hanzo’s mouth but he remained
silent, “All this time, we’ve been here – taking care of the place, honoring
your parents’ graves… we pretty much acted as if nothing had changed; routine
stayed the same for us, and you can see it – we didn’t throw away anything, we
didn’t move a single piece of furniture…”
“But what did you do for a living during all these years?” Genji asked.
The woman shrugged her shoulders innocently, and then she said:
“The only thing we could do: my daughters and I began to work for other
families – raising their children, cleaning their houses… My boys were always
rather handy men, so they didn’t have much trouble finding jobs around town.
Money was tight, but we were never big spenders. All we could manage to earn
ensured the security of this place, that’s how we could afford to pay for each
bill and each tax. We lead lives that require no luxuries, so my only concern
was to keep their bellies full and their hearts content. Every time something
would break, my sons would fix it…”
“Thank you,” Hanzo interrupted her, “for everything.”
“About a week ago, some men came. We didn’t recognize them at first; it had
been so long… They were former clan members.” she remembered, “They said the
clan was regrouping, under new management, they joked… they wanted my sons to
join, said they needed as many men as possible, and that even if the twins had
never been involved in the clan’s activities, they would be welcome to join
now.” She paused, her eyes tearing up, “We knew something was wrong – what they
were going to do with my sons? Unlike former clan members, they were never
trained; they wouldn’t know what to do…”
Genji stopped her just in time before her tears could roll down her cheeks.
With gentle digits, he massaged her temples, helping her relax.
“What happened then?” Hanzo inquired, leaning forward on the bed, arms still
crossed over his chest.
“My boys were an excuse for them to come… but nothing more.” Meisa let out
softly. “But by the time we realized, they were already inside. They attacked
us, but the twins protected us as best they could until the clan members
knocked them down and dragged them out of the castle.”
With a forlorn sigh, the archer finally got out of bed and walked towards the
window: perhaps this whole Talon operation in Japan was more personal for him
and his brother than what he had dared to imagine.
“They said they would be back.” He heard her say. “We protected this place as
much as we could but I suspect they never wanted my sons to join; that was
merely an excuse to come over and see what was left of the castle with their
own eyes…”
“And so, they learned that the place was still intact, thanks to you and your
family,” Genji said and the woman nodded in silence.
With a heavy heart, the Shimada brothers came to the conclusion that Meisa-sama
and her family, in their innocent attempt to protect the monuments of the
Shimada history, had only put themselves at arm’s length. First, the men had
been taken away and surely the women and their children would follow, in time,
one by one they would all disappear in the sinister shades and shadows of the
residual violence of a broken, criminal empire commanded by an even darker
mind: Talon.
“Do you think they will come back?” Her question brought him back to reality.
Hanzo looked over his shoulder and nodded once, a stern look written all over
his face: all his life, he had been prepared, trained and groomed to lead an
empire – an empire that ultimately fell apart, breaking bonds that should have
remained sacred and untouched. His mistakes were a debt he would never be able
to repay – not to himself, and definitely not to his brother but this chance,
this brand new chance to finally become the leader of the Shimada and break
away from the chains of yesterday was more than what he could ask for.
The Shimada were no more – now it was completely up to him and his brother to
breathe life into the name once again; to twist and bend the old paths of vices
and violence and turn it into something good. With his hands at the sides of
his waist, the archer turned around and took a good look at the room where he
was staying: that room, the one he had rejected during his brief period as
kumicho, had once belonged to his parents. Time was a feeble substance; after
all, mocking the mind, tricking the heart… he was now as big as his father had
been back then, as strong as he had been. Yet his fragile stability was an
insult to his father’s determination. His doubts and his suffering, a slap in
the face of the doctrine that had molded him ever since he was a little child.
When Genji removed his visor and gazed over at Hanzo, the archer understood
that for their mission to succeed, it would be necessary to let the old maid in
– her own family was on the line as well, he knew. Their paths had converged
once more, subjugated underneath the oppressing hand of the same instigator.
He asked for her discretion and the old woman obliged. She had two sons to
save, and a flourishing family to protect.
Hanzo told her everything he knew – every single thing he knew about Talon, his
own days as an Overwatch agent, the reunion with his brother and the very
reason that had brought them both back home after a lifetime of suffering and
distance. The last thing he told her was the little information they had
regarding their current mission – if he had to be honest, they didn’t know much
about Talon’s true motives or strategies but they were positive they were onto
something big.
The woman nodded wordlessly, trying her best to absorb the news as best as
humanly possible. Hanamura, once again, was the epicenter of their lives only
now a darker specter was trying to drag them all down the same hellish road
they had been forced to travel before. The Shimada was never a clan of saints –
they had known the ways of blood and violence but they had also let that blood
run and flow into a bond that extended itself far beyond themselves. What the
elders did to Hanzo, what Hanzo did to Genji seemed destined to happen as part
of a convoluted bond, pure and malignant at the same time. But after all those
years, after all those tears and after filling their lungs with the brimstone
and the sulfur of such a sacred curse, now they just couldn’t allow a new
nightmare to come play with those memories, to resurrect the dead and make them
all heretics in their own faith.
A tacit pact sealed their return. The heir was back, reclaiming what was
rightfully his and making sure no one could toy with the memory of his loved
ones. The Sparrow, by his side, remained as a stoic reminder of everything that
can and will go wrong when love and blood become the same corrupt element.
===============================================================================
 
It was simply impossible to even try to soothe the good doctor now – the news
had made her snap, and even when the cowboy was trying hard not to let go from
her as she hid her face against his chest, it was impossible for the man not to
feel the discord growing between them. Her blue eyes glared up, scorching his
sight, asking the impossible.
A second name had been called. Another seat had just been taken – but the three
of them were still left standing there, in the impervious corridors of darkness
and uncertainties.
They had chosen Zenyatta.
The cold numbers were stating that one of them wouldn’t be joining the Shimada
brothers in Hanamura. It was an obvious fact, after all, that one of them was
destined to be left out in such circumstances, and while the cowboy and the
French sniper were doing their best to console the brokenhearted doctor, there
was not much they could do to make her feel better.
Unspoken and tacit, like a frightening truth none of them dared to say out
loud, the three of them knew that with the monk joining the small team in Japan
there was little room for the doctor to be deployed as well: if they wanted to
keep things simple, if the team was meant to be functional and small, having
two healers could break the dynamism of their actions. Zenyatta was more than a
friendly voice, more than an endless pool of knowledge and comprehension – his
harmony orbs could heal, and it was a fact.
Breathless, the doctor sat down on the cold floors of Gibraltar and allowed her
battered back to kiss the wall behind her shape. Amelie and Jesse stayed close
to her, trying to comfort her, to make her feel she was not alone.
They exchanged glances in silence as Angela held her head between her hands: it
was not necessary for them to say such things out loud, but deep down both the
sniper and the cowboy were sure that Zenyatta’s choice hadn’t been an arbitrary
one. The monk had helped Genji through his darkest years, giving him purpose,
helping him embrace the very notion of acceptance. Now that fate had played
with their past and the dragons had returned home together, it wasn’t so crazy
to think that Genji would want his spiritual mentor to help him through such a
transcendental experience.
Yet the logical arguments inside their heads were not enough to placate the
voiceless echoes waltzing inside the doctor’s head: perhaps they were trying to
protect her from Talon’s cruel claws; maybe they were right, perhaps two
healers was a bit much… But she still couldn’t shake the image of a broken
Genji and even when the Sparrow would call, even if he would always say to her
that they were alright, a part of her was left with no other choice but to
admit that she still couldn’t trust Hanzo.
.
.
.
IV – Day 7
In the few days that followed the brothers’ compromise towards Meisa-sama and
her family and also as part of their duty as members of Overwatch to stop
Talon’s incipient operations in Japan, the Sparrow began to notice his brother
changing once again. It seemed distant now, when looking in the rearview mirror
of their bond, that night when he had told his older brother that the world was
changing – now the world seemed destined to repeat a cyclical turn of events
for his eyes to watch in a rather unmoved fashion. The world was still changing
– but Hanzo seemed to be the only actor brave enough to face each subtle
alteration with renewed intent. Hanzo was the only one changing – although,
deep down, the Sparrow couldn’t be completely sure whether his brother’s motion
was an advance or a relapse.
Much to his surprise, he found his older brother sitting all alone in what used
to be Sojiro’s office. The place he had sworn he would never occupy, the very
same room that, most times, had deprived them of their father while growing up.
Constant as a shadow traveling across a wall, Sojiro’s expectations and
teachings would not leave his older son’s side and so, existing between
invisible parenthesis, breathing in through the impeccable form of rules and
discipline, the father would always be there, tacit yet ever-present, even when
his children could not see him with their own eyes.
When he moved closer to the desk, he noticed the old books. Resumed with brand
new ink, gapping the distance between one era and the other – a man in his
element, at last.
Checking every ledger entry and clumsily scrawling his own, Hanzo kept his eyes
trained on the books before him.
Genji’s voice suffocated his mathematical thoughts with the precision of a
misplaced comma, ruining what could have been the perfect equation.
Silver metal landed on the pages, artificial fingers sliding across the
surface, sweeping off the ink – hurting perfection.
“I take it you have plans to fully take over, brother?”
The archer didn’t reply. With his brown eyes still struggling to find the logic
in those numbers his brother had nearly erased, he simply let his voice
communicate what seemed to be the most obvious of truths:
“Looks like it.”
“But why? And how?” Genji questioned, guarded yet resolute. “The Shimada name
hadn’t made any money in a very long time now, Hanzo. I doubt we still have any
reserves left in our banks, plus Overwatch cannot be funded so you can’t expect
Morrison or Amari to pay for anything around here after the mission is over.”
The archer opened his mouth to explain himself but the Sparrow went on,
“The clan is no more, Hanzo. The life you once knew – it doesn’t exist
anymore.” He paused, taking a long breath, “This place is just wood and stone,
brother: a museum of everything that is no more.”
“I don’t want to move backward – only forward.” The older brother sentenced.
“And you expect to achieve that by staying here? Right in the middle of the
monument of our defeat?”
Hanzo laughed, turning the page and letting the ink travel across the surface.
“I have my own reserves, I was a mercenary, remember?” Only then he looked up
and found his younger brother – the unreadable expressions hidden behind that
damn helmet of his were now an entire language, albeit one Hanzo could not
understand. “I have adopted a very austere lifestyle throughout the years.
Meisa-sama and her family are not here for the money either. Maybe I can work
for Overwatch from here, make sure this place finds its redemption.”
The irony was delicious: Genji had been the reason why Hanzo had joined
Overwatch – the Sparrow had only wanted to provide his brother with a place to
call his own, a family, even a sense of discipline and duty – the same senses
their own father had carved into his skin, the ones he could not live without.
And Hanzo had tried his best to call the place his own; to fit in and even
indulge himself in the luring calls of love and urgency. Overwatch was meant to
keep him away from Hanamura – yet the organization had pushed him towards the
same old destination – Shimada Castle.
Hanzo’s plans were as tangible as Amelie’s fears: his plans, indeed, exceeded
the mission.
He wanted to stay. More than just that – he was determined to stay.
No matter how noble his brother’s intentions seemed to be, the feeling stayed
the same inside the cyborg ninja. Fate had slapped the Sparrow hard across the
face. He approached the door in silence, leaving the archer alone with his
numbers.
“I chose not to tell her anything when you lied to her in front of me,” he
whispered, hands resting at the sides of his body, “but she called again today.
If you are planning to stay – if you won’t return to her, you should at least
let her know.”
“She doesn’t need me, brother. Not anymore.” Hanzo said, with a scowl. His eyes
went back to the paper as his brother disappeared behind the door.
He tried to resume his calculations, then, but it was pointless.
The tip of his pen had run totally dry. 
.
.
.
V – Day 10
She propped herself up with her elbows then took a good look around: the movie
was over, and both Hana and Lucio were fast asleep, their bodies a simple mess,
scattered clumsily all over the couch. The doctor and the cowboy, with their
eyes still open wide, observed the scene with parental candor as the
Frenchwoman stretched her arms over her head – the ending for the movie, a
conclusion she had not seen, reminded her of her own predicament in a way. Legs
touching her stomach, her flexed knees received the light weight of her chin as
she watched the cowboy motioning closer to her, and extending one of his hands
to her.
It was easy to see that a small portion of his brain still wanted to take those
two in his arms and take them to their respective quarters, but as he tilted
his head to the side, his eyes seemed determined to prove otherwise – the great
outlaw still had a reputation to maintain, after all.
The sniper wrapped her fingers around his artificial digits and took a deep
breath of complete relief once she sensed the warmth emanating from his hand.
As artificial as metal itself, the sensation engulfed the sleepy woman in a
renewed sense of companionship, and even if the feeling differed greatly from
the one she would get most times around Hanzo, it was close enough to help her
stand up and walk towards that man waiting for her. As she moved her body
closer, there, in her peripheral vision, the image of the angel started to take
form: his warmth was hers, the woman knew; the light in his eyes belonged to
her.
As the three of them ventured their bodies in the darkest hours of the night,
walking down each one of the corridors leading their tired bones back to their
rooms, she felt grateful for them, for having them with her during such a
confusing moment in her life. All the certainties that the archer had procured
just for her seemed to be gone now, as if the relief he had provided her with
had only been destined to be fleeting.
In a way, it seemed, he had taken it all with him – all, but them.
Those ten days she had spent without him, the longest period of time they had
spent apart ever since joining Overwatch, had been a bridge for the woman to
walk towards them – the cowboy and his angel. And even if she knew that her
days with them were nothing but a poorly constructed excuse for the woman not
to feel so all alone, for the woman to find a connection between them and the
archer, every hour spent with them reminded her of the true meaning of
friendship.
Empathy began to take shape as her body went still. Their sorrow was her
sorrow, in a way – the days she had spent without the archer were the days they
had spent without the Sparrow and even if the bonds uniting them were simply
not the same, their presence and company had awakened a part of her that had
remained dormant for such a long time: the longing for others.
She extended her arms, trapping them both in an unexpected embrace. If she had
to be completely honest with herself, the gesture seemed foreign even for her,
yet her arms seemed to have a mind of their own.
“Whoa, there,” Jesse let out, genuinely taken aback by Amelie’s gesture, “I
might have been the first one to notice something good in you… but this one
here got pretty jealous of you back then if I recall correctly...” he
rearranged his hat, using it as an excuse to leave Amelie’s arms, and looked at
Mercy.
The doctor seemed flustered by his comment.
“I wasn’t jealous.” She stated matter-of-factly.
The sniper took a step back and admired their little disagreement with a smile.
Still, her puzzled expression could not hide the fact that even if the scene
was hilarious, she still had no clue about what they were talking about.
“When you saved me that day, at the abandoned hospital…” McCree tried to help
her, “Don’t you remember, Amelie?”
The Frenchwoman shook her head.
“You were still Widowmaker back then, it was a few years prior to your
recovery.” He went on.
Still nothing. If anything, confusion was only growing stronger.
“I was Widowmaker… and I saved you?”
The cowboy shrugged, “Well, you were with your Talon friends, and we were…
being tortured by you, the Mexican hacker and you know who…” Mercy looked away
the second she heard it – it was hard to believe that even after all those
years Jesse would still refuse to talk about his former mentor, least of all
put a name to the monster he had become. “Anyway, things went south, the whole
building started to collapse and Sombra and you know who just vanished. But you
didn’t.”
The memories were confusing but still, she could see some scattered scenes here
and there, in the theater of her mind.
“You had a moment there – I guess your conditioning was beginning to break… but
then you snapped out of it. For whatever reason, you didn’t kill me.” He said
“Not only you didn’t kill me; you took me back to her place,” he held the
doctor’s hand ever so gently.
“Well, you didn’t kill me either,” Amelie let out softly, as she remembered how
Jesse had pointed the tip of her own gun at her own head. “It took me some time
to go back to Talon after that day but when I did… it got rougher.”
“The conditioning?” Angela asked and the sniper nodded silently.
Jesse surrounded them both with his arms and they resumed their march along the
corridor.
“That’s why I’m proud to say that I was the first one to see and say that there
was something worth savin’ inside of you.” He smiled, “Angie got so jealous,
though… she even said she wouldn’t give you a Christmas card.”
They all laughed briefly as McCree’s joke erased the darker aspects of such an
anecdote.
“Just how much do you remember of your days as Widowmaker?” Angela asked.
Amelie took a deep breath,
“At first, nothing at all. But as days went by, the images came back. Now I can
say I remember most of it. But not as a sequence – it’s more like bits and
pieces.” Her eyes drifted away, “It’s weird, it’s like watching someone else’s
memories.”
“Memories are mostly linked to what we felt while we were creating them,”
Angela explained, “But Widowmaker could not feel anything at all so it makes
perfect sense if you feel like you’re watching someone else’s memories. When I
took your case, I tried my best to play safe: repressing a part of your history
was dangerous, Amelie, that’s why you’re able to remember your days as
Widowmaker. How you remember them, it’s merely a matter of perspective, I’m
afraid… but one thing’s for sure: we couldn’t risk forclusion.”
“It was confusing at first, I remember Hanzo got mad at me because he saw me
dancing…” she grinned softly, “I felt so helpless back then – I didn’t know
what was I supposed to be able to remember and there I was, dancing like
nothing had happened. It was frustrating, really… How was I supposed to ask him
to be patient and to understand when I myself didn’t know anything about what
was happening inside my head?”
“Hanzo gets mad often,” The cowboy let out, “I wouldn’t dwell on it too much.”
Their feet came to a halt in front of the sniper’s bedroom door. She smiled,
once more, before kissing her friends goodnight.
“Maybe you’re right,” she pondered.
.
.
.
VI – Day 11
As the doctor paced around the conference room with her arms folded across her
torso, 76 kept his eyes trained on the few papers scattered before him on the
table. The meeting had been brief, another name had just been called: McCree’s
– and now she was furious, every aspect of her body language was eager to
express her increasing rage: from the reddened nostrils adding color to her
face to the loud stomping of her heels; her entire existence was a scarlet
colored flag for the soldier to remain quiet.
Even the rest of the agents had understood the subtle message and so they all
had abandoned the room, leaving the two of them alone, sensing the storm
approaching, as if anticipating the violent lighting about to strike.
Still, forty minutes had gone by and the thunder had yet to shake them. Words
were simply beyond them now, and even if her silence was nothing but a
conglomerate of things unsaid, given to explode any second now, his silence was
an ode to patience and maturity.
A soft knocking on the door interrupted the discordance of such a reunion.
After Jack’s permission to come inside had traveled the distance, Amelie
entered the room as quietly as possible.
“Jesse’s done packing up, Angie,” she said, “I thought you’d like to say
goodbye before he leaves.”
The doctor motioned her body towards the sniper but turned around before she
could get to the door:
“Don’t think I can’t see what you’re doing.” She sentenced sternly, eyes as
cold as ice.
76 looked up at her, his fingers tapping fervently against the papers before
him.
“What am I doing?”
Her cheeks turned red in a matter of seconds and her hands started to shake.
Still, she could not find the strength to voice her thoughts: Jack had changed,
it was far-fetched to think that he was trying to keep her all for himself,
sending Genji and Jesse away but even if that wasn’t his intention it was hard
not to feel the threat of history attempting to repeat itself.
“We won’t be deploying you, Angela,” Morrison said, “We knew, since the
beginning of this mission, that a healer was to be deployed but please
understand that when we chose Zenyatta, we also considered what the monk could
do for Genji – personally and spiritually.” He stood up, the papers now resting
against his chest, “I honestly can’t imagine what it must feel like to return
to Hanamura with Hanzo, Angela…”
The doctor, still exhibiting signs of doubt all over her pale face, moved
closer to the sniper. Even if his reasoning was entirely logical, she still
couldn’t shake the bitter feeling stirring inside of her. Amelie’s soft hands
landed on her shoulders, bringing her back to reality if only for a moment.
“I’m sure Genji will be glad to see Jesse,” The Frenchwoman whispered, “Now
let’s go, dear. Don’t keep him waiting.”
The doctor nodded, “At least one of us will get to go to Hanamura, just like
they wanted. You should keep your hopes up, Amelie: Hanzo said it himself, they
would ask for us.”
“Hanzo didn’t say anything,” Morrison said, looking confused. “In fact, I’m the
fourth member of the team, I’m leaving tonight.”
Amelie let go of Angela almost immediately.
“It can’t be,” the sniper mumbled, “He told us that…”
“Hanzo didn’t say anything.” Morrison cut her off before she could continue.
“Genji did: he asked for both Angela and Jesse. But Hanzo did not say a word
about the team during that meeting nor did he ask for anyone in particular.”
The storm was over for Angela but a canopy of dark clouds was now beginning to
cover Amelie’s horizon with its deadly mist. It was official: he didn’t want
her with him, that’s why he had never answered her messages, that’s why he had
never picked up the phone.
The doctor patted her back gently, before leaving the room. Morrison looked
down, becoming human for the first time in years – then he nodded once in her
direction and left the room as well.
Alone, the Frenchwoman felt the sting of betrayal piercing through her stomach:
she had been right all along, he was not coming back. Those kisses of his, so
frantically desperate, were his farewell.
.
.
.
VII – Day 14
It was pointless for Genji to look for his brother all over Hanamura as if he
didn’t really know where to find him – still he chose to fool himself as he
visited each space and each room with the same peaceful celerity that his
partners could find in the monk that had travelled right next to him on so many
occasions.
The dojo was empty, the kitchen – deserted. The pond, lonely and nostalgic as
ever. The pagoda, the great hall and even his room had yet to see the older
Shimada as well. Facing defeat, the Sparrow lowered his head and decided to go
to the only place he knew he would find his brother: Sojiro’s office. He moved
casually yet determined, knowing too well what such a place could do to someone
like Hanzo, and stood in the doorway for a while, observing his brother swim in
a sea of equations and numbers with the prestige of a professional.
Arms loose at the sides of his body, Genji motioned towards his brother and
stood before him; the old wooden desk, the only barrier separating him from
Hanzo. It was always like that with Hanzo, he pondered, always.
“She called again, brother.” He began, his voice a mere, gentle sigh, “I’m
running out of excuses.”
Nothing.
One more time, with feeling.
“She once told me that she feels closerto me that she feels to you, you know?”
Catch.
“That’s a lie.” Eagle eyes found him staring right back at him. His lifeless
voice had managed to summon a controlled hurricane, expressing his discontent,
undressing the lie. “After everything she’s been through she only gravitates
towards others trying to experience what she once called love, lust, even
trust. Now the untrained eye might find her interactions entertaining, warm
even – genuine. But trust me, she feels closer to no one.”
“Are we still talking about Amelie, Hanzo?” The Sparrow smiled underneath his
helmet, “Because that’s the most accurate description of yourself I’ve ever
heard.” He sensed his brother tensing up as silence engulfed them both. Genji
walked around the desk and sat down on the corner, “I don’t want to fight,
Hanzo. I just want to know what’s wrong. If I’m going to lie to her, at least I
want to know why.”
“I can see how things really are, Genji.” Hanzo said, “I know she feels her
story and your story have more in common than her past and my own. It makes
sense: she was the victim of her story, just like you were. Even if she did
kill her husband, she didn’t know what she was doing. Unlike her, I knew who I
was ending.”
Allowing one of his hands to land firmly on his brother’s nearest shoulder,
Genji leaned towards Hanzo and said: “That woman loves you, brother. You should
not be toying with her heart like that.”
The older Shimada shook his head as a mocking grin took over his face, “Every
time someone like you talks so freely about love, it makes my stomach churn in
revulsion a little. You’re not a believer, Genji - you’re a heretic. What
Amelie and I have…” he sighed, almost defeated by his own conclusions, “Calling
it love would be such a sinister thing to do, and still, here you are, labeling
feelings just like you did, all those years ago… Don’t you dare lecture me on
the feeling, brother. I thought you’d be wiser than that.”
Shaking himself free of his brother’s hand, Hanzo stood up and turned his back
on Genji. He stood by the window, solemnly stubborn as usual.
“You should be able to recognize the feeling, Hanzo,” The Sparrow spat out
bitterly, “A man who’s never experienced such an emotion should be able to
recognize it the minute it arrives – something so transcendental, so life-
changing… I truly pity you, brother.”
He heard his older brother laugh quietly at himself for a brief moment. Then
the sound subsided, little by little until the shadows of his silence began to
extinguish the little light surrounding his image.
“Are you upset because her story and my story are so similar?” Genji enquired,
“Is it because, in a way, she reminds you of me? Or is it because I invited her
to have a few drinks with us? Maybe it’s because you saw her laughing and
having a good time with someone other than yourself?” The green lights of his
visor flickered, “Maybe you fear she does not need you as much as she did
before… you see her beginning to slip through your fingers and you can’t stop
her?”
Hanzo turned around, severity written all over his face.
“Do you feel threatened by us, brother? Jealous, maybe?” He took off his
helmet, and stared right into those dark eyes eager to shred him to pieces, “I
told you, Hanzo, I’m not that man anymore.”
The rigid lines upon Hanzo’s face began to fade as he approached his younger
brother yet the darkness of his stare remained,
“You are not.” He said, moving closer, “You used to be a predator – now you
settle for crumbs, like a starving pigeon. I told you: I can see things as they
truly are, Genji.” Suffocated by the unwanted proximity, the Sparrow pushed him
away and stood up, yet it didn’t stop Hanzo from chasing after him, determined
to wound his younger brother where it hurt the most: “You love the doctor – but
you know she comes with a cowboy. Now you may find him attractive, his
mannerisms may be endearing to you; I won’t go so far as to discuss the bond
that is friendship, to feel that you belong with them but what you seek in him
is not love nor is it lust – it goes way beyond necessity.” His arms, stretched
out, trapped the Sparrow against the wall, “Mercy is the only one that gives
you love – Jesse brings you back to a time when hatred and revenge were the
only things you were able to feel. His love is your shield; it’s what enables
you to maintain a connection with the darkest part of yourself. You move in
between those colors, brother: between black and white, just like you did
before, just like you did when we were younger: back when you hated the clan
and still you stayed because daddy would pay for your every wish and vice,
allowing you to have a licentious life,”
“And how did it all end?” The Sparrow roared, shaking himself free from his
brother again, advancing against him, eyes wide and wounded with torment, “Say
it, Hanzo! Say it! How did it all end for you, Genji?” He stood motionless,
breathless, blinded by his own fury, “All those memories you wish to protect,
the life you think you can get back if you stay here… no matter the intention,
no matter how noble or good: this place, the monument of our family… we never
bled blue, Hanzo – we were criminals, we were nothing but a bunch of organized
criminals toying around with words such as honor and duty and fucking with
their true meaning.”
He took a step back, allowing his back to touch the nearest wall for support.
Yet Hanzo only smiled at him, darkly, viciously.
“Tell me, Genji,” he said, as he walked towards his brother, “in the name of
peace, how many people did you kill last week?”
When Genji looked up at him he realized why he had tried his best to stay away
from his father’s office. If his hair had been longer, Hanzo would have looked
exactly like Sojiro but instead of bringing to life the sweeter aspects of that
man he only seemed interested in recreating the worst aspects of the former
leader.
“You haven’t changed at all, the tell-tale signs of your ambition still give
you away.” The sparrow whispered, brokenhearted. Still, his body did not
succumb to the weakness in his voice – he moved forwards, finally, his fingers
like claws eager to break through his brother’s shoulders.
“Neither have you,” Hanzo whispered back, as he stumbled and nearly crumbled to
the ground. The pain, increasing significantly, still worked as the spark to
trigger the fighter in him. “But it’s not ambition, Genji. It’s a hunger, an
unquenchable thirst… something you couldn’t possibly know of.” He got to his
feet and leaned his back on the desk for support. “You thought I’d be miserable
forever, didn’t you? Your help, your trust in me… I appreciate all that,
brother, I do. But I’m not too blind to see that your discord increased the
closer I got to Amelie.” He took a deep, long breath before saying: “I don’t
think you’re jealous, Genji – I just think you never thought there would come a
day when someone would be able to see something good in me. Your forgiveness is
feeble, brother, your forgiveness requires torment – and I’m tormented enough
on my own as it is, I can’t deal with your shades and shadows, Genji.”
The Sparrow walked towards the door and stood by the threshold. He couldn’t
afford to face that man now. He simply couldn’t – his stubbornness and his
brutal sense of honesty were deadlier than his arrows.
“You don’t deserve her.” He said as his brother sat back down on Sojiro’s
chair.
“Go sleep with her, then,” Hanzo answered, in all simplicity, as his eyes went
back to the maze of numbers still resting before him.
One more time, with feeling.
“The girl from the ramen shop… she really liked you.”
Catch.
“Still, a few sweet words, that toothy smile of yours, and she ended up in bed
with you. Are you gonna call that love too, brother?”
The screams coming from the front gate helped dissipate the hurricane about to
destroy them both. They ran across the gardens, their legs feeling the weight
of their merciless words trying to pin their feet down to the ground. Satya and
Jesse had their arms around Meisa-sama, Morrison and Zenyatta were looking
after the old maid’s daughters and grandchildren.
The rivers of blood pooling around their soles guided the brothers.
Decapitated and discarded at the gates of Hanamura, Meisa’s sons had returned
home.
.
.
.
VIII – Day 16
“Care for a beer?” Her black strands preceded her as she moved her neck
graciously, sticking it out just enough to catch a glimpse of the good doctor,
still secluded inside her office.
“Always.”
She was nervous. They both were. Many days had gone by since they had left them
all alone and, each one of them in their own way had begun expressing that
instability. While Amelie had chosen to double her hours in the firing range,
Angela had opted for the immaculate privacy of her office, blaming reports and
research projects every time an agent would ask about her absence.
They were on their own, left to their own devices, coexisting as
representatives of two different sides for the same story – a story of blood,
and desperation. Amelie handed the doctor one of the bottles she was carrying
and watched as Angela drank it down in a mere matter of seconds, then she
dragged the chair at the other end of the doctor’s desk and took a seat,
stretching her legs as far as she could.
“Speak up,” The ballerina ordered but the doctor remained quiet, her lips
pressed tightly.
She watched as the Swiss woman fidgeted in her chair, far from her reach but
intrinsically near. The empty bottle between her hands spinning relentlessly on
the desk. It was unlike her, Amelie thought, to look so frustrated, so clouded
by emotions.
“I’m afraid that, if I do say what’s on my mind, it might offend you,” Angela
said, finally, seeking eye contact for the first time.
Amelie nodded – she understood. In fact, she understood it all too well: the
brothers were no longer alone in Hanamura yet the feeling of danger was
unshakable, persistent.
“I fear Hanzo might see this trip, this mission, as an opportunity to finish
what he started all those years ago.” The doctor confessed. “I know I have no
reason to feel this way, I shouldn’t allow such thoughts to plague my mind so
easily – Hanzo is on his way to redemption, he’s opening up to others,
accepting their help… still, I can’t help it.”
Amelie tilted her head to the side but then closed her eyes minutely, and
sighed. She couldn’t blame Angela for feeling that way, for fearing the worst:
she had done the impossible to save Genji – there was no need for words; they
both knew she wouldn’t be able to save him a second time.
“I should not allow myself to feel this way,” The doctor went on, “everything
you’ve been doing for Hanzo… when I allow myself to embrace this fear not only
I become his judge and his jury, but I’m also underestimating you, and all your
efforts… and for that I apologize, Amelie.”
The sniper let her bottle rest on the desk before her – if she was demanding
honesty, it was her time to do the same.
“Don’t apologize.” She said, “I fear Genji.” Eyes wide open met her at the
other end of the desk, still their burning questions subsided as the
Frenchwoman explained herself, “I can’t decipher him – the feeling startles me
every time we talk, every time we share a moment: he is this sweet boy that
wants nothing but to reconcile with his brother but then he becomes this
cryptic man, anchored to his own misfortune, driven by his wounds.” She paused,
breaking eye contact, “I don’t think he’s forgiven Hanzo.”
 The doctor stretched one of her hands and reached out for Amelie:
“Genji gave him a home, purpose… a new family, friends. He might be conflicted,
but I’m sure he forgave Hanzo a long time ago, way before this, way before us.
We just worry about them, Amelie, all the time – that seems to be our nature.”
She smiled fondly at the sniper but the woman’s slender shape only seemed to
diminish under Angela’s gaze.
“I’m not saying that he’s faking it – but maybe what he thought, what he felt
back then, before bringing Hanzo over – when it was all an idea, an
abstraction, wishful thinking, you name it… differed from what he thought and
what he felt when they started to coexist in the same environment.” She folded
her arms over her chest, taking a deep breath, embracing herself for the worst,
“Would you heal Hanzo, fix him, put him back together the way you did for
Genji?”
The pause stretched itself in time until silence became unbearable. Then the
doctor grinned tenderly, retrieving her hand.
“Now that question offends me.”
“I apologize.”
Angela shook her head, biting her lower lip with renewed intensity.
“Stop apologizing. Stop being afraid of hurting others – you’re not her
anymore.”
“I know. But I’m not the one before her either.” She rubbed her hands on her
thighs, releasing tension. “I am sloppy, sometimes careless… but I’m not even a
hybrid, I’m not even a mixture of those women, I’m something else entirely,
something I can’t quite figure out. What happened with Jack is the best example
– I never thought I could hurt all of you with just a name. It never crossed my
mind that my own frustration could break you all at once – and I’m part of a
team now.”
Angela shook her head,
“You did what you had to do.” Then she leaned forward, her chest resting
against the desk, “It helped me open my eyes. Now I know the Jack I loved is
truly dead.”
“Is it hard…” Amelie questioned, leaning forward as well, allowing her forehead
to touch the doctor’s, “loving two men?”
The doctor closed her eyes and laughed.
“No. It’s actually very simple. But if I had to be honest, it requires no
effort from me – they make it simple.” Caressing her friend’s cheek before
moving backward and leaning her back on the chair, the doctor allowed her smile
to remain there, lighting up her features for a while longer. “I know both of
them feel threatened by Jack’sreturn – my only job, then, is to make them feel
I wouldn’t trade them for the world.” She snatched Amelie’s beer from her hand
before the sniper could finish it, “It’s really hard for me to even try to find
the man I once loved in this old vigilante… when Jesse left Blackwatch I could
really see Jack for the man that he was: older, wiser, stronger – the pillar I
needed back then.” the beer was history now, “But then he got himself killed
and I was all alone again. That’s always been a constant for the men of my
life: they leave only to return… more broken than before, less alive than
before… They make me work.” She grinned, “I think they like keeping me busy.”
Amelie smiled as well, finding in those men an echo reverberating across her
own reality.
“Thank you for saving Jesse that day. I never got to thank you.” The doctor
said. “You were still Widowmaker back then, did you have any idea that you were
saving Jesse?”
“Yes,” the sniper whispered, her eyes lost in thought, “but I didn’t do it for
Jesse. I did it for Gabriel.”
That name still represented the hero and the villain. The friend and the foe.
That name could still hold the power to shake them all from within, exposing
their weaknesses one by one, undressing their fears and regrets.
“Gabriel, or Reaper, actually, had talked about Jesse many, many times. How he
had felt betrayed by Jesse, backstabbed by him… it was easy to realize, even
for a woman who could not feel anything at all, that something was broken
inside that broken man: I could not feel a single thing yet he seemed capable
of feeling everything.” She blinked twice, perhaps trying her best to capture
her fragmented memories like photographs inside her eyes, “He had him that day,
still he couldn’t kill him. He tortured him, punished him in his own way – but
soon I noticed he had chosen to reopen an old wound: Jesse’s artificial arm,
when he tore it away and hurt his arm… it was fascinating to me, even poetic,
metaphorical – it must have been so painful for Jesse but, truth is, Gabriel
could have hurt him way more. And he didn’t. Instead of creating new wounds he
simply focused on reopening an old one… when I saw Jesse unconscious and
battered on the ground I felt a very weird sort of nostalgia, it was so
confusing… I remembered them all, back when I still was Amelie, but even then
and even so I saved Jesse because deep down I understood that Gabriel was not
ready to lose him.”
Angela struggled her way through the story – then she looked down, grateful to
know it was all in the past.
“When Jesse told me what had happened we thought you had felt something.”
“I did, but I didn’t fully understand the emotion. In the end, I think I did
the only thing I knew how to do: I transformed the uncomfortable feeling into a
mental abstraction, a deduction…”
“Why did you ask me if it was easy to love two different men, Amelie?” The
doctor asked, trying her best to change the subject yet still gravitating
towards a sense of honesty that clearly belonged to them, “I don’t really see
Hanzo as a sharer.”
Amelie laughed at the idea.
“It’s more of a… compatibility issue.” The sniper fought back the tears,
drinking in her own ocean of bottled-up emotions, “I’m not sure if the dead can
coexist with the living.” She didn’t care about Hanzo’s betrayal nor did she
care about the fact that she hadn’t seen him in such a long time. His image,
still clear yet enigmatic inside her head helped her pull through, “Gerard is
dead, Hanzo is alive – still, I feel for them both… it doesn’t make any sense.”
“It does.” Angela helped her. “For the longest time, I loved the three of them:
the ninja, the cowboy and the dead soldier. The dead don’t leave; they stay
with us, Amelie. That’s why this Jack hurts me so much: this Jack has nothing
to do with the man I treasured inside my fondest memories.”
The sniper stood up, walked around the desk, and placed her arms around the
doctor’s shoulders.
“I don’t think he’s coming back.” She whispered, embracing Angela’s pain as her
own.
The doctor shifted her body and looked into her friend’s eyes: “Then don’t
wait.” she said, “For better or worse, go get your ending or your beginning…
but don’t stand motionless in the middle.”
She left the doctor’s office with a clear destination in mind. The watchpoint
at night engulfed her shape in its obsidian blanket as she walked down the
corridors.
Winston was already asleep by the time she stood in front of the computer.
“Athena,” she whispered, “How do I get to Hanamura?”
.
.
.
Chapter End Notes
     Author’s notes: The story involving Reaper/Gabriel that is mentioned
     in this chapter is another fic of mine, “Business.” I tried my best
     to add the required exposition for you guys to understand what
     happened in that story but if any of you feels like it’s not clear
     enough, please drop me a line and let me know.
     Thank you so much for reading, leaving kudos and/or reviewing!
***** Jack (Farewell Kiss) *****
Chapter Summary
     He was his scars.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
                             Variations on a Theme
                                     Act V
                             Jack (Farewell Kiss)
===============================================================================
                                        
“ Remembering our past, carrying it around with us always, may be the necessary
requirement for maintaining, as they say, the wholeness of the self. To ensure
 that the self doesn’t shrink, to see that it holds on to its volume, memories
  have to be watered like potted flowers, and the watering calls for regular
contact with the witnesses of the past, that is to say, with friends. They are
our mirror; our memory; we ask nothing of them but that they polish the mirror
             from time to time so we can look at ourselves in it.”
                           Milan Kundera ― Identity
===============================================================================
.
.
.
I – Business or Pleasure
Her black trench coat helped her blend in as the last hours of the day washed
over her slender figure. The obsidian, nighty shadows became, once more, her
favorite element. Waltzing around a variety of colorful rooftops and whimsical
branches, the Frenchwoman approached the compound with a clear mind and an
unclouded sight – the image was breathtaking, so beautiful and majestic that,
she wondered, even for a brief moment, if it was real or a mere figment of her
convoluted imagination.
The question lingered in the back of her mind, as her legs moved gracefully
forwards like a gazelle determined to reach its prey: how could someone ever
want to leave such a place? The eerie beauty in front of her, like an
unreachable symbol in the distance, was beginning to bleed the echoes of a
tragedy she could not outrun no matter how fast she moved. What he must have
suffered, what he must have endured… That wasn’t enough, though, to forgive the
archer so easily – yet she absorbed the view just as if that place before her
had the peculiar quality of being able to stop time, or perhaps act like a
magnet, attracting those who unmistakably belong in there and luring them in
with its ancestral beauty and its mythical tales. Perhaps that’s what the
archer had felt, she reckoned, maybe he had heard the siren song calling out
for him, spelling out his name for the man to remember who he really was; or
who was he supposed to be. Whether he could address such identities as his own,
or whether he even knew, at all, about their so-called existence was something
the woman could not afford to ask herself but still she knew, she was certain:
nothing at all seemed to suffice as convincing evidence for her to assume that
he had, at least, a clue.
The conniving silhouettes of countless leaves and branches were dancing in the
tepid winds and the woman took it as a sign to dust off the ballerina that she
was no more. If it was all about identity, why not just giving it a shot to see
if yesterday’s sights were still hers. Using her grappling hook to her help
rise up in the night, Amelie soared above the canopy of trees and gates and
landed gracefully on the wooden edge of the compound, right above the main
gate. One leg followed the other, arms stretched out to maintain such fragile
balance; the dancer propelled her figure across the ancient structure until
modernity forced her to stop.
Set all across the perimeter, countless surveillance cameras and sentry turrets
were eager to detect her presence.
The woman shook her head in silent disapproval: something as banal as
technology would not ruin the surprise for her, nor will it give the archer a
chance to think and come up with an excuse to try to justify his behavior.
Carefully studying her chances, the woman understood that destroying the
turrets was not an option but still she needed to be able to get down to the
ground without receiving any damage from them. With a heavy sigh the
Frenchwoman took off her trench coat and held it in her hand for a few moments:
it was expensive, incredibly fancy and flattering to her form but still, it had
to be sacrificed in the name of the greater good.
Painstakingly slow, her hand let go of the leather and the garment fell down,
graciously, until it landed, covering three sentry turrets. Then the woman
descended to the ground and moved quickly towards the garden, concealing her
body behind one of the large rocks adorning the place. Safe from harm, she
looked over her shoulder only to find that her beloved coat was history now,
disintegrated in a mere matter of seconds by the turret’s powerful beams.
Resuming her march through Hanamura, Amelie soon found herself surrounded by
sakura trees in blossom. The scent, so captivating and sweet, made her forget
about the coat, the long and vacant hours she had spent on a plane and Hanzo’s
deception but the further she went, the easier it became for her to realize
that the whole compound was more than simply beautiful: it was large and
spacious – a significant distance stretched itself from structure to structure:
finding Hanzo was going to be more difficult than she had anticipated.
When a hand landed gently on one of her shoulders, the woman closed her eyes
and took a deep breath – perhaps he had seen her, somehow, and he had come to
meet her, discreet as usual and romancing privacy like only he knew how. But
when she turned around and gazed up at the man towering over her shape her
hopes vanished.
Morrison.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in Gibraltar, Agent Lacroix?” he asked – his tone,
indecipherably casual.
The Frenchwoman took a step back instinctually, then folded her arms across her
chest and tilted her head to the side in a rather despondent fashion.
“Yes.” Lying was pointless. “I know I should have… called?”
His smile interrupted her before she could go on. Unexpectedly pleasant to the
senses, his gesture lighted up his aged visage for a few moments.
“It’s good to have you here,” he said, surprising her. “Now walk with me.”
For reasons she had yet to understand, the man was not angry at her nor was he
trying to force her back to the watchpoint. Shaking herself out of the initial
trance, the woman embraced her fears like monsters threatening to ruin
everything she was trying to build.
“What’s going on, Jack? Are they alright?” trepidation invaded her, slowly,
gradually.
The man signaled her to remain quiet but kept on walking towards a dark
building past the elevated bridge engulfed in pink and white hues; slight
souvenirs of spring the flowers guided her in her path. She moved cautiously by
his side, observing as the man reached inside his infamous 76 jacket only to
produce a small, rusty key.
“Through here.” He said as he beckoned her to crouch her way through the old
looking door standing before them.
Once they were both inside, Morrison closed the door and locked it from the
inside. Then he turned on the lights to reveal a simple, small room – no
windows, no decoration. A large table was placed right in the middle and,
resting on the surface, laid two decapitated bodies wrapped up in plain white
sheets. The woman walked around the table with a puzzled expression on her face
– still, Morrison observed her as she took in the deplorable sight, with his
arms across his chest and his lips pressed in a tight line.
“I need an opinion.” He said, “And you’re a former Talon agent.” There was not
a single trace of malice in his voice – only curiosity.
“Why are you not angry at me?” Amelie asked, dismissing his previous comment
even if he had meant her no harm. The man shrugged, in all simplicity. “What
are you even doing up so late? This is way past your bedtime, old man.” They
were not friends, in fact, they had never been friends, not even when Gerard
was around – but something about him was beginning to exist under a new light
and the colors in his kaleidoscope seemed eerily endearing for her.
“I was going for a beer, yesterday I spotted a nice bar just a couple of blocks
away from here.” He said. “Too much sake in this place…”
He was alone. Gibraltar or Hanamura was exactly the same thing for him – no one
wanted him around. No one cared. No one really listened. Or mattered. Or
counted.
Careful not to touch the bodies, Amelie sat at the edge of the table, her feet
unable to touch the ground.
“What can I do for you?”
Leaning his back against the door, Morrison told her about Meisa and her
family, their struggles throughout the years, and the deadly reunion with her
missing sons. Impartial and concise, his mouth retraced every step of the way
as his memory went on, bonding the different parts of the same story to
recreate one coherent tale. By the time he was finished; the woman tilted her
head to the side and looked him in the eye: there was no need to state the
obvious; they were both on the same page.
“Did you tell the others, about this suspicion of yours?”
He shook his head.
“They are committed – compromised.” He said.
“They are contaminated by the story – and its actors.” Amelie interrupted him,
saying the words he did not want to say.
The man walked towards her and placed both his hands on the table: “Hanzo and
Genji are grateful, these people made sure they would have a home to return to
in case they ever felt the need to come back. The monk is trying his best to
provide support to Meisa and her family, Satya was with Meisa when the bodies
were found… it’s not like she’s not used to this kind of situation, but she’s
deeply moved by this family.”
Hating herself for allowing the former Talon operative to take over so easily,
but knowing full well that Morrison had a point to prove and that he needed her
help, the Frenchwoman took a long breath and stood up, resolute.
“Talon doesn’t work that way.” She sentenced. “They don’t warn people. They
just take over, and destroy everything that’s standing in their way.”
“What about intelligence work?” He soon inquired, preoccupied, “Is it possible
that they could send someone to take a look at things and make sure everything
will go according to plan before they make a move?”
She tried hard to hold back the laughter but, in the end, gave up and allowed
the cruel sound to ricochet through the room.
“Jack, if Talon is recruiting former Shimada clan members and they want
Hanamura as their base of operations, they will have it.” She began, “So yes,
let’s assume for a moment here that they actually acted that way: that they
sent some men and they found that an old lady and her family are the only
obstacles standing in their way. Do I really need to tell you what any Talon
agent would do in such a situation?”
He looked down, confirming his every suspicion. Meisa’s story was flawed.
Sloppy. Unconvincing.
“What about the dead sons?” He finally asked, moving his body away from the
table. “I’ve been having a hard time trying to make these two fit into the
narrative.”
“I can offer you alternatives, Jack, a couple scenarios come to mind.” She
offered, shifting position, trying her best to maintain eye contact at all
times. “The outcome is always the same, I can guarantee.”
He sat down right next to her.
“Humor me.”
“Meisa knows these men, in fact, she knew them all back when they were still
clan members. Maybe she has evidence against them and the sons were just…
vendetta?”
Morrison shook his head – it was possible, but it just didn’t seem plausible to
him.
“Even if she knows something that could be potentially incriminating for them,
how hard is it, really? To kill an old lady?” He was right, and she knew it.
“Maybe Hanzo called home before his trip, to let her know they were on their
way?”
“Not that I know of.” She retorted quickly. “I was with him all the time, if he
called someone, I should have known. Perhaps he called from the plane? But you
said that the woman was shaken by their return, she wasn’t expecting them.”
“And she said they took her sons prior to the Shimada brothers’ arrival.” He
exhaled loudly, killing his own hypothesis. “Hanzo and Genji got on a plane on
the same night we told them about Talon operating here.”
“Something went wrong.” She affirmed, voice low, almost whispering now. “This
is the result.” Her index finger pointed at the bodies, the enigma still lay
before them, wrapped up in immaculate white. For a moment she went still, eyes
fixed on the table as if trying to uncover the truth behind the lie – then she
moved forward like a vicious animal and began to peel off the sheets with a
delicacy that had nothing to do with the feral instincts driving her now.
“Their heads are missing,” she whispered, eyes now anchored to Morrison’s stern
expression.
He nodded: “They were decapitated, I told you.”
“Then how do we even know it’s them?” There it was, finally voiced out and
nearly corporeal, the question he had been asking himself ever since they had
found the bodies, lifeless and discarded at the gates of Hanamura.
“Jack, we need to run DNA tests to confirm their identity.” She could feel
that, for the very first time, they were finally able to see eye to eye. It was
unprecedented – but not at all uncomfortable.
“We can’t.” He said, head hanging low, “an autopsy, DNA… Overwatch can’t make
such requests, Amelie, and you know it. We can’t even go to the police to have
them examine the bodies.” He took a long; deep breath before continuing, “Plus,
if this woman is innocent, if these two corpses really areher sons…”
“Then informing the authorities is completely out of the question,” she helped
him, “she would be declaring war to Talon all on her own. Still, there must be
something we can do.” She crossed her arms over her chest as her legs motioned
towards the aged vigilante, “Perhaps if Angela was here…”
He grinned at her suggestion, yet the gesture faded quickly from his face.
“She wouldn’t be able to do much either; the Shimadas don’t have a forensics
lab in here.”
Now it was her turn to smile, even if the timid grin curling up her lips was
only meant to disguise her obvious defeat.
“Still, we could get some DNA samples – and send them to Angela.” She
suggested, “I know they were decapitated, but what about their fingernails?”
The same smile that had faded from his face only minutes ago reappeared all of
a sudden. Hadn’t she known that man any better, she would have been fooled into
thinking her words had somehow reawakened his lethargic, eclipsed vigor.
“What?” She asked, mildly annoyed by his apparent good humor. “What is it? Was
it something I said?”
“No,” Jack shook his head, the smile still igniting the sparks in his eyes,
“Gerard was just like that. Always so eager to investigate… I’ve always been
more of an action man; maybe that’s why we made such a good team.” He moved
closer to her, admiring her blushing cheeks as a sign of an innocence that
could still be saved, “Can I be selfish with you, just one last time?”
His question seemed odd at the beginning yet she soon found herself nodding her
head.
“I know this is not why you came here, but since you have yet to be seen by the
others, could you deliver the samples to Angela in person?” her mouth was agape
yet words had yet to reach the outside. “I’d like to keep this between us, and
Angela, of course, until we have a confirmation… I can’t afford to be that man
now.”
“The one suspecting an old lady who just lost her sons?”
Morrison lowered his head and Amelie patted his shoulder gently.
“I can’t go back to Gibraltar, Jack. They won’t let me get back here, and you
know I’m determined to return.”
“I know.” A sigh escaped his lips, then his eyes found hers again, “I won’t
tell him you were here.” He signaled her to stay and wait for him, then he left
the room without telling her where he was going. Determined to help, she
grabbed her phone and called the good doctor to let her know about Jack’s plan.
The Swiss woman hesitated at first but eventually agreed to help; knowing too
well that both her men could be sleeping with the enemy. By the time Morrison
reentered the room it was all set – but when Amelie put her hand over the
speaker and asked him if he wanted to talk to Angela he simply dismissed her
suggestion by shaking his head.
Once her phone was safe again, inside her back pocket, Morrison showed the
woman the two items he had acquired during his brief expedition to the kitchen:
a short knife, and a Ziploc freezer bag. When he approached the bodies, the
Frenchwoman turned around and crossed her arms over her chest – she had killed
many people before, sometimes brutally, but this kind of procedure could still
make her throw up in utter repulsion.
“I’ll be leaving again, as soon as you give me the samples,” she began, trying
her best not to pay attention to the little sounds coming from the table at her
back, “Angela and I agreed on meeting halfway, tomorrow afternoon. I’ll hand
her the samples, and then she’ll get back to Gibraltar.”
“She could use the little break,” he mumbled, too busy now to engage in proper
conversation.
“Yes…” The concentration in his voice was tempting enough for the woman to take
a quick look over her shoulder – only to realize immediately that it had been a
terrible idea for her to do so. Clutching her own stomach, she felt her knees
go weak as her forearms got covered in goosebumps – “You should ask her to join
the team, Jack,” she said, trying her best to distract her mind from the
weakening sensations taking over her body. “After we got the results, you
should at least take it into consideration.”
“We got Zenyatta.”
Walking blindly towards him, with her back still turned to the table, she
placed her hands on his shoulders the second he felt palpable enough in her
touch. Then she turned around, leaning on him for support. She was paler than
usual, he noticed.
“It’s not the same.” She retorted, covering her mouth. “I know the monk can
heal, but he’s not a doctor – and you can’t afford to underestimate the enemy,
Jack. You don’t know who your enemy really is, or what is exactly going on.”
she stopped, abruptly, and moved away from the table as quickly as she could.
No matter how hard she had tried not to look, her eyes had seen more than
enough.
“The team we left back in Gibraltar still needs Angela,” Morrison said softly
as he abandoned his task and held her hair just in time. Now it was his turn to
look the other way, knowing too well that he would be the one in charge of
cleaning up the mess – the bloody one on the table, and the other one, the more
disgusting one, on the ground.
“They’ve got Ana – and Lucio,” Amelie said, embarrassed but still quite
resolute. She got up slowly, as he still held her in his arms, and leaned her
back against the door for support. Once he saw she was able to stand on her
own, he went back to the table to finish his job – then he put the samples in
the bag and handed it to her. Her hand was shaky, yet her eyes were determined
not to leave his. “We just let her in, we told her everything and she’s willing
to cooperate and help us. And then what, Jack?”
He covered the bodies once again, wrapping them up in immaculate white as if
the soft material could suffice to shelter the truth from the lies. Yet he
didn’t look at her, nor did he say anything to the woman still standing by the
door.
“Genji and Jesse are here, Jack. And so are you. She needs to be here as well.”
“What she and I had…” he said, eyes vacant, gazing around the room without
really looking at anything at all, “it’s long gone and forgotten.”
“Fair enough.” The sniper whispered, extending one of her hands for the
vigilante to take it, “but she already lost you once. Now she could lose the
three of you, all at once.”
He took her hand in his and squeezed her fingers gently. His lips, tight and
unfeeling, still refused to let out an answer. A small smile appeared on her
face just as the woman unglued her back from the door and made room for the man
to move – once outside, Satya’s silhouette, moving towards the main gate, made
them turn around and hide behind the sakura trees. Silently waiting for the
architect to go back inside the compound, both the sniper and the former
Strike-Commander observed as she checked the perimeter of turrets she had set
during her first day in Hanamura. She inspected each sentry turret carefully,
adding new ones or replacing some of them, generating new clusters or
increasing the distance between them. Amelie watched in awe as the woman worked
in the night; in all the time they had spent together in Gibraltar she had
never been able to see Symmetra in action, shaping hard light like that.
She made it look so simple. Magical, even.
“Everyone in Overwatch has something amazing to offer,” Jack whispered,
delighted to see Amelie’s child-like fascination taking over her, lighting up
her face with a genuine smile. “And you do, too.”
A man on his own, that’s what he really was, she realized.
“Thank you, Jack.”
“You can call me 76.” He said, even when his real identity was no longer a
secret. “In fact, you’re the only one who still calls me Jack.”
Satya was gone.
“It’s a little pointless, don’t you think?” The sniper asked as they both
resumed their march.
“It’s a choice.” He corrected her, “Maybe it’s easier for me to just be 76. Or
maybe they don’t need Jack anymore.”
The statue, the symbol of their past… everything it represented, the spirit,
the leader. Gone and covered in dust, Jack Morrison only lived in the minds of
those who could still remember the man, and not just the soldier.
“Besides, I’m not the only one hiding behind an identity that’s not entirely
mine…” His hands landed on the woman’s shoulders as her back kissed the main
gate. “Godspeed, Agent Guillard. See you in twenty-four hours.”
.
.
.
II – The Ties That Bind
“Two of my turrets registered activity last night.”
The woman walked around the table as the rest of the team watched her silently.
Many charts and numerical projections were showing in her hands, as she moved
graciously among them, concerned, but determined.
“There’s nothing on the cameras,” Morrison said, knowing too well that Amelie
had been the so-called registered activity yet choosing discretion. “I checked
twice this morning.”
A somnolent cowboy let his hat rest on the table as his frown rejected once
more the smoky cup of green tea that had been placed right in front of him. The
evident lack of caffeine was taking its toll on him, his good moods were
visibly receding, specifically during the mornings. “Maybe it was a bird that
flew too close to the turrets, or maybe it was a cat, looking for some food.”
He said. “A very black cat, blending in with the night so the cameras wouldn’t
catch it.”
The architect arched her eyebrows in disbelief, her mouth agape.
“I’m just sayin’ – your turrets are handy and useful, but it’s not that hard to
work your way around ‘em,” Jesse affirmed, his hands in the air in a defensive
stance. “Especially if you’re a cat or a bird.”
“What about the hacker?” Genji asked. “I know her enhancements allow her to
remain completely invisible for a short period of time.”
Symmetra took a seat right next to the quiet monk. She looked down at her own
hands: Sombra was dangerous, everybody knew that for a fact. Alarming visages
waltzed around the table as they accepted the fact that Sombra was, without a
doubt, the only one that was capable of fooling the cameras while still
registering activity all across the perimeter of sentry turrets. No longer able
to find reasons to joke around, the cowboy stared intently at 76,
“Do you think it’s possible?”
The old man concealed the truth behind a mask of utter surprise – even if he
knew that Amelie had been the real reason why the turrets had registered
activity the night before, this whole Sombra plot could be enough to make them
all work as a team. Perhaps this charade of fake danger would suffice – it
would make them keep their guards up, work together, and never underestimate
the enemy.
“It’s certainly possible.” He finally said, his voice lifeless yet demanding
their attention.
Sensing a brand new threat, one they could not even see with their own eyes,
the group started to embrace the notion of a more conceptual sort of enemy –
yet only one face remained stoic during the storm, as if unable to address the
ethereal danger as a real, constituted form of danger.
“They would not dare.” The archer spat disdainfully, “It might sound
ridiculous, but I agree with McCree: perhaps it was a cat or a bird. Talon
would never dare to cross these gates. Not if we’re here.”
Faces changed, once more, but still the Sparrow refused to break eye contact.
“Don’t be such a fool, Hanzo. It simply does not suit you.”
The coldness in his voice confirmed what they all thought: something had
changed between the brothers in the little time they had spent together in
Hanamura. Something was broken between them; again, as if shards of the same
bond were sporting brand new cracks now, hurting an old wound that was never
going to heal.
“You think Talon would show respect?” The Sparrow went on, “Do you think they’d
care?”
The cowboy let his artificial hand land on Genji’s nearest shoulder but the
conflicted ninja removed it the second he felt the unwanted contact pulsing
right through him – now it was not the time for sentimentalism, nor was it the
time for holding back.
“Perhaps they should, brother. Perhaps you’re right: they should show us some
respect. We were criminals as well, after all. They should be able to see this
place for what it really is: a nest of snakes that drowned in their own
poison.”
Hanzo stared at the monk as if expecting the omnic to do something.
Nothing.
“Or perhaps that’s why they’re so interested in claiming the place as their
own, maybe they feel like they belong in here, with us – tell me, Hanzo, how
many times did they offer you to join their ranks? See brother, maybe it’s not
so crazy to think that Talon really belongs in this place. What it represents,
what they represent… I really see no difference between them.”
Satya stood up and left the room and McCree followed her close behind. They
knew what was going to happen, but they didn’t want to stay and watch.
“What this place represents…” Hanzo began, his voice weak, more than soft.
“What this place represents to you.” Genji retorted. “This sacred temple of
sins you hold so dear… what a crooked sense of faith you have, brother, always
so eager to protect the wrong things.”
“Genji, enough.” The archer let out through clenched teeth, his fists slamming
furiously against the table. There was only so much he could take.
“How can you be so blind?” The ninja stood up, kicking his chair. “Do you think
this is the first time Talon has walked right through our door? The Talon
connection goes way back, brother. Did you ever stopped and asked yourself why
the elders saw me as a liability? Father never saw me that way, you know?”
Unable to say anything, the archer listened helplessly to the words he had
avoided for so long.
“The elders were aligned with Talon, Hanzo. My only mistake was to see it with
my own eyes. They had fooled our father, and they had even fooled you… I just
happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time. And you just happened to
be an indoctrinated idiot.” The monk was casting a yellowish glow, engulfing
the brothers in a comforting warmth that was not enough to mitigate the
torturing images of the past.
Hanzo stood up and left the room without saying a single word.
Yet silence had never said so much.
.
.
.
III – Islands
Twenty-four hours later, Amelie stood in front of the main gate, right at the
beginning of the compound, and stayed there for a while, with a faint street
lamp illuminating her back and the immensity taking place all around her making
her look smaller than ever.
She was nervous, terrified by the black-haired uncertainty waiting at the other
side – so she just stood there, in the quiet night surrounding her, as dark
clouds rolled by, menacing as ever.
The man was wearing a pair of jeans, and a black shirt. He was watching her,
across the street, with a six-pack in his hands. When he crossed the street she
turned around, instinctively, noticing someone approaching, and then she saw
him: hidden behind those casual clothes, he really had aged.
“So you’re back,” he said, “Angela has the samples, I take it?”
The woman nodded, still taken aback by his cruel reality.
“She will contact me as soon as she has the results,” she finally managed to
say. “Did you think about what I told you?”
He shook his head and smiled politely, “You’re right – we should bring her
over. When she contacts you, you can tell her.”
“Wouldn’t you like to tell her yourself?” the sniper asked, crossing her arms
over her chest but he simply looked down, and saved his answer for himself.
He motioned his body towards the entrance and pushed the door open for the two
of them to walk right through it – yet instead of the peaceful lack of sounds
that would always encompass the place during the low hours of the night, they
were welcomed by the distant yelling of the two dragon brothers, still at war
with each other.
They retraced their steps and left the place with the same discretion that had
adorned their way inside the compound – little was there to be done by them,
they both knew. The battle was meant to continue.
“We should wait here for a while,” Morrison said as he guided her through the
narrow street surrounding the ramen restaurant placed just outside Hanamura.
Then they turned around the corner and followed the stairs they led them to the
upper catwalk, just in front of the compound.
They sat in silence, and the man offered her one of his beer cans but she waved
her hand, dismissing the drink.
“Another late night for you, old man?” She whispered as she watched him drink
his beer.
“I told you I would wait for you,” He looked her in the eye, “I really don’t
want to wake up in the morning and have Satya telling me that their turrets
registered activity but nobody’s showing on the screens.” His comment made her
grin proudly at herself, as her legs danced before her, kicking nothing but
air. He took another sip of his beer as his eyes drifted away from her, “I
train at night.” He confessed. “Been training on my own since they found out
who I really am.”
“Why?”
He sighed,
“It’s better this way.”
Contemplating his face by the dim streetlights she understood he was his scars.
A creature of the night, seeking solace in solitude and trying his best to
avoid the eyes that could confuse him with the one he was no more. Jack
Morrison still lived behind that mask, everybody was well aware of that fact.
There were traces of his old self scattered here and there, all across his
broken face for them to try to shape his puzzle. But every time someone would
get too close, he would simply close off and let the vigilante take over.
“I’ve always been a nocturnal person.” He explained. “I was the only one that
was still awake when Winston found out about Talon and Japan… at least that’s
what we thought.”
“What’s it with them?” she asked, her eyes lost in thought.
“I don’t know,” he sighed, “Been this way for some days now – every
conversation ends up in a fight. I really wouldn’t like to know what’s behind
all that yelling, though. It’s easy to see the pain in both of them, destroying
them from deep within, tearing them apart.”
There was a brief moment of silence, a parenthesis of soundless peace that knew
no harm. Then he placed one of his hands on her nearest knee and looked her in
the eye.
“Are you still mad at me for the things I used to say about you when we were
younger?”
His question took her by surprise yet the woman shook her head calmingly. It
had been too long it was utterly pointless to even try to hold on to
yesterday’s discord.
“I guess we just didn’t understand each other back then.” She said after a
while, her eyes lost in thought. “Truth be told, when we first met I thought
that a man with your looks and Gerard’s personality would be like heaven on
earth.”
“I’m flattered.” He said, his cheeks turning red at her unexpected confession.
“Do you think he would have aged well?”
“Mr. High Maintenance?” he joked, remembering his friend, “No doubt about it.
Still, I can’t understand why you chose him and not me… back then, I mean,
don’t look at me now, I was in an explosion, remember?”
He was feeling brave, she sensed. Perhaps it was the alcohol talking, or maybe
he was finally able to be himself, a man in his element, facing his own
yesterdays in the shape of that woman sitting right next to him.
“Maybe I was able to scan you both with my eyes and see what each one of you
had to offer.” She said.
“We were at the same bar; you didn’t even look at me.” Jack retorted. “I was
older than Gerard, but not much older. If anything, I looked younger than him.”
“You couldn’t say a single word in French…” the woman fought back and he
laughed, genuinely.
“Maybe it was a good thing…” he pondered, “that you didn’t even look at me.”
“Maybe it was.” she agreed, “He understood everything… he really did.” Her
constricted throat was not enough to keep her from remembering the one she had
loved and lost, “Even when we had just started dating, he was more than just a
boyfriend to me – he took me in, gave me a home.” She paused, brokenhearted by
the memories, “I lost everything when I decided to become a ballerina. My
family was loaded, but they did not accept my career choice: they wanted me to
become a lawyer; that was the family heritage, what the blood dictated - that
was what I was supposed to be. But I wanted something different, so I left, and
started anew in the big city.”
“I used to rely on him too,” Jack remembered as well, “When I became Strike-
Commander I couldn’t take the political affairs, all the bureaucracy, all the
meetings with ministers and governors… But Gerard kept me grounded throughout
the years, helped me pull through.”
Amelie took one of his beers and opened the can. She drank the sour liquid
slowly, her eyes lost in the canopy of clouds blocking the stars.
“You really portray time like no other, Jack.” She let her beer can rest right
next to her leg and cupped his hands with hers, “To me, time is a substance
that was taken away from me – but it lives in you: in your scars, in your eyes
and voice. I can see we’ve all been through the same process of loss and
defeat, but it is remarkably palpable in you. Maybe it all comes down to who we
are, our true identity.”
“Everyone tried to go back and be the ones they were before,” he said,
squeezing her hand, “I needed to be someone else... your case is different,
though, they forced you to be someone else – they stole a part of your history.
There was no downward spiral for you, no way down; just a void, and an irony, a
cruel joke that fate had reserved just for you: they named you Widowmaker but
the first widow you… made... was yourself.”
She nodded, retrieving her hand.
“When I was a little girl, my father used to say that I was tenacious enough to
lead an entire criminal empire. My mother would curse him then, telling him it
was not right to say such things to a child.” Her eyes darkened at the
evocation of her parents, the sepia colored bridge of memories was not enough
to mitigate the effects of bad parenting, “Sometimes I like to think that
everything that happened to me was nothing more than a very unfortunate chain
reaction of terrible coincidences. I can’t even blame god anymore – I don’t
believe that such an almighty being exists anymore. Maybe my father’s words
were a premonition, you know?”
He shook his head, pensively.
“My story seems both completely whimsical and punctiliously tailored – just
like religion itself.” She laughed. “Now, I know a lot of people think the same
as me, that there’s no god out there, watching over us. But tell me, Jack, have
you ever met someone who doubted the devil? Have you ever met someone who
thought there is no such place like hell? That seems to be what we all have in
common: a darkness within we cannot escape from.”
He finished his second beer in silence then allowed his fingers to toy with the
empty can for a short while. “When Gerard told me your story; a rich girl who
had left everything behind because she wanted to dance… I could not understand
it.” He whispered. “He wasn’t even good looking, you were way out of his
league… you were so young, so beautiful…” he swallowed hard, choking on his own
words, “At first I thought you were a spy, trying to seduce him. Then I thought
you were a gold-digger, looking for a sugar daddy.”
She laughed out loud, slapping her knee.
“Well, first impressions don’t always count,” she retorted with a smile. “If
anything, at first I thought you were an idiot. Then I thought you were a
moron.”
“Hey, watch it – I’m still your superior.” An empty threat. A timid grin.
“You’re nobody’s superior, Jack.” She said, her eyes finding his. “You just act
as if you were – but you’re not. You are a reformed vigilante, 76 – the one you
chose to be.” She looked down, minutely, regretting the fact that her words had
sounded harsher than she had intended, “What you did to Angela was wrong, Jack
– she had the right to know.”
“I know.” He whispered, “But when I came back to Gibraltar and I saw her – so
happy, so in love… I just couldn’t take that away from her.” The sniper patted
his shoulder gently, then let her hands rest on her lap, “These love stories,
all of them, Amelie… there are no happy endings for us. We all know these loves
are only temporary – even them… they are no strangers to this – they know it
will end, eventually. Perhaps sooner than later.”
“Do you miss her?”
“I used to miss her – when I first arrived in Gibraltar… I used to miss her
every time she was around. Now I know that watching her from afar has to do.”
He was honest. Broken, but brutally honest.
“You didn’t even tell her that you’re sorry.” Amelie fought back.
“That’s because I’m not. If it was up to me, she would have never known that
I’m alive. Jack should have remained dead.”
“I’m sorry.” She mumbled.
“Don’t be. Paradoxically enough, you did what you had to do.” He said. “Your
question blinded me that day… where was I when you needed me the most… I was
enjoying a little free time, having a drink with a woman whose name I can’t
even remember.” He stared deeply into her eyes, the emotion overcoming him, “I
should have been there, I should have realized that something was off, that
something was wrong with you.”
“He would have died all the same, Jack. One way or another.” The woman leaned
in closer, resting her head on his shoulder. “I have accepted that a long time
ago. It’s time you do the same.”
“I think so too.” He confessed as his voice trailed off for a moment, “had he
come to your rescue, they would have killed him themselves. That’s what they
wanted after all. To get rid of the pebble in their shoe… but they used you,
they took his death and saw beyond the brutality of it, they made it poetic…
That’s how they managed to change the way we remember him. If they had killed
him while he was trying to rescue you he would have died a hero. But they made
him die a victim. A helpless victim who didn’t even had the chance to fight
back. That’s not who he was – but that’s how we remember him. These
manufactured memories… so artificial, so inherently mechanical… they block the
real Gerard from our eyes, his simplicity, his true essence.”
She tried to speak but the words would not leave her mouth.
“Now that man over there,” he said as his fingers pointed at Hanamura, “He’s
not a simple man, and he doesn’t come with an instructions manual. What you can
have with him now is never going to be like what you and Gerard once shared.
Now you are only gonna get what most of us get: drama… nothing but drama.” He
paused, “That man is a broken man, Amelie, probably more broken than you or me
– maybe beyond repair. Are you sure that’s what you want for yourself?”
She didn’t.
But at least, in her heart, she felt she had to try.
“I know.” She said as she lifted her chin, and looked him in the eye, “Gerard
gave me such a simple love… but now I can only feel this urgency taking over
me. It’s completely new – I don’t really know how to handle it.”
“There’s no handling it. You couldn’t stay away from him for more than what? A
couple weeks?”
She nodded, ashamed: “How did you handle it? With Angela?”
“Oh…” he grinned, and trapped his lower lip between his teeth, “trust me, you
don’t wanna know.”
She shifted position to face him, her legs crossed before him.
“How are you, Jack? Really.”
He smiled again; it had been so long since his ears had heard that question.
“Alone.” He sentenced. “Although Ana calls me every day. She still can’t get
over the fact that she didn’t realize it was me.”
“She didn’t know?”
“No. Only Winston and Reinhardt knew.” He confessed. “I think Torbjörn had his
suspicions, but he never said a word about it. At least not to me.” He opened
the last beer, and offered it to her, “Ana couldn’t see who I really was – or
maybe she chose not to. And I joke with her, every time I can, I tell her that
she was unable to see me because she only has one good eye.” He regretted his
words as soon as they reached the outside. “I’m sorry. I just realized it’s not
funny.”
“It’s okay.” She tried to sound reassuring but the feeling was persistent. They
were trapped in their tragic pasts, and there was no easy way out.
“You were not the one who hurt Ana – and you were not the one who killed
Gerard. She was.”
She nodded, still the lump in her throat was making it impossible for the woman
to speak. He put his arms around her, rocking her body gently as the wind blew
harder in the cloudy night.
“I didn’t mean to be such an ass to you during your first mission.” He said,
“Everything I did to you that day, everything I said… I just wanted you to
leave. Gerard wouldn’t want you to be here, seeking revenge, potentially
getting hurt, caught in the crossfire. I read Angela’s report, Amelie – if they
try to change you again we won’t be able to help you. You’ll be lost, forever.”
The woman shifted in his arms, seeking eye contact, “Your head won’t survive
their reconditioning, Amelie. Not again. I know it, Angela knows it – Hanzo
knows it. That’s why he doesn’t want you here; he doesn’t want you anywhere
near Talon.”
“How do you know he does not want me here?” her reddened eyes were piercing
his, trying to get inside his head, trying to swim amongst his answers.
“He told me.” He said, bluntly. “I lied to you. It’s not that Hanzo didn’t ask
for anyone in particular. He did. He specifically said that he didn’t want you
here. I lied to you because I didn’t want you to feel rejected, and Angela was
there too…” He lowered his head, breaking eye contact, “He’s gonna be pissed.”
"That's why you let me in last night," she realized, breaking free from his
embrace, "You needed me last night, just like you need me now, Jack." She
laughed, briefly, tenderly, "I'm the only one who keeps you company, Morrison."
She leaned in and let her lips hover over his, then the kiss surprised him with
its unprecedented generosity.
Small and meaningful, the gesture was pure in its nature. Her mouth moved on
his mouth as if it had a mind of its own and he reciprocated with renewed
intent, knowing all too well that her need was his own, that her shattered
memories were his as well. The kiss, meant to die its peaceful death, had
united them in a brief what-if, a small token of a past that had never existed,
meant to quiet down the ghosts of everything that had gone wrong for them.
Sealed forever inside the depths of such peculiar bond, the ones they were no
more had been finally reconciled.
With a soft sigh, their lips parted, never to meet again. Yet the unique
symbolism had been more than enough, for they both knew better than to long for
things that were, simply, not meant to be.
“Do you think he’s there, somewhere? That he can be saved, just like you were?”
he whispered against her lips.
There was no need to put a name to the anima still connecting their pasts with
their present.
She shook her head, and let her forehead rest against his.
“Don’t seek revenge, Amelie.” He said, still unable to let go, “You have
Gabriel’s tenacity, and Gerard’s spirit burning inside of you. I can see them
struggle but just this once, let Gerard win. Just go there and take Hanzo,
leave or stay, that’s completely up to you, but be yourself and let him be
himself – far from all this, away from all this shit. There are no happy
endings, Amelie, you know this better than anyone… just take the man you really
want and leave all this shit behind while you still can. This rotten apple,
this stinking smell of blood… it’s our essence, it’s my essence: to always go
back to war and fight the good fight for those we had to bury. But it doesn’t
have to be your war. Revenge will lead you nowhere. Trust me…”
She planted a soft kiss on his forehead as she moved away from him. Then she
stood up and grinned softly at him.
“Godspeed, Agent Guillard.” She heard him say as she walked down the stairs and
went back into the streets. He watched her, from the distance, as her figure
disappeared behind the door.
Black as night, she walked through endless gardens in the misty rain. Pink and
black seemed to have blended into one rich shade of crimson all around her.
She pushed the door open only to find him resting on the desk. His face hidden
in an ocean of papers, his arms spread out on the surface. The discarded pen
watched her from afar, lost in the castle of numbers he had written on those
pages. She caressed his long, black hair with one hand, and let the other rest
on the small of his back.
Then she leaned in, and whispered in his ear:
“It’s raining, Hanzo… and it’s really, really late. Don’t you think it’s time
you went to bed?”
Chapter End Notes
     Such a misleading title, wasn’t it?
     Also, after the second chapter I began to feel like I needed to see a
     different Jack, I just needed Jack to be Jack again and while I don’t
     regret the fact that I made him look like a villain in that chapter,
     I think this man conveys the quintessential element for this story:
     nothing is as it seems, nobody is exactly like we thought they were.
     Totally self-indulgent and selfish: I needed this Jack to come out,
     reach the surface.
     This chapter wasn’t as lengthy as the previous ones because, in all
     honesty, it should have been part of the previous chapter (at least,
     in my mind, the narrative sequence made sense). Still, I decided to
     treat these events like some sort of a bridge between acts, really,
     separating Amelie’s journey from the point we are expecting the most:
     her reunion with Hanzo.
     Thank you all so much for reading, adding to your faves, bookmarking,
     leaving kudos (depending on which site you’re reading this story)
     writing to me, reviewing, etc. I feel very, very grateful, and very,
     very flattered.
     Cheers!
     E.
***** A Sentimental Education *****
Chapter Summary
     It was not a feast. Not a banquet.
     It was a purge.
Chapter Notes
     Last chapter of the year! I hope you enjoy! Have yourselves a merry
     Christmas and an awesome 2018!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                             Variations on a Theme
                                    Act VI
                            A Sentimental Education
===============================================================================
   "I speak as if he had no secrets from me. Well, then, you must know I was
 suffering from love and I knew him as intimately as I knew my own image in a
        mirror. In other words, I knew him only in relation to myself.”
 Angela Carter – A souvenir of Japan (Burning Your Boats – The Collected Short
                                   Stories)
===============================================================================
                                        
                                                                         Part A
                                                                      The Storm
                                                                               
           “To hate something that you used to love is such a painful feeling.”
                                                Ciel Phantomhive - Kuroshitsuji
                                                                               
.
.
.
I – Watch Your Mouth
It was hard not to think about the most mechanical aspects of sex.
The activity, so intrinsically human, still derived from the most basal of
instincts; past all feelings and emotions, beyond the flesh and the shared
sentiment – it still was, indeed, such a mechanical endeavor.
McCree had never complained about angry sex. He understood others needed it to
express themselves – loved ones, even occasional companions. He understood,
after all, that by turning his body into a catalyst he could at least provide
them with a moment of carnal understanding. It was the least he could do, he
knew, to make sure the ones he loved would feel better.
A selfless lover, that’s what he was: a simple man, always ready to look the
other way and suppress his own methods if that helped them – even if that meant
quieting the voices swimming inside his head for he knew, he was almost certain
of it: when words can’t say anything, talking becomes a burden.
Solitude and alcohol, his greatest allies during troublesome times, were simply
not enough for others. But he was – his body, that is, the temple of his
humanity.
Life didn’t grace him with any real, approachable opportunities until it was
much too late for him but even so, and even then, the notion that chance and
choice were simply not the same had always resounded inside his head, like a
lackluster echo always eager to remind him of everything he could have been.
Unlike the ones he loved, he had never been given the chance to attend a fancy
college, nor life had provided him with the opportunity to grow and bloom
inside an organization yet he knew, and they knew, he was the only one who
could teach them things they were never going to learn at school.
A real enabler, that’s what he was. Sensei. Humble in his teachings, never
judging them for their shortcomings or their twisted needs – always eager to
receive whatever they had to give.
A man that takes and waits, ever so patiently, because he understands that the
time for words will come, eventually.
Only this time, it doesn’t.
“You could have at least taken your helmet off,” he breathed out, his legs
still tangled up around the bedsheets, “Eye contact’s still a thing these days,
y’know?” A sweaty palm landed on the Sparrow’s back – his body more human than
what the common eye could see – and the younger man curved his waist until he
leaned quietly into the touch. Still, no words would escape his mouth, not even
a sound. Nothing.
There was a renewed tension inside that man. He had been acting weird lately.
Every time he would speak to his brother the whole world would go up in flames.
“Still nothing?” McCree mumbled helplessly.
Nothing.
Jesse propped himself up with his hands and looked over the window: it had been
raining for hours and even if the storm was being gentle, it still had him
trapped inside that room with a man that wouldn’t talk to him. Resting his head
back on the pillow again, the cowboy closed his eyes and breathed out through
parted lips: he was exhausted, still, sleep seemed determined to evade him.
When he sat down on the bed, looked over his shoulder and punched the pillow at
his back the Sparrow gave him a puzzled look –
“What?” He asked, surprised to see that gesture of absolute despondence taking
over the cowboy’s face. “It was good, wasn’t it?”
The older man nodded, but now it was his time to remain silent. He could
understand their needs, could even understand stress and sorrow but the idea
had already blossomed inside his head and the thought was beginning to take
root and contaminate him: perhaps the bond between the brothers was shattered
beyond repair – perhaps trying was pointless, and their endless struggle could
only hurt the ones around the two of them.
He could see it inside Hanzo’s eyes as well; that point when words simply stop
being relevant, when the greatest decision of all begins to weight down upon
them.
Is it really worth it?
“Are you giving me the silent treatment now?” Genji went on, folding his arms
across his torso.
Nothing.
“Well, you certainly enjoyed that, so…”
The cowboy rolled on his side and closed his eyes again knowing a bit too well
that even the most innocuous of words would be enough to set the whole room on
fire. A precarious kiss landed on his shoulder, cold and artificial, just like
metal.
“You got goosebumps all over your skin,” Genji whispered as he leaned closer,
“I sort of miss that, in a way – the weather has become one less thing for me
to worry about.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” The cowboy asked as he sat down on the bed
once more, his fingers already reaching for the pack of smokes resting on the
bedside table.
The Sparrow reached out to him, as his hands stopped him before he could even
choose a cigarette. He stared deeply into his eyes, even when the green lights
of his visor didn’t seem to notice the cowboy’s presence.
“Don’t smoke in my room.” He sentenced.
There he was again – changing like the tide, insufferably jumping from victim
to executioner in a mere matter of seconds.
Standing up and leaving the bed, McCree walked towards the window to check if
it was still raining outside. His naked silhouette, contrasting the darkness of
the room, was casting a light of its own as the pale moon fought its way
through the canopy of dense, dark clouds in the sky.
“Are you like this because you can’t seem to be able to talk to your brother
without fighting?” The older man let out timidly, resting his forehead against
the glass before him. “Is it because you miss Angela?” He added, acknowledging
the fact that Genji’s unspoken answer could hide the fact that maybe; just
maybe, he wasn’t enough for the younger Shimada.
Hydraulics hissed as the Sparrow approached the lonely cowboy staring at the
rain – he removed his visor and helmet and glued his back to the window, facing
McCree, and all his doubts.
He took his hand in his then he looked down.
“It’s not what he started,” he confessed, “It’s what he couldn’t finish.”
Alarming thoughts began to plague the cowboy’s mind – he had seen Genji
struggle for so long still he could not bring himself to believe the words he
had just heard.
“I know you’re trying, Genji… but if it’s not working, then please just let it
go.”
The Sparrow roared, letting go from the cowboy’s hand, “You of all people… you
know how hard I tried, you know everything I had to go through in order to… How
can you say that to me?”
“Somebody has to.”
He had never seen Jesse so tense before – the honesty encysted deep inside his
words, lacking all sense of emotion, was shattering him to pieces.
“I can’t let it go, Jesse,” The Sparrow breathed out calmly as he sat down at
the edge of the bed with his head hanging low, right between his thighs, “I
can’t let him go – he didn’t let me go back then, when he still had the chance…
that was all I ever wanted from him: to let me go, to let me be free.” When he
looked up again, the storm had set inside his eyes – “It’s not what he did,
Jesse – it’s what he took from me.”
The older man scratched the back of his neck as he approached the bed and knelt
down before the Sparrow: for once it seemed they were unable to speak the same
language.
“You accepted who you are now…” McCree whispered, “We all did.”
“Because I had no choice. But he did. He could have chosen to spare me, to let
me go.”
McCree reached out to him and planted a soft kiss on the Sparrow’s lips. Then
the younger man smiled, engrossed in the fragile silence they had found after
love and war had both been extinguished. He tried to suppress the thought but
the image of that man appeared vividly in the theater of his memory.
He should have bitten his own tongue.
“What would he think of us now?” Genji breathed out, as he leaned his back
against the mattress, the sheets barely covering his body. McCree tilted his
head to the side, taken aback by the unwanted intromission, but still, the
cowboy did not grace his ears with an answer. His naked shape towered over him,
completely exposed yet paradigmatically inaccessible.
The green light of his visor flickered and flashed briefly at the sight of
countless drops of sweat still covering the cowboy’s neck and chest. With
gentle movements, McCree loomed over his boyfriend with lips that knew no
compassion. He snatched the sheets and wrapped himself up in them, covering his
body from the waist down in one swift movement. His eyes, detached from the
room – from him, one of the objects of his affection – did not even care to
grace his man with a simple, meaningless look.
Silence killed him from within, as guilt welled within his guts. Who was he to
bring such a ghost to the conversation, after all? Even for him, or even for
the irascible version of himself he had shown during the last couple of months,
it was low.
The cowboy couldn’t even talk about that man; couldn’t even remember him
without retreating back to the somber depths of his own convoluted, troubled
mind. And still, he had summoned Jesse’s biggest nightmare all the same, in the
midst of the fight, in the agora of peace.
Despicable.
Unforgivable.
Regardless of the Sparrow’s previous order, Jesse lit up a cigar and opened the
window, allowing the moon to bathe his features in its melancholic, milky aura
as countless raindrops came to greet his tired features as the wind shook the
trees, inviting the branches and leaves to waltz in the darkness. Stepping out
into the night, the man noticed how the rain had stopped, even when the dark
clouds above his head were still speaking about an imminent storm. Forearms on
the railing, his voice soared in the night, finally.
“You should talk to your brother.” He whispered, “Talk – start with a word,
then try using another one and so on, and so on. Keep your tone down while
you’re at it, but if at some point you feel like yelling at him, just pause and
start all over again. Just talk, you know.” A dense cloud of smoke engulfed his
face for a fleeting instant, “And if you can’t talk to him, then talk to me,
talk to Zenyatta… you’re better than this.”
It was unlike him, to lecture the Sparrow in such a way.
“I’m afraid the time for words is already behind us,” Genji said, walking
towards the cowboy. “My brother and I… talking is no longer an option.”
Jesse turned around, but even if his words were soft, the distance in his eyes
was still there.
“Talking is always an option.”
Genji moved closer and rested his chin on the cowboy’s shoulder. But the older
man moved away from him, and went back inside the room as the Sparrow watched
him leave, helpless.
“Then why is it that you can’t talk about Gabriel?”
McCree took a deep breath before speaking – he could understand that the
confrontation with Hanzo was taking its toll on Genji, still, he could not
justify the Sparrow’s thoughtless words.
“I understand…” he began, hands on his temples, “I understand how hard it must
be to try to patch things up with your brother after everything you’ve been
through. Even if he hadn’t hurt you, even if he hadn’t killed you, I can
understand such images are impossible to shake off: a loved one, attacking you,
harming you… I don’t know how you ever managed to forgive him – I admire you
for it.”
“You cannot possibly understand what it feels like.” The Sparrow spat coldly,
his venomous eyes deconstructing his boyfriend’s features with an uncanny
animosity McCree had never seen before inside that man.
Trying his best to keep his composure, the cowboy tap his foot against the
floor in a feverish rhythm.
“Trust me, I can.” He retorted. “I can still remember the closest approximation
I ever had to a father trying to murder me.”
“It’s not the same.” Genji yelled, motioning towards the cowboy and stopping
right before him, “It’s blood. It’s family.”
When Jesse pushed him aside and stood up, the Sparrow understood that he had
said too much.  In the name of a pain he couldn’t contain, he had shattered
their bond.
“Why don’t you say that to Amelie?” McCree whispered as he picked up his
clothes, “Why don’t you try explaining to her that killing Gerard was not a big
deal because even if they were married they didn’t share any blood ties.”
The younger man hid his head in his hands. He couldn’t stand to watch Jesse
leave.
“Blood… it’s good to know that’s how you see us. We were the ones who took you
in when your own blood tried to kill you… You should have told us beforehand,
love, that we were never gonna be good enough for ya.” The cowboy mumbled
carelessly as he put on his jeans, “And thenhe called me ingrate…”
“Jesse wait,” Genji pleaded, “Don’t go like this, I didn’t mean it like that.”
The cowboy looked over his shoulder; the same icy look he had seen inside the
Sparrow’s eyes only a few minutes ago was now encysted deep inside his own
distant stare.
He slammed the door.
He needed a drink.
.
.
.
II – Preparedness
Her hands, soft and warm against his skin, helped his senses float for a while,
in the impervious vacuum that separates dreams from reality – and there he
stayed, for as long as he could, rocked by the tender abyss of nothingness that
only she could provide. Until his eyes began to slowly swim back into focus,
the edges of her figure becoming more and more real with each passing moment.
He looked at her and smiled softly, addressing the anima reaching out to him as
a mere figment of his imagination – then he stretched one of his hands and
touched her.
Only then, when his fingers anchored her to everything that’s current, to
everything that’s mundane; the precarious curve adorning his lips faded,
bringing him back to reality and exposing him as agnostic and skeptical in his
own twisted faith.
A certain fury dawned on him, yet he let it slide through his fingers as he
rearranged his black robe and watched as the woman moved around his desk and
sat on the edge, facing him.
“Were you deployed?” He asked.
The woman shook her head and the archer breathed out softly: at least they had
cared enough to listen to him when he said he didn’t want Amelie to be sent to
Hanamura.
“Then what are you doing here?” The coldness in his voice matched the
atmosphere of the last moments they had shared back in Gibraltar. “Does
Morrison know that you’re here?”
His second question made it easier for the woman to somehow provide him with an
answer. Though deprived of words or phonemes, Amelie nodded her head in silent
agreement to let him know that the former Strike-Commander had approved her
decision. Deep down she had known, all along since leaving Gibraltar, that
Hanzo wouldn’t be pleased to see her and still his frowny face and his cryptic
messages were not enough to stop her: she needed to see him, needed to know why
he had lied to her.
The dark circles around his eyes helped her see that her questions would have
to wait. If Jack’s words were anything to go by, then the weakened bond between
the brothers was facing one of its darkest hours once again – and she was
intruding, after all.
She didn’t have to ask him what was wrong – the symptoms of yet another fight
were clearly written all over his face. She leaned closer, cupping his face
with both her hands and for a brief moment, the archer gave up and leaned into
her touch with his eyes closed and his lips pressed tightly together. He kissed
the palm of her hand, ever so gently, then snaked his arms around her waist to
finally let his head rest against her stomach. Thin, pale fingers ran through
his hair, then, sheltering him from the world outside that room.
“Tough days…”
When his words told her about Meisa and her sons, about Genji and the
ambivalent moods they were sharing, the woman took a deep breath and accepted
the tiresome waves of defeat he had to offer. Still, it pained her to pretend
she didn’t know about the maid and her shady position in the whole Talon ordeal
they were about to face – even when he had lied to her, her secret was weighing
down on her, making her feel selfish and powerless.
He looked up at her, then back at his own hands. For a fraction of a second, he
even dared to anticipate the kiss.
But when the moment came, his unfeeling mouth could not find the strength to
move.
“Leave.” His harsh voice brushed against her lips and his order felt soft
against her mouth. The woman backed up instinctively and took a good look at
the torn man staring right back at her – that reckless spirit of his, albeit
struggling to keep her near, could not afford another battle.
So she didn’t fight him.
Amelie got on her feet, placed a soft kiss on his forehead and exited the
office in silence. Standing in the rain, the woman crossed her arms over her
chest and waited patiently in the night. As still as a statue, contemplating
life occurring at the other side of the great glass window, the woman kept her
eyes trained on the figure of that man she had grown so attached to, as he
moved and walked around the office, pretending to be busy, tricking his mind
with vague numbers and obsolete calculations.
When the thunder decided it was time to strike the Earth, the Frenchwoman sat
down on a large rock and there she stayed, watching him from afar, welcoming
the storm. Every now and then, Hanzo would look for her in the rain. But every
time their eyes would meet he would withdraw to the comfort of mathematics,
letting his eyes fall back to the many books scattered on his desk as if trying
to fool her.
Hours passed her by but the woman didn’t even flinch. The weather punished her
with wind and lighting yet her eyes could not look away from the real showdown
of light and shadow taking place inside that office.
He fought her determination with indifference, yet the flame was already
burning and the heartless rain didn’t seem to be enough to suffocate the fire –
patience was a virtue, they had told him, and she was virtuous in every single
way. He stood up and walked towards the door. Stopping by the threshold, he
took off his robe and his shoes as he embraced the same storm that had brought
her to him.
The man knelt before her as his hands found an anchor in her hips, just like a
jaded castaway, lashed by the furious oceans, seeking his own, private shore.
“You can stay tonight, but not in my room.” He began, stern as usual even when
his eyes were stating otherwise, “Come daylight, I shall ask you to return to
Gibraltar.” He whispered.
“Come daylight, I shall say no to your request.”
They stood up as their lips coalesced to fight back the storm.
“It’s a fight, then,” Hanzo whispered, with his arms still chained around her
waist.
“It’s a fight.” She said, accepting his challenge.
.
.
.
III – Alone With Everybody (This Fucking Storm)
Her reunion with Hanzo the night before had left a bittersweet aftertaste in
her mouth. The many colors he had shown in the prismatic view of his private
world were in perfect concordance with the chiaroscuro that always seemed to
accompany him.
The room he had assigned to her was as sterile as loneliness itself, pragmatic
and impractical at the same obnoxious time.
Morrison was the first to spot her that morning. Pacing around the deserted
kitchen, trying to absorb every inch of that space she now inhabited. He helped
her with the coffee machine, but chose not to ask any questions regarding her
meeting with the archer – if her sullen expression was any indication for the
man to deduce her luck, he was almost certain she hadn’t had such thing
balancing the odds in her favor. One thing was clear though: she was determined
to stay and Morrison knew there was little he could do to change her mind.
“What will you tell the others when they see me?” She inquired, raising an
eyebrow.
The man shook his head and grinned softly at himself.
“I don’t have to tell them anything. You said it yourself last night: I’m
nobody’s superior.” He remembered her words the night before; sharp as a blade,
genuine as the truth.
“Haha... How clever…” Amelie faked a smile as she crossed her arms over her
chest, welcoming the aroma emanating from the coffee machine, “Even if that’s
true, they still see you as their Strike-Commander.”
She was probably right, he pondered – they still saw him as a figure of
authority, as a boss to turn to or to avoid, depending on the situation. But
that was all there was to it: a solemn chain of command that had nothing to do
with real, personal interactions between him and the rest of the members of the
clandestine organization he had loved so much, back in the day.
“They only see me as a liar or a pariah.”
The woman stretched out one of her hands but retracted it before it had reached
him – the kiss they had shared the night before had been nothing but the
materialization of the pity she felt for him, but nothing more. And when it
came to someone like Jack Morrison, a recondite emotion such as pity could only
get them so far: “No, they don’t.” She said. “They still love you, Jack – even
after all these years. You can’t exactly blame them for feeling the way they do
– both your lies and your return must have been a hard pill to swallow… but
once this moment is behind us, once this fucking storm is over… you’ll be their
leader again.”
The weather seemed to agree with her somehow. As they both looked out the
window they noticed the dark canopy of clouds still covering up the sky. Day
and night had been blended into one shared obscurity, or so it seemed.
In spite of their small talk, morning progressed nonetheless, with the typical
laziness of a rainy day: slow, and languid. One by one, they all gathered
around the large wooden table for breakfast but instead of just coffee and
toasts, they got an unexpected arrival, waiting for them. The puzzled looks and
expressions that were traveling from one face to the other were not enough to
convey the million questions regarding Amelie’s presence in Hanamura. Only
McCree seemed to be somewhat happy to see her there, while the Shimada
brothers, far from showing any signs of sympathy towards the woman, seemed
deeply concerned to find her there, even when Hanzo had seen her the previous
night – at least they seemed to finally be able to agree on something, Morrison
thought as he finished his coffee in silence.
The monk, floating at the far end of the table, seemed to pay no mind to
Amelie’s presence. Symmetra, on the other hand, did not miss the opportunity to
mock McCree.
The architect stood up, walked around the table and placed her hands on Jesse's
shoulders. Leaning closer, she whispered: “Here’s your cat… or your bird.”
Satya’s bitter sense of humor was actually saying more than they could handle:
her sentry turrets had registered activity two nights ago, but Amelie had only
arrived in Hanamura, or so it seemed.
“Tell me,” Symmetra enquired, “It was you, wasn’t it?”
Amelie hesitated for an instant but before she even had a chance to speak, Jack
intervened:
“Yes, it was her. I believe that having a former Talon operative amongst us can
be helpful,” his eyes, unfeeling and bossy, were already searching for the
archer’s: “That is why I asked her to come join us. I’m sorry, Hanzo. I could
not keep my promise.”
The older Shimada nodded his head once, his lips a perfect line of impenetrable
silence. Still, Satya had her questions:
“Why are we seeing her just now?” She went on, raising a suspicious eyebrow,
“And why did you block my turrets? Were you trying to prove them inefficient?”
“Oh, no. Not at all.” Amelie retorted quickly, both her hands in the air,
defensively.
Satya’s doubts were contagious, she noticed, as their expressions began to
change gradually, questioning her. She knew Jack didn’t want the rest of the
team to find out about Meisa and the bodies until Mercy had worked her magic –
still, they needed to know the truth.
“I came unannounced, disobeying Jack’s order to stay in Gibraltar.” She came
clean, looking down, “I wanted to see Hanzo – but I was afraid Jack would not
let me stay if he saw me… Plus, I knew Hanzo himself did not want me here, so…”
“So what?” Satya pressed on.
“I wanted to surprise him,” Amelie confessed, her cheeks turning red.
“You could have just knocked, you know?” Symmetra laughed, “This is such a big
place he wouldn’t have noticed you here at all unless you went looking for
him.”
Even when Amelie could understand Satya’s frustration, she was not ready to
succumb to the scrutiny embedded deep inside her eyes.
“Like I told you – I thought Jack was going to kick me out the second he saw
me,” The sniper said, “He was, indeed, the first one of you I encountered that
night, but instead of telling me off, he said I could actually help. When I
told him I wanted to speak to Hanzo first; to try to resolve some… personal
issues… he said there had been a huge fight between the brothers, and that I
should wait.”
Silence encompassed the entire group for a moment: it was true; the dragons
were at each other’s throats and their moods were affecting the rest of them.
“Since I wanted to surprise Hanzo but I didn’t want to interfere – especially
during such difficult times, I took Jack’s word and spent the night in a
hotel.” Amelie continued, staring intently at the archer, “Jack and I met
outside Hanamura again last night, and he told me that the situation between
the brothers had not changed.”
“And you decided to come anyway,” Jesse helped her. “With Talon out there… you
made the right decision.”
The woman nodded in silence, understanding the words the cowboy had left
unsaid: the bond between the brothers was taking its toll on everyone around
them but the bigger threat, the one lurking in the dark, was even more real and
more frightening than any fight between Genji and Hanzo. The constant fighting
between the brothers seemed destined to resemble the storm outside – dense and
dark, menacing and vicious.
Without looking at each other, the brothers stood up and abandoned the place in
silence. The cowboy reached out for the Frenchwoman and cupped her hands with
his. At least someone was trying to make her feel welcome after all.
One by one they all left the kitchen. Sullied by the sounds of the rain, each
hour spent amongst those walls seemed destined to stretch itself far beyond the
frail intangibility of time.
.
.
.
IV – The Broken Nest
As the storm intensified and the day slowly gave way to night, a slender figure
crossed the gates of Hanamura. Sheltered by an old black umbrella, the doctor
moved around the buildings even when she couldn’t really tell for sure who she
was looking for, or what her destination might be.
The faint lights coming from a distant room across the gardens guided her
careful steps through the stone paths and glossy flowers. Flickering in the
wind, the timid incandescence of candlelight was struggling to stay alive.
Three young women, who seemed to be in their early thirties, were preparing
some sort of ritual, the doctor guessed as soon as she arrived. Sakura blossoms
were scattered all over the large wooden table where two naked bodies were
being wrapped up in plain white sheets. Cocooned by bamboo and green leaves,
the tender cradles they were adorning all around the corpses seemed destined to
conceal the fact that the heads were missing.
Angela cleared her throat; she had read about different funerary traditions and
rituals all around the globe yet the image was almost macabre.
“Excuse me,” she whispered politely, one of her hands knocking on the door even
when it was wide open.
The women turned around and stared at the newcomer for a short while before
returning to their tasks. None of them seemed to care about the doctor, at
least not enough to ask her who she was, or what was she doing there.
One step followed the other and soon Angela found herself standing right before
the mutilated bodies. The women still refused to address her presence in the
room, their hands were busy, their eyes distant – as if they weren’t there at
all.
“I’m looking for,” She paused, contemplating her alternatives for a moment.
Jesse and Genji didn’t know what she knew, and they didn’t suspect the maid.
Amelie was a former Talon agent. There was only one choice. She bit the insides
of her gums before letting the name cruise in the night, “Jack Morrison.”
Ages, or decades, or entire lifetimes had gone by since that name had left her
mouth for the last time.
The women looked at other then back at the doctor – judging by their puzzled
expressions, they had never heard that name before.
“76,” Angela corrected herself, choosing not to think about the differences
between one man and the other, “He goes by 76 now.”
Only then the three women nodded their heads and grinned politely at the
doctor. One of them even stretched out one of her hands to indicate Angela
where he was. The Swiss woman thanked them for the information and left the
room as fast as she could – the odor, the sight of death was something she
could not stand, even after all those years serving as a field doctor.
Up the stairs, second door to her left.
She hesitated briefly before knocking – even when her visit was strictly
professional, they hadn’t been alone in years. 76 had always stood in the way,
like a thick veil she could not trespass, preventing her eyes from fully
uncovering the shape of the man she had loved millennia ago.
He clearly wasn’t expecting her. At least, not so soon. With sleepy eyes and a
frowny face, the man made room for the woman to step inside. Then he put on a
t-shirt, feeling awkward and somewhat frustrated by her mere presence.
“Do you have the results?” He barked, as usually, as he sat down on his bed.
The woman nodded her head once, in complete silence, as she stood by the door,
almost petrified. “We should call Amelie, then,” The old man suggested.
“Genji and Hanzo should join us too,” Now it was her turn to bring in others,
to stretch the space between her and that unreadable version of Jack. The old
soldier considered her suggestion for a while before nodding his head. Then he
walked to the door and beckoned the doctor to walk with him.
The sounds of the rain, in fluid conversation with the howling wind and the
furious thunder, accompanied their silent steps. 76 ordered Angela to wait for
him in the kitchen and the woman obliged. In just a couple of minutes, he
returned, accompanied by the two snipers and the cyborg ninja.
No coffee was offered, no greetings were exchanged.
There was just one single moment of pure affection in that room, as the Sparrow
held one of Angela’s hands in his but the woman let go, discreetly, as they all
sat by the counter.
Unlike Amelie’s unexpected arrival, the doctor seemed welcomed by the three
men. Hanzo even took a moment to say that now that there was proper medical
care in the compound the rest of the team would have nothing to worry about.
Subtleties aside, Genji couldn’t help but feel his brother’s comment was only
aimed towards the monk but chose not to dwell on it – eyes trained on the woman
he loved, the Sparrow said:
“You didn’t tell us you’d be joining us.”
The doctor smiled quietly at him before her eyes went back to 76 – she had
merely been dragged down by the soldier and the former Talon sniper: now it was
their turn to explain things as they truly were.
When Amelie shook her head and looked down at her own hands, Morrison
understood the task was completely up to him. He cleared his throat, and began
telling the tale of his hundred suspicions; his plots and his intrigues, and
how each hypothetical scenario had led them to believe that there was reason to
doubt Meisa.
Enraged, Hanzo slammed his fists on the counter and his younger brother cursed
under his breath – until the doctor silenced their voices:
“Those are not her sons.”
After a moment of impenetrable silence, Amelie finally found her voice: “We
cannot say for sure that Meisa is involved. But until we find out, we should
stay quiet about it. All of us.” She offered, conciliatorily. They were only
hours away from the funerals; the pain of that grieving mother still seemed
real enough to doubt her.
An austere gesture of penance took over their faces, yet it subsided quickly
from the brother’s visages.
Genji was the first to stand up and leave the kitchen, still cursing under his
breath. The doctor followed him outside, trying her best to talk some sense
into him.
76 nodded his head once, patted the Frenchwoman on her shoulder, and went back
to his room.
Then the archer stared venomously at Amelie:
“You knew about this,” He hissed darkly, “How could you lie to me?”
The woman cocked her head a little, taken aback by his accusation,
“I did not lie to you.” She retorted, “Unlike you, I tell no lies.”
An obscure grin began to curl his lips; then he folded his arms over his chest,
“Don’t you dare use this to retaliate. I had my reasons.”
“I have yet to hear those.” She fought back.
He stood up and walked around the counter until he came to stand right behind
her chair. Then he leaned in, his lips nearly brushing against her ear:
“And you won’t,” He whispered,”Not tonight.”
.
.
.
V – Mother
The occasional frog came to greet him, as the archer made his way past the
pond. Jumping freely from one water lily to the other, their guttural songs
seemed to cheer happily now that the rain had stopped – still, the canopy of
dense, dark clouds covering the entire city was reason enough for everyone to
believe that the rain was not ready to give up so easily.
Deliberatively away from the fake funeral that was being held at the far end of
the compound, facing the immensity of the mountain, Hanzo’s feet kept marching
on across the great gardens of Hanamura, trying his best to avoid the maid. The
thought had kept him up all night, meandering through the frantic highways of
his head, questioning him: who was he to keep the truth from Meisa, after all?
Even if they didn’t know if the maid was indeed involved with Talon or not, he
couldn’t shake the thought of his own mother, the frailty inside those
crystalline but dark eyes of hers…
The condescending wind helped his black hair dance around his broad shoulders –
so much gray, already conquering his temples, was already speaking loudly about
a receding youth.
He was as old as she was, as old as she had been the last time he laid eyes on
her.
Had she been alive to receive the news regarding the death of her youngest son,
the woman would have died right there and then, her last breath devoted to
cherishing the memory of the one that was no more. Had she been alive to find
out that the protective older brother had been the one asphyxiating the
Sparrow’s dreams, she would have died a thousand deaths in but a brief instant;
her love tarnished and eternal, corrupted and saint.
Fate had been kind enough. Death took her in time, or so it seemed. Her final
goodbye had prevented the mother from having to bury her own son.
If he had to be completely honest with himself, he had no clue what had brought
him there. What had kept him marching on and on, revisiting the splendidly
colorful sights of yesterday in the monochrome version of his present.
He hadn’t talked to her in such a long time…
Kneeling down before his mother’s gravestone, the archer closed his eyes as if
afraid of what the silent dialogue could bring. His feet had led him to that
place; sheltered between cherry blossoms and the calm waters of the pond –
trapped in the scene she had loved so much, that woman had never fully
abandoned his son, not even in death. There were sparks of her that were still
fighting their way inside the tormented son, the one she had held so dearly
during his childhood years, way before indoctrination had molded him, way
before weapons and blood and death. So small and innocent, alive between her
warm hands – such eyes, she knew, they had been blessed.
The way she would always look at him every time Genji was around was still
tattooed inside his eyes, like an eternal flame that could endure even the
cruelest of hurricanes. How he would care for his baby brother, how he would
look after him with eager eyes while barely dancing on his tiptoes. Her hands,
messing with his hair, showering him with love…
What a great brother he had been when they were but little children.
And now he was there, with his old knees kissing the place they had chosen for
her, after so much time, after so much blood.
He had always avoided that precise spot, every single year, every single time
he would become a trespasser in his own territory to remember the brother he
himself had killed.
What was he supposed to tell her, after all?
Mother, look what I’ve done.
He covered his face with his hands but her image appeared before him, asking
him about the past, struggling to recognize her little boy in the shape of that
mercenary.
Mother, I’m so sorry.
“I couldn’t help but notice you never once looked at Father’s grave.” Genji’s
gentle voice surprised him, “It’s like you can only see her, but you cannot see
him. Strangely enough, you still remind me of him: without shades in between
your black and your white, feared but respected; severe… and ultimately
lonesome, like a king without his crown.”
The archer stayed where he was, rubbing his fingers gently across his face,
wiping away his tears.
“Did you tell Meisa?” Genji asked, kneeling down beside his brother. The archer
shook his head in silence. “I didn’t tell her either. Still, the thought
plagues me, brother.”
A solitary hand broke the distance between them and landed on the Sparrow’s
nearest shoulder.
“I know, Genji.” Hanzo whispered, “I know.”
The dragons gave way to silence, then, allowing the wild winds to become just a
distant echo of the hurricane stirring inside of them. Songs of death and
farewell followed suit, brought by the breeze, still, the vacant lament seemed
destined to reflect the perfidy of an apocryphal torment.
“I should have told you, Hanzo.” Genji began, his helmet off, his eyes closed,
“Instead of trying to run away, I should have told you about the Talon
connection. Everything I heard that day, everything I saw.” He held his breath
for as long as he could, waiting for an answer that never came, “I thought you
would never believe me, but that wasn’t it – you were never going to let Talon
interfere with the clan but the web was already woven all around us.” Only then
he opened his eyes, still, he kept his sight trained on their mother’s
gravestone, “It took me years to realize that even if I had managed to convince
you back then, your life would have been ruined all the same. They would have
corrupted you, or chased after you, or even killed you – if they had to.”
It took him some time to find his voice. His constricted throat, fighting to
let the words out, was becoming his worst enemy.
“This isn’t working, Genji.” It was as painful as it was obvious: no matter how
hard they tried, they only seemed destined to cause each other harm.
“I know, Hanzo.” Genji finally acknowledged, “I know.”
When the Sparrow stood up and looked over his shoulder, he saw the Frenchwoman
contemplating the scene from the bridge. He waved his hand at her, then turned
around once more, facing Hanzo.
“Mother would have liked her.”
The archer nodded. His eyes closed, his hands curled up into fists hanging at
the sides of his body.
“You really need to stop running away, Hanzo,” The Sparrow said, still standing
just a few inches away from his older brother, “From me, from the memory of
clan, from everything we never said to each other, from what you did to me;
what you did to yourself – from her.”
Hanzo’s silence, his apathy and his apparent indifference, felt like a slap in
the face for the cyborg ninja. They were reaching the end of the rope yet the
archer seemed to have given up already.
“Of course you won’t,” Genji said as quietly as he could, chewing on his fury,
tasting the sour nature of their bond, “You are not man enough.”
His shadow disappeared before Hanzo could even turn around to face him.
The archer stood up and looked over his shoulder – still, alone in that bridge,
the woman waited.
.
.
.
===============================================================================
 
                                                                         Part B
                                                    If I Should Fall From Grace
                                                                               
                       “What you did to me made me see myself somethin' awful.”
                                                         Fiona Apple – Oh well.
.
.
.
 
VI – Smoke and Mirrors
That night was meant to be different, in all possible ways.
For the first time since arriving in Hanamura, the conflicted heir had decided
to abandon his father’s office and join the rest of the team for dinner, even
when Genji had already ordered Meisa and her daughters not to worry about
cooking or cleaning for them – and the rest of the group had, of course, agreed
with him. 76 proved himself a worthy cook, improvising a precarious fire with
twigs and larger branches he collected in the gardens. Even if the night was a
bit cold, they all seemed to enjoy the fish outside, sitting on the grass,
absorbing the majestic nature of the place surrounding them.
The conversation was vague, to say the very least. The cowboy entertained the
group with anecdotes of his time spent as an outlaw while Morrison seemed more
interested in remembering the good old pranks and tricks the entire Overwatch
team would play on poor McCree during his days as a rookie. The doctor would
usually come to his aid, defending him from all jokes and saving him from the
stereotyped version of him they all were so fond of.
Laughter encompassed the whole group then, during uneven gaps of time, only to
fade away in the wind, each and every single time.
Symmetra finally let them in, as she spoke about her days as a student,
remembering her childhood, the city she loved so much, the loved ones she had
lost along the way. The monk did not say a word – he knew he couldn’t talk
about Genji’s first days in Nepal without affecting Hanzo with his stories and
anecdotes, but he also knew he couldn’t remember his own brother without
affecting Amelie.
Hanzo didn’t share any stories of his own either, yet the echo of his laughter
could be heard freely as it cruised amongst the trees and the sakura blossoms.
He seemed relieved, somehow, and the Frenchwoman thought that perhaps the fact
that both he and Genji had at least agreed on something had helped dissipate
the clouds covering his sight. It wasn’t working – it was cruel and infinitely
undermining, yet at least they could both see eye to eye and admit that even if
they had tried their best, their reconstructed brotherly bond was just not
working.
When dinner was over, they all went back to their assigned rooms. None of them
felt brave enough to tempt luck and stay a moment longer if it wasn’t strictly
necessary – they had miraculously managed to share a peaceful evening by
avoiding the most controversial topics of conversation, but their hot-headed
nature was as tenacious as it was merciless, and they all knew it for a fact.
His gentle voice reached out for her in the last portion of the corridor. Soft
as a breeze, his words carried more meaning than he let on.
“You are welcome to spend the night in my room, if that’s what you want.” He
offered.
The woman turned around and inspected him briefly, allowing her incredulous
eyes to see beyond the lines and particular words he had just said. Moving
closer, Amelie rested her hands on his shoulders as she whispered in his ear:
“You promised me a fight, archer.”
The petulant smirks adorning their faces were finally speaking the same
language, or so it seemed.
He held her hand in his and guided her through the maze of cold stone and
ancient wood until they reached their destination. He pushed the door open with
one swift movement of his arm and the woman finally stepped into his
bedchamber, mesmerized by the grandiloquence of the room – he stared at her
with hungry eyes, still standing by the door, as the woman carefully inspected
every piece of furniture, every book and every little thing she could lay eyes
on. But before she could manage to say a single word his arms, like anchors,
were already traveling around her waist; his mouth, darkly content, reaching
out for her neck from behind.
She tried to turn around to meet his consuming gaze but he didn’t let her.
Strong fingers, like devious claws, were determined to keep her exactly where
she was.
When his hands cupped her breasts the Frenchwoman let out a sigh, almost on the
verge of giving up entirely. She closed her eyes, trying her best to breathe
him in. Only then he shifted her body in his arms, imprisoning her whole being
against his chest – he looked so forlorn, she realized almost immediately;
consumed by his own fatuous flame yet frozen in place inside the barriers of
his skin.
When he took off her training shirt and pushed her towards the bed the woman
obliged, still trapped inside the crystalline fantasies of a body that hadn’t
felt that way for such a long time. Textures blended together then, mixing the
sticky and silky cobwebs of the spider with the scorching touch of the dragon –
still she knew the feeling like the back of her hand after imagining and
recreating the same old events in the darkest redoubts of her mind. How she
longed for him, how she had breathed out his name over and over again.
When he stood completely naked before her, the woman propped herself up with
her forearms to admire everything he had to offer.
His anatomy, albeit punished by time and recklessness, was still perfect.
To a fault.
With feverish fingers, the Japanese sniper took on the task of taking off the
rest of her clothes. Then he leaned his body over hers, taking in the view,
admiring her form with eyes that seemed to know no burdens.
Yet she knew better.
When his lips finally came to devour her mouth he could feel the shape of her
half-smile colliding against his teeth. Still, he paid no mind. Then his tongue
traveled to her breasts, her belly, her hips, and the woman rejoiced in the
feeling as she carefully swam through the sensations, trying her best not to
drown.
Yet she still knew better.
When his fingers reached inside of her the woman removed them, bringing his
hand near her face to lick herself clean off him and the ghostly hunger still
torturing him. Then she kissed his shoulder, ever so tenderly. When he finally
made his way inside her the woman seemed to shrink under his touch, too
overwhelmed by the moment, torn between her need and his ill-natured, misplaced
affection.
His pace was frantic from the start.
But even then, she still knew better.
“Hanzo, stop.” Her voice, detached from the ulterior language of sex, brought
him back to reality. “You’re hurting me.”
His erratic movements came to a halt yet he stayed right where he was.
“I’m sorry,” He whispered, planting a soft kiss on her lips.
She did not reciprocate it.
When he started to move again, slower this time, gentler than before, the woman
ordered him to stop again.
“I thought you wanted this.” He let on, frustrated, as he let go of her.
“I do.” She said, covering her naked form with his bedsheets, “But not like
this.”
He covered his face with both his hands, breathing hard through parted lips.
“I’m not a fortune teller, Amelie.” He finally retorted, “You should have been
clearer about what you wanted from me instead of luring me on.”
You disgraced son of a bitch…
“You dare demand clarity from me… had you been clear enough yourself I wouldn’t
be here at all in the first place.” Her bitter laughter ricocheted through
every corner of the room, lacerating his ears, rendering him powerless.
And still, she knew better.
“Were you gonna fuck me senseless just because your brother said you weren’t
man enough?” Her words, like poison, enveloped his whole form, “He wasn’t
talking about your virility, Hanzo.”
He knew. Still, it hurt all the same. He could not bring himself to tell her
off for good neither he had the guts to be the man she demanded from him –
taking his brother’s words and twisting their meanings he had tried to shelter
himself in a brand new hiding place, yet she had found him all the same.
She got out of his bed, picked up her clothes, and got dressed.
“Get your shit together, Shimada.” She said as she exited his room, leaving him
alone.
He punched the wall as hard as he could.
He had promised her a fight after all.
.
.
.
VII – … But at Least the Devil was Honest
On her way back to her room, the Frenchwoman caught a glimpse of a certain
cowboy smoking alone by the balcony. He was staring at his own room, the open
windows inviting his eyes in, making him a witness of the heated argument
between the ninja and the doctor. Far from their reach, and definitively far
from his words, the American man had his naked torso leaning on the railing,
the cigar pressed tightly between his lips.
His prosthetic arm was missing.
“You know, if you ask me, I’d tell ya nothing’s really changed for the
brothers,” He said, calling her on, without using her name, “Not a single coin
in their pockets yet here they are, the great lords of the castle, making
everyone around them dance to their tune.”
He turned around and faced her, extending his one good arm for the woman to
join him outside.
“Sometimes I wonder what’s gonna happen when Talon finally strikes – perhaps
we’ll be too busy killing each other,” He joked, “Can you imagine that? No,
Sombra, hold on – I’m not done fighting my own girlfriend, you wait your turn.”
The smile on his face dissipated quickly, “Or maybe that was their plan all
along – for us to kill each other while they do nothin’… perhaps it’s cheaper
that way.”
They sat on the cold stone floor with their legs stretched before them and
their backs pressed against the railing.
“This whole thing sure feels like a lovers retreat, doesn’t it?” He laughed
again, “Days go by with absolutely nothing to do, the view is fantastic… the
enemy becomes invisible, we lose track of time, we just don’t know what we’re
doin’ anymore.”
The woman placed one of her hands on his knee and nodded her head in silence –
his honesty was breathtaking. Every single word leaving his mouth seemed to be
colored by an atypical sense of truthfulness, so painfully obvious, so
exasperatingly accurate.
“It was too soon.” He sentenced somberly. “For us to come here, for Morrison to
assemble a team… But I can understand why they did it – why we did it: some
things are so incredibly appealing to the eyes, even if they’re just for show.”
The woman lifted her chin, staring deep into those big brown eyes of him,
searching for answers. And the man did not disappoint.
“They sent Hanzo and Genji because they were ready to come back here, and act
as brothers… In less than twenty-four hours they had someone else join them
because a team was needed for this mission.” He clicked his tongue as the cigar
danced between his lips, “We all know they sent someone else so soon because
they needed someone to babysit the brothers because, like I said, we all know,
deep down inside, that if no-one’s looking and they are left to their own
devices, the Shimada name is as good as dead.”
Only then she smiled, “I think the Shimada name is already as good as dead,”
Amelie said, “I don’t think the brothers are interested in the possibility of
extending their bloodline.”
“Touché.” He took off his cowboy hat and placed it on her head. Then he looked
down, “This isn’t working.”
“It’s the second time today I get to hear those words.” She whispered, resting
her head on his shoulder, “Only this time, you’re not talking about anyone in
particular. None of this is working, Jesse, you’re absolutely right.”
The cowboy let the cigar die.
“Two men, who used to be close, fighting a never-ending war – dividing an
entire organization, seeking allies, choosing enemies, breaking bonds,
corrupting everyone around them…”
He looked her in the eye and smiled darkly.
“Déjà vu.”
.
.
.
VIII – Bewildering Nights of Naked Dresses
He had wronged her. And the archer knew, deep down, that apologizing was never
going to be enough to properly repair the damage he had caused.
Cowardice had found him, dressed up in his brother’s words, with his calloused
hands twisting their meaning only to achieve nothing, merely an excuse, perhaps
– a pathetic attempt at trying to do all those things he couldn’t bring himself
to do.
Sleep with the woman you like, free of boundaries and burdens. That sounded a
lot like happiness for a man who still didn’t know if it was alright for his
lips to smile again.
His atonement would have to talk to her in her own language.
His fingers, before him, were still too proud to knock on her door and beg for
forgiveness. So he stilled their needs and infected them with tales of music
and madly-in-love composers that, albeit long gone, were still reaching for
their muse through the simple theorems of their notes.
He knew the melody would lure her in.
The first night she allowed the gentle sounds to guide her through the
building. Up the stairs, past his room, and into the great library. There she
found him, sitting by the piano, with his eyes closed and a timid gesture of
satisfaction plastered on his face. With her hands still resting on the door,
the woman received the notes he created for her with eyes wide open. But her
feet remained pinned to the ground.
When the melodies ceased to exist, the archer heard her footsteps as she left
the room. Still, he waited, ever so patiently.
The second night replicated the previous one but, this time, she dared cross
the threshold. With his eyes still closed, the archer could have sworn those
graceful feet of hers were beginning to move along the lines of his own
musicality. Yet he didn’t look at her, still too afraid to face the music.
On the third night, the man finally opened his eyes. The woman walked around
the room and finally sat by his side. She didn’t dance that night, she merely
entertained herself with those prestigious fingertips of his. One note followed
the other – the immensity of the silence between them was creating a brand new
language.
She performed for him on the fourth night, with arms soaring in the night and
legs waging their love and their many, many curses. And then she danced for him
again, on the fifth night, only this time she chose to dance to his silence.
With his arms folded over his chest, the archer admired each muted figure she
had to offer.
On the sixth night, the music returned.
She was sitting by his side, staring out the window. Her mind delighted itself
with the monochrome correlations between that man playing music for her and the
wonderful and solitary mountain breaking the horizon baring nothing more than
its mere presence.
So wonderfully immense, sheltered by that indomitable, eternal ice of his. So
alone and still, so full of life, just like some debilitated king.
It took all of him to break the silence that had encompassed them for nearly a
week.
“Tell me, Amelie, why do you come here each night?”
He thought she would not answer. But she proved him wrong.
“I come for the silence, the music and the view.” With his eyes still trained
on the keys before him, the man couldn’t see her eyes abandoning the mountain
and finding him when she said the last portion of her answer. Then she stood up
and left the room in silence.
On the seventh night, the woman sat on the piano as she contemplated the faint
columns of smoke emanating from his cigarette as his fingers played. She stared
at him, deeply. “There are just so many things I don’t know about you…”
He arched one of his eyebrows, eyes still distantly closed.
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
“Only on occasion.” He let out softly. “Do you want me to put it out?”
She laughed briefly, “No, I’m used to it.” The candor in her eyes was beginning
to speak about faces and places that were hers no more, “Gerard used to smoke –
and Jack too. I know, the super soldier, so healthy and almighty, with his
white picket fence looks and everything… the man was a fucking chimney back in
the day.” Amelie stood up and leaned her body on the piano, “I definitely
didn’t know you could play. You really are full of surprises.”
The melodies finally faded from his fingers.
“Meisa taught me when I was little.” He said, “When my father saw us playing
together one day, he asked her to give me proper piano lessons. It quickly
became routine for me, each afternoon right after training, I would come here
and learn – according to my father, my body would relax but my head would
remain focused this way.”
He wasn’t just asking for forgiveness. He was trying to recapture yet another
moment of his past that seemed destined to abandon him.
Her hands on his hands. Her mouth, brave, finally asked:
“Are you trying to rebuild an empire?”
“No.” His eyes found hers, staring back at him. “I’m only trying to rebuild my
life. Or what’s left of it.”
She cupped his face with her hands and let his head rest on her chest. The man
smiled quietly: Genji was right – not only their mother would have liked her;
she would have been able to see herself inside that woman.
“Why did you lie to me?”
Hanzo stood up and offered her his hand.
Silence found them once again, as they walked the small path separating his
room from the library.
There was something heroic about his actions. He was determined to revisit the
place where she had defeated him in order to find his redemption.
He put his hands on the sides of her waist and guided her body towards the bed
until the back of her knees felt a slight pressure, pushing her whole body
down. “I’ve never been to your room.” He whispered as he slowly began to take
off his shirt but even if the musicality of his voice was implying a question,
the cold fact behind his simple words was gradually starting to reveal and
undress a truth that knew no rhetoric. “One day, you knocked on my door and you
walked right in. You said you needed someone to talk to… You sat on my bed,
exactly like you did just now. The following day you came back, and you sat on
my bed again. This time, I sat next to you,” he went on, his voice soft and
silky, far from the roaring thunder she was so used to by now. Mimicking his
words, he sat down on his own bed, right next to her, his hands landing on his
knees, “You came back some other day, and then again, day after day. One day
you used my shower; one day you asked me if you could stay the night…” He
grinned at himself, softly, almost peacefully, “I knew you wanted to stay –
knew you would have liked to stay many, many times before that night.” Lifting
her chin with his fingers, the archer moved closer to her mouth and there he
stayed, gravitating near her, “There were some signs, carelessly scattered in
between those days and nights, that I should have seen: how you started to
dance again, how you began to express the need to share a bed again, to have
someone… to belong to someone.” He pressed his forehead against hers and closed
his eyes for a brief moment, “Then you took off your clothes, and even when I
said no I have to admit: it felt natural. That’s how the sea weathers the
stone; after all… that’s how the waters take over the shore. That’s how you
began to overcome her, to go back to being the one you were before her.” His
hands on her temples, bringing her closer – impossibly closer to him now. “And
so I asked myself, time and time again: who am I to stop her from being the one
she was supposed to be?”
She took a deep breath, leaning into his touch.
“But the problem is not that you want to be the one you were before her. The
problem is that I can’t give you what you had before her.” One of his hands
landed on her chest, the other, on his own – “From here to there, Amelie, lies
a moment of absolute terror. You want to be the one you were before – I can’t
be the one I was before. I can’t afford to be that man again.”
“I’m not trying to be the one I was before.” she whispered, “I’m some sort of
hybrid – between the ballerina and the assassin. That’s all there is to me.”
He pulled her close and grinned quietly.
“At least you were able to find yourself between light and darkness.” He said,
his eyes closed, his head on her shoulder. “When I was a child, I was afraid of
the darkness. I guess, at some point, I became the very thing I feared the
most. Still, it took me quite a while to understand: there are no monsters in
the dark – only danger.”
“You’re not darkness.” She said.
“I’m not light either.” He sentenced, only to realize that they were exactly
the same thing, positioned at the exact same place – using different words,
expressing the same thing. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry I hurt you. All
those days without you made me think that perhaps we should have been braver
than this… that night, when the dragon appeared and we kissed… we should have
saved that night in our memory. Perhaps we should have treasured it as a
milestone in our paths – but nothing more. Perhaps we should have never tried
to cross that milestone.”
“Hanzo…”
He laughed lifelessly, with a smile that never reached his eyes.
“Even that milestone ended up with your blood, Amelie.” He remembered. “I can’t
shake the feeling that, even when I’m ready to try my best, I’ll end up hurting
you all the same. Like that time. Like every single time… still, here we are.
I’m beginning to think there’s no keeping us apart.” He suffocated the air in
her mouth as he trapped her lips with his, then he stared deeply into her eyes,
“That’s why I lied to you. I don’t want you to get hurt – and Talon is out
there.”
“You think I can’t do this?”
He shook his head and lifted her chin with his fingers,
“No, I think you’re more than ready to do this. But I fear there won’t be
another try for you and me if they get their hands on you.” He was being
honest. Heartbreakingly honest.
“I thought I heard you say you wouldn’t let me go back to Talon.”
He had promised her a fight, and he had given her a fight. He had offered her
protection, and so he gave his body to hers, as he lay on his bed with her, his
arms like houses, keeping her close.
When slumber came, it still felt natural for them. To have each other. To let
go of the questioning voices in their heads.
When she fell off the bed in the middle of the night, the archer opened his
eyes and got out of bed, eager to help her back up again. But when he saw her
there, still asleep on the cold ground, in spite of the loud noise, the bump,
the ache in her bones… he couldn’t find the strength to wake her up.
He put on his black robe and walked towards the balcony. And there he stayed,
with his arms on the railing and his eyes trained on that distant mountain.
Her hands on his shoulders made him turn around, meet her gaze.
“You were gone.”
The man grinned softly at himself,
“So, falling off the bed didn’t wake you up – but my absence did.”
She smiled too, genuinely, as she rested her chin on his shoulder.
Then her eyes traveled the distance separating their balcony from the one
shared by the ninja, the cowboy and the doctor. Even when their blinds were
closed, the sounds of their love could be heard quite easily.
It took her a while to understand. The symphony of their passion was loud and
strident. What they were doing, the festival of love and lust taking place
inside that room… it was nor a feast neither a banquet.
It was a purge.
He noticed her attention was elsewhere, drifting off, venturing the cold
outside.
“It pained me, at first, to realize you had others in your life. That meant you
didn’t need me anymore.” He whispered in her ear, “But then again, I reminded
myself of who I actually was and then I thought: what a fantastic thing it is,
the fact that she doesn’t need me anymore.” He smiled briefly, before adding,
“If there’s one thing you need to know about me, it’s that I’m a very
possessive man.”
When he heard her laughter once again he turned around, placing his arms on the
sides of her waist.
“I like you.”
“But…” She said, her hands reaching out to his chest.
“No buts. I just do.” Hanzo confessed. “I like you.”
She leaned in closer to kiss him, but the man put both his hands on her
shoulders, keeping her in place.
“This I’ll say, I’ll say for the first and last time, Amelie.” He sentenced,
“You can do better than this – you can find someone better than me. You know
that, right?”
She nodded.
But kissed him all the same.
Chapter End Notes
     I'm changing the rating on this one just to be cautious.
***** Six Simple Rules Of Sex Etiquette We Are Too Afraid To Talk About *****
Chapter Summary
     The child is dead.
Chapter Notes
     So, how’s everyone doing? Fine, I hope. Just a couple things about
     this chapter that I think are worth mentioning before you guys read
     it: the first one is that all the events in this chapter happen in
     just one night, hence the tense switches. We got one very, very long
     scene with Hanzo and Amelie and, simultaneously (and written in
     present tense), two other scenes involving different characters. Just
     keep in mind that it’s all happening at the same time. Secondly, I
     know the title for this chapter might be a tad bit too suggestive,
     but know that this is not a collection of smutty scenes: I wanted to
     focus on sex, not as a physical activity per se but as an act of
     intimate socialization. Hope it shows.
     Also, I’ve added some warnings for this chapter and there’s a
     flashback, in the third section (or “Rule #3”) with very sensitive
     content.
     Feedback, as always, is greatly appreciated.
     Till next time!
                             Variations on a Theme
                                    Act VII
       Six Simple Rules Of Sex Etiquette We Are Too Afraid To Talk About
                   ________________________________________
                    “Thus: the Other’s body’s meaningful.”
                               Jean Paul Sartre
                   ________________________________________
Rule N° 1
During roleplay, never lose sight of who you are and who you are with.
For the very first time, waking up together didn’t feel strange or awkward. She
didn’t feel the need to exit his room before others could find out that they
had spent the night together and, much to her surprise, Hanzo didn’t find it
weird for her to linger a while longer as the blinds began to let some light
in.
He had gone the distance, they knew, opening up and letting her know that there
was, indeed, something between them.
“I like you” - such simple words, albeit distant from expressing a certain
feeling or a given emotion, had been enough for the both of them to understand
that something had already changed. His mouth had made sure of that.
His quiet laughter made her see that, this time, he wasn’t going to scold her
for walking around the room naked. Far from that, the archer sat up in his bed
and placed his hands at the back of his head as he watched her move around -
“What’s so funny?” She asked, barely looking over her shoulder, yet the man
shrugged innocently before answering:
“All your bruises, what are you going to tell them when they see them?”
He laughed louder than before and she smiled as well, even when the gesture was
simply trying to mock his own sense of humor.
“They shouldn’t see any of these bruises,” she retorted, “Not if I keep my
clothes on. Besides, I don’t think they will take me seriously once I tell them
I fell off the bed, don’t you agree?”
As the archer nodded his head in silence, his sleepy eyes watched her figure
disappear behind the bathroom door. Such sense of familiarity, he knew, was
something he was going to have to get used to. Contemplating life from the
comfort of his bed, Hanzo quieted the voices inside his head, the ones still
questioning the nature of whatever future they could build together - the ones
still trying to remind him of the fact that they wanted different things: he
was determined to stay in Hanamura and write a different story for the place he
still loved so much but Amelie wanted to right her wrongs and, in her mind, her
only chance to ever do that was to stay with Overwatch.
Her body found him again, as he struggled relentlessly against the many
questions plaguing his sanity. Amelie joined him on the bed again, his arms
surrounding her belly and trapping her against his warm chest. He kissed her
softly on her temple and the woman closed her eyes - Sundays were meant to
bring that state of laziness, after all.
He tried his best to fall back asleep but the task quickly became pointless and
repetitive. So he stayed right where he was, as still as humanly possible,
sheltering her body and protecting her dreams.
When she woke up, he was gone.
Day was slowly giving way to night. The birds were no longer singing their
tunes and the sun had already kissed the Earth goodbye. So she got out of bed,
covered her body with his silky, black robe and stepped out into the balcony,
her forearms landing gracefully on the railing. Contemplating the traditional
landscape of buildings and gardens before her, her mind drifted off for a
while. His bare foot tapped soundlessly against the wood - such delicacy,
immensely his, yet foreign inside a man so full of rage and violence.
She craned her neck, slightly, when his frame trapped hers from behind. Right
before her eyes, resting now on the railing, there was a large, rectangular
green box.
“Open it.”
Her hands explored the smooth surface - soft to the touch, appealing to the
eyes; emerald with a golden ribbon adorning the edges. The noble material
inside the container was equally breathtaking - black leather. The Frenchwoman
held the coat between her hands, admiring its beauty. It was stunning. It was a
testament to everlasting fashion. It was irrevocably expensive.
“I can’t accept it,” she said, “Not even if you’re trying to buy my
forgiveness, Hanzo.”
He laughed, the echo of the sound barely brushing against her earlobe.
“I’m not.” He assured.
“How could you?” Amelie said as she finally shifted inside his arms, eager to
face him, “You never even said I’m sorry.” It was pointless, she knew, his
mouth was never going to release those words.
“You ruined your coat when you entered this place for the first time,” He said,
“The least I can do for you is,”
“You shouldn’t waste your money like this,” Amelie interrupted him, her eyes
were gravely serious, “I chose to ruin that coat, it was my decision - if you
truly want to establish yourself in here, you should mind your resources more
carefully.”
He kissed her then, smiling against her lips. Her surprised eyes were beginning
to question such a reaction.
“I know we said our mother would have liked you, but when you say such things…
it gives me reason to believe our father would have liked you as well.”
They agreed on having dinner outside that very same night. Partially because
the need to get away from the manufactured peace of Hanamura was beginning to
asphyxiate them, and partially because both snipers were feeling the need to
really be alone spreading rapidly through every fiber of their beings. Hanzo
chose a small restaurant a few blocks away from Shimada Castle, a petite,
reserved habitat for lovers with less than a dozen tables and even fewer
customers.
With eyes wide open, the archer focused his attention on the beautiful woman
laughing at his jokes - the one who had been through hell but was now back, the
one he had let in. There it was, the final panoptic of colors in her palette,
all displayed before him for his eyes to see.
She was truly unique.
Yet a different color began to stain the bright kaleidoscope. A richer, deeper
shade of red. A scream of agonizing crimson.
It happened right after dinner, on their way back to Hanamura. Her long legs
stopped their march in front of that place: a small redoubt, carelessly hidden
between buildings, shamelessly exposing their sins. He had been there many
times before - the clan and its negotiations, simple vices and dark, twisted
pacts signed by sweat and blood - but her… such an elegant woman, what she was
thinking, standing motionless in front of that door? Ushering him to her side?
Embellished in the faint glow and mesmerized - with her lips about to part and
her eyes, in trance, wandering everywhere. Already crossing the frontier.
Already walking through that door.
“Do you really want to go there?” He asked, with his hand on her shoulder, even
when the expression written all over her face had already answered for her.
A nightclub.
As the bodies danced around them, all pure and bare in their rhetorical sense
of exposition, all blessed and lost, the snipers sat at a small table. He was
nervous, she could tell by his uneven breathing, his sweaty palms, his obvious
unease. With a soft hand landing on his knee, the woman tried to make him feel
that she was still there with him, albeit a big gone already. Her thirsty
throat, thriving.
Many dancers came to greet him with a rhythmically incorrect sense of education
- for the man they had known so long ago was now nowhere to be found inside
those dark eyes of his. Was he really back? Was he really that man? The younger
dancers, however, still enraptured by the eternal carnival of artificial
carnality, seemed to pay no mind to the beautiful strangers watching the show.
Silk and candlelight, mellow melodies and the intrepid smell of such sweet
poisons.
He was grateful for them, he really was. Their oblivion was refreshing.
“Could you buy me a lap dance?”
“What?” He asked, perplexed - perhaps he had misheard.
“I asked could you buy me a lap dance?” She leaned back in the chair, “I want
to know why it’s just so fascinating, you know? Why do they like it so much?
Such a cheap transgression, dear… I’d love to have a little taste.”
When he finally obliged he saw how her eyes were trying to dissect that poor
woman. As the anonymous shape danced before her like a flame that’s more than
willing to endure the coldest of nights, Amelie’s vision began to gradually
tear her apart - one limb at a time, that nameless body was now the object of
her apprehensive studies.
He watched until his eyes could no longer discern between both women.
She had successfully destroyed the Other’s real identity - she had captivated
the dancer with her eyes, had molded that shape with nothing but the capricious
wishes of her mind. When the song ended Amelie smiled, satisfied - then she
grabbed him by the hand and dragged him out of that godforsaken place, and back
into the streets. She slammed his back against the nearest wall and kissed him
fiercely - almost beastly. It took all of him to stop her before they ended up
fucking in the street - a kind of strength he didn’t know he possessed.
They somehow made it back to Hanamura that night. Miraculously. Covered in
sweat. Burning whitely in a different kind of fever.
She locked them up in his room, forced him to sit down on a chair she had
dragged to the center of the place, and commanded him to face her as she moved,
just a few feet away from his wide-eyed gaze. But the movements she had to
offer, the man promptly realized, had little to do with those of a true
ballerina - the rhythm, though deprived of all melody, seemed also emptied of
all possible musicality. The cadence, painstakingly slow, was only giving way
to nearly spasmodic moves, like reflects of some sort of an electrical impulse
Hanzo could not fully understand. The dance, finally, had been broken and
divided into numerous fragments, all of them meaningless and lacking the
required flow that must always accompany the body.
Was she nervous, he pondered, his eyes still unable to forsake her spastic
dance.
Was she doubting herself, was she melting inside her own bonfire of unspoken
desires - it all just seemed so unlike her.
She turned her back on him and began to undress. Such an image, Hanzo wondered,
would surely demand some delightful adventures from him. But then she stopped.
Cold and inconclusive, slowly receding back to the depths of her own mind. He
looked at her, as he stood up and walked around the naked woman.
Her beautiful face, slovenly yet forlorn. Furiously, she tried to push him back
to the place where he belonged. That lonely chair, like a throne she had
procured just for him.
He obliged, dubitative but calm. Then the woman tried to resume her shattered
dance by summoning shadows and shades - she made them all dance in perfect
synchronicity and they climbed every wall until the obscure waltz began to look
like an ancient ritual. She was getting ready to soar, he understood. With her
body approaching his and her unexpected pauses breathing life into her
spiritless bones, the man finally reached out and tried to touch her, his hands
landing on her hips.
But try as he might, his fingers could not command her muscles. And she could
just not obey.  
When he looked into her eyes he saw something had broken, yet the chrysalis
enveloping her form was still intact.
He was not going to see any butterflies fly that night.
He held her in his arms, then, until the music faded.
________________________________________
Rule N° 2
You can’t get what you don’t ask for.
He sees the stream of light. As a matter of fact, he is fully familiarized with
its behavioral movements by now. He has seen it many, many times.
It is already etched in his memory.
At first, the pattern is whimsical. Then it begins to flow in a more geometric
fashion, spiraling in a peculiar neon effervescence. Then it bursts into black,
and fades away.
It's always the same.
Whimsical, geometric - gone.
The device has a peculiar shape - it weights lightly on the palm of his hand
for a while, until the man lets it rest on the table. It emanates a certain
luminosity. Weirdly enough, its owner seems to travel between shadows.
That’s her name, after all, he ponders. She’s only a shadow.
“Hey, Joel,” she says, and she becomes visible. She walks towards the kitchen
counter with a poise and a cadence that can only belong to her. And he stares,
for as long as he manages, though the look in his eyes doesn’t show the
slightest sign of surprise or bewilderment.
“I told you, that’s not my name.”
He knows that, for her, identity is a joke. Still, it bothers him, the fact
that she seems unable to call him by his name.
He wants others to realize him.
“How long have you been lurkin’ in here?” He wants to know, “How many times,
Sombra?”
She doesn’t answer. Not directly, not with words. She smiles and shrugs, she
toys with him, tries to get on his nerves. But it doesn’t work, she sees it
clearly. Something’s changing inside that man.
He’s tired. Possibly bored to death. She wishes there was room for surprising
thoughts to shake her once again though, sadly, there isn’t.
“You still playin’ boyfriend and girlfriend, Joel?”
The name again. That’s not him.
He wants others to realize him.
They have met many times in the past. At first, they were just rivals, people
positioned in distant places, each of them helping balance the scales for two
different sides of the same conflict to exist. But then the encounters became
repetitive - he was an outlaw back then, and she was trying hard to fit in
amongst villains. Until Christmas, two years ago.
He was about to cross the delicate line that separates drunk from intoxicated.
All alone, leaning his body on the bar, as if trying to force gravity to stay
put. She was there, the hand behind his drinks, watching him from afar, ready
to kill the distance.
They ended up spending the night together, but their versions of that night
differ greatly.
According to her, she was just feeling lonely that night. McCree affirms that
he’s not stupid enough to believe in her bullshit - she was on a mission that
night, tracking him, spying on him. Eventually, they agreed on an ultimate
version of the story - a plausible truth placed somewhere in between their
personal truths: she was feeling lonely, but she was also spying on him. That
unified version has always seemed to satisfy their cravings - her lack of real
company, and his thirst for recognition.
She still laughs every time he brings that up. He knows her truth is the
closest approximation to what actually happened that Christmas - still she
plays along. How thoughtful…
“You still haven’t answered me, Joel - are you still playing boyfriend and
girlfriend?”
He knows her game. Knows where she’s willing to go. Still, he doesn’t answer.
“I told you, my name’s not Joel.”
She smirks, then boops the tip of his nose.
“And I told you that a name is just a name.”
“For you, maybe.” He fights back, “Maybe for you, there’s no difference between
Sombra and Olivia,” Her eyes are open wide now, but she suppresses the shock of
the surprise with a nonchalant smile, “Yes, it’s no longer a secret, y’know?”
She nods, seemingly unpreoccupied. “To me, it’s just not the same… being Jesse
or being Joel,”
“Why?”
He can’t blame her ignorance. They never really talked about themselves.
He hesitates; doesn’t really know if he’s ready to share such an intimate
secret with her of all people. But his mouth betrays him - or is it his gut?
“Jesse McCree is his mother’s son.” Her mouth is agape, she doesn’t really know
what to say, “I’m sure she wouldn’t know this Joel guy you’re always talkin’
‘bout.” For a moment she lets the sugar coming out of his mouth envelop her
almost completely, yet he’s learnt a lot from her, and he’s ready to let it
show: “I wonder why you can’t discern between Sombra and Olivia anymore;
perhaps Sombra is just that: a literal shadow that creeps up on people, tryin’
to get as close to them as possible but never quite reachin’ out to them…. or
maybe Sombra is a lot less literal than that, and you use it as a metaphor to
hide the fact that your current self is just the shadow of the one you were
before.”
His words hurt, yet she sees her own doing behind them. Their time together has
always been brief, but it seems her teachings have taken root inside the
cowboy. She’s proud - it’s only natural for them to act similarly after all:
they’re very much alike - they follow others, trying to make them see that they
are there, that they exist… they want to blend in, they want to belong - but
they stay in groups that don’t seem to represent who they truly are because
they cannot seem to be able to breathe without others.
Standing on opposite sides of the same old war - but they both know, there’s no
need to voice it out: he’s not Romeo, and she’s not Juliet.
Now it’s his turn to smile.
“Literal… metaphors… you really do have a knack for writing, Joel.” She jokes,
“That article of yours was really good, you know? You should be a writer.”
Again the name, only this time, it feels innocuous. “I call you Joel because I
don’t want him to know it’s you I’m talking about. You’re welcome.”
He tips his hat, politely. They made a promise never to speak about that man -
but he doesn’t mind her breaking it from time to time.
Time to return pleasantries...
“Several days ago, there was an issue regarding Symmetra’s sentry turrets -
they managed to register activity, but there was no-one showing in the
cameras,” he began, “I told them it was probably a bird, or a cat - a big,
black cat… but then Genji said it could be you, you should’ve seen their
faces.”
“I know. It was Amelie.” Of course, she knew.
She moves closer to him and he watches, as her fingers produce some sort of
screen. She knows everything - has recorded entire conversations. She knows
who’s there, since when and each of the roles they’re supposed to play… But it
doesn’t stop there.
“She’s feeling a little bit lonely, Jesse,” She says, “And that’s unforgivable
- I mean, she has two boyfriends after all, how can she feel lonely?”
The live feed shows Angela. The good doctor is walking around Hanamura, alone
indeed, yet her feet seem determined to find that companion she’s been missing.
It alarms him, although he has known it all along. Sombra is staring, one of
her eyebrows is raised curiously.
They both know where Angela is going.
“Let’s blame this one on Genji,” she offers, “He should be here, keeping you
company. What sort of man leaves both his boyfriend and his girlfriend
unattended like this? He should have stayed here, cowboy - if he had, you
wouldn’t be here with me now, and Angela wouldn’t be walking towards Morrison’s
room.” Her arm snakes around his neck, the man is hypnotized by the images,
“You came here looking for him, right? But every Sunday night, ever since you
got here, it’s always the same old story: the ninja disappears – doesn’t he? Do
you even know where he is?”
He shakes his head but the gesture seems more mechanical than real. He’s long
gone, his mind walking down the corridor, right beside the good doctor.
He sees her hesitate before his door - but a part of him wishes she would just
knock, and put an end to everything.
Sombra sees the pain in those eyes of his - this is not what she came here for,
she knows. As a matter of fact, running into him wasn’t part of her agenda. But
it is welcomed, anyways. It always is. The image disappears as she closes the
palm of her hand; when she opens it again, instead, there’s a list of names -
all of their names, the agents currently posted in Hanamura.
The thought crosses his mind but fades rapidly: perhaps he’s been asking all
the wrong questions but even so, he just doesn’t want to know.
“You should leave before they see you.” He suggests, with a voice that can’t be
bothered.
She looks his way, the purple light of her ethereal screen reflected on her
face.
“Do you want me to go?”
He doesn’t, they both are sure of that. He enjoys her company just as much as
she enjoys his. Yet he knows, if they were to find out about her, he just
couldn’t explain her presence there - a Talon agent, gathering intel on them,
and one of their own knowing - and not doing anything about it.
When her body starts to vanish right before his eyes the man reaches out to
her, preventing her from leaving. If she could just stay a while longer…
She says she knows just the place. An old building at the other side of the
garden, abandoned and unused.
An eerie room with no windows. Just a bed, a lamp and a mirror. And blood
stains. Dried and faded but still struggling to be remembered, across time and
oblivion.
They walk towards their new destination knowing what they’re going to do.
Urgent as always, their session shall be thrilling and dangerous, exactly like
their own nature. As they walk across Hanamura the cool night breeze caresses
his face and makes him realize that she’s not there with him - or is she? It’s
hard to trust her, he knows, but still, he hopes for the hacker to be really
there, walking side by side, sheltered by invisibility, safe from harm.
Every step is laborious and every thought is plagued by doubts - is she really
there, walking right beside him?
His mind rests when they finally reach the building - she makes herself visible
again and the man breathes, finally acknowledging his faith. Their love, as
expected, is fast and overwhelming. Intoxicating and ill-natured.
“I noticed you listed all our names - he knows exactly who is here,” he
whispers in her ear as her back arches against the mattress and her hips move
up, trying to replicate the rhythm of his body, “But I also noticed my name was
not on that list.”
She closes her eyes and breathes through parted lips - she won’t ruin the
moment, she won’t tell him why he’s worth protecting, why she’s been trying so
hard to keep him out of the conflict.
She wants to save herself the heartache - wants to avoid the moment when she
tells him to just leave it all behind and run away together and he says no.
She feels like crying but still, she can’t just let him see her in such a
state. So she vanishes in his arms and the man, with his eyes closed, doesn’t
even realize.
He doesn’t realize her. He doesn’t.
When he opens his eyes he sees himself in the mirror - fucking nothing but air,
holding on to someone who’s just not there. Only she is. He still feels her in
his arms, she’s still there, with him.
He looks away, can’t stand the image of a man so all alone, so desperate, so
needy - so damn incomplete.
He wants others to realize him.  
He’s too afraid to look, but then her fingers, visible, guide his chin upwards
and force his eyes to take a good look in that mirror - perhaps he’s not so all
alone after all yet the feeling is persistent. The void, still consumes him.
When their session comes to an end the woman dresses up again but he lingers
there, on the floor, naked and exposed, for a while longer. She gets on one
knee, kisses him gently on the lips and whispers,
“When he comes - and he will come - don’t even try to fight him, Jesse.”
Finally, his name.
He wants others to realize him.
“When he comes, you just run your ass off.” She pleads, as her shape disappears
right before his eyes.
Now he knows he’s all alone.
Now he knows she won’t be back.
________________________________________
Rule N° 3
If you’re too afraid of the answer, don’t ask.
He put his hands at the sides of her waist and forced her to sit on his lap -
and there she stayed, for a while, nuzzling her face against his chest, seeking
warmth and company. The delusions in her head had backfired once again. And he
noticed, she could see the worry in his eyes.
“What happened?” Hanzo asked, his hands rubbing her back gently. But his
ministrations only seemed to help her retreat further away from him as the
woman curled up her legs against her stomach, her hands now like claws,
capturing his neck.
It was confusing, even frustrating for him - but intimacy seemed to come with a
price for people like them. Sex was supposed to be simple after all - a
mechanical act of the body, fulfilling a primary, basal need. If feelings were
involved, then the mechanical aspects of the activity were supposed to convey
and acquire a whole new meaning - more spiritual than carnal, more devoted than
urgent.
They could check every item on that list and still, intimacy would show its
weakest face to them.
She moved upon him, but it wasn’t his body what she was seeking the most.
Perhaps an understanding, a pact of sorts. She asked him about his first sexual
experience - the question seemed weird at first for the man, still unable to
undress the thoughts raging inside her head.
“It was quick, awkward and not memorable in the slightest,” Hanzo said, visibly
uncomfortable.
Amelie smiled timidly, the color finally returning to her face, “Isn’t that
everyone’s answer?” When she laughed his lips remained a tight line that seemed
to know no comfort: her assumption was true, his description had covered the
truth for most people living in the world yet his first sexual experience had
been different - and the words he had chosen to describe it did not exactly
portray what had actually happened that night.
It had been quick, awkward and not memorable in the slightest – that much was
true. But it had also been cruel, traumatic and life-changing.
The archer let go of her, stood up, and made his way to the balcony. And there
he stayed, sitting on the cold stone floor, his eyes trained on the unreachable
horizon stretching itself before his numbed eyes. She was only trying to get to
know him; she was only trying to relate, yet the part of his past that she had
summoned was denser and darker than what she had in mind.
She joined him outside, embracing him from behind and resting her chin on his
shoulder.
“I’ve always assumed that, in case things between us progressed, there would
come a moment for me to tell you about that night,” He whispered, his eyes
still unreachable. “I’m not sure this is the right moment.”
In the last hours they had spent together, she had witnessed the existence of a
softer, lighter Hanzo. The story of the girl from the ramen shop had returned
also, making her think that even if born and raised inside the clan, perhaps
the archer had experienced love during his youth, and even the carnality of
early desires. Perhaps Genji’s words every time he would say that his brother
had lacked a sentimental education were nothing but the perception of the
Sparrow’s own struggle - he had been a playboy back in the day, perhaps the
only one with a limited version of affection had always been him.
“Hanzo, I can understand,” she said, “Growing up inside the clan, I mean… if
your father or the elders paid for you to have your first sexual experience…
that’s fine, I understand.”
He looked over his shoulder and squeezed her hands - he was grateful and
somewhat relieved to know that she seemed able to understand the peculiarities
that had plagued his life back then but he couldn’t hide the fact that the sole
idea of telling her about that night was enough to freeze the blood running
through his veins.
He feared his own story. Feared her reaction.
He feared her rejection.
“So your first time wasn’t some romantic escapade from your adolescence, then.
No forbidden romance, no…”
He shook his head, interrupting her. “Everything I now know about sex, I had to
learn on my own.” The archer said, “My father never really talked to me during
my teenage years - least of all about sex, and the clan elders didn’t help me
much either since they only saw sex as a means to an end.”
She hesitated briefly before asking, “A means to an end?”
“Reproduction.” He clarified somberly. “And, in my case, in particular,
reproduction only meant to ensure the future of the clan with a new heir.”
Hanzo turned around, his eyebrows knitted together, “A male heir… anyways, as
my brother and I grew up, there came a point when Genji began to talk to me
about sex, or at least he would try to, but I was always reticent and would
close off every time my brother would try to pick up the subject – deep down I
felt like I was the one supposed to give advice to my younger brother, not the
other way around.”
“It makes sense,” Amelie said, “Still you shouldn’t feel embarrassed by your
own experience. I’m sure the elders were pressuring you some way or another -
and you were young. You’ve been through a lot, Hanzo - don’t let that mortify
you.”
“You really don’t know.” He said, “You have no clue…”
“Then tell me,” Amelie said, but unlike her previous question, only moments
ago, when she had asked him about his first sexual experience, this time her
voice was softer, darker. With narrowed eyes, Hanzo noticed the tremor in her
diction, exposing a fear she could no longer hide, still he knew that woman was
not going to stop - he had opened all his gates for her, sooner or later she
was going to undress each and every single piece conforming his existence, the
ones he was most proud of, and the ones he could not afford to face.
He hesitated for a moment but eventually decided it would be best to just let
her in for good, and let her make her own decision – choose him in spite of the
beast he carried inside, or simply run away, and forget all about him.
“Ever since I can remember, the elders always told me about this ritual, this
coming of age ritual for future heirs. They said my father had been through it,
and his father had, too.” He said with his hands curled up into furious fists,
resting on his lap, “They kept mentioning something about my 14th birthday,
they all said it was meant to be the time when I would finally become a man - a
worthy leader for the clan.” His eyes, drenched in distant, painful memories,
were lost in the unwanted evocation. “I was rather naive back then, I honestly
didn’t understand what they wanted from me, what else I was supposed to do: I
was working hard, training my best every single day, I listened to everything
they had to say, followed their teachings - I was the heir’s firstborn…”
The woman contemplated him in silence, paying attention to his words,
suppressing her fears.
“They never said anything about this ritual - nothing too specific. But as my
14th birthday approached, nothing really happened. I saw no preparations, they
seemed to simply… not care. So my birthday finally came, I turned 14 and when
the celebration was over, I simply went to sleep thinking this ritual was just
a story the elders had used to try to scare me.”
Only it wasn’t.
Shaky fingers were holding on to her hands now, his sweaty palms revealing the
nightmare.
“I was sitting on my bed that night, tired… but I wanted to check each birthday
present one more time, when he came knocking on my door.”
Shimada Sojiro.
His father.
The leader of the Shimada Clan.
The Father’s eyes, like dark pools of knowledge, bore into the son as if trying
to find the man still sleeping in his incipient existence and the child
marvels, delighted by the image of that unbreakable man. The Father doesn’t say
much but beckons the child and Hanzo obeys, almost mesmerized by him.
His father always had that impact on him.
They walk through the gardens in silence, the Father’s hand is placed firmly on
his child’s back, guiding him forwards. But when their march comes to a sudden
halt in front of a door the child has never crossed before, the Father, once
more, chooses silence over words.
As the child disappears behind the door, the Father finally whispers: he shall
be waiting for him on the other side and the child knows - he just knows it in
his heart that the Father is not offering him his support, his words only mean
one thing: I’m not here to help you, son. I’m here because it’s my duty - I’m
here to make sure you won’t try to run away.
But running away is not an option, the child soon realizes. The room has no
windows, and his father is waiting on the other side of the door.
The child feels trapped. Knows he is trapped.
There’s a woman waiting for him on the bed. Naked. Now he understands what he’s
supposed to do - but he still doesn’t have the required skills to complete this
particular task and his mind trips in anticipation, realizing that he doesn’t
even know what he’s supposed to be anticipating.
Most kids his age were into porn - hiding magazines and articles under their
beds. But he didn’t have the time nor the interest: his mind is someplace else,
his desire is only ruled by the strict discipline of the clan.
There was one time, the child remembers instantly, when he felt brave enough
and finally decided to cross Hanamura’s main gate to buy himself a dirty
magazine - but when one of his tutors found it, he was severely reprimanded.
They said he was way too young for that kind of stuff; a true leader was not
supposed to dedicate his time to such trivial activities.
They burnt the magazine right before his eyes. They slapped him hard across the
face.
That had happened only three months ago - and so the child now asks himself:
what could possibly change in such a short period of time? What made them think
he was ready now?
The child stands petrified, his eyes unable to look forward. He feels shame,
and a part of him wants to giggle - but he suppresses it, for he knows he’s a
Shimada.
The woman waits - it’s clear she doesn’t want to pressure the child. But she
also knows that, sooner or later, she’s going to have to if the kid doesn’t
find a way to man up himself but the child surprises her, as he finally steps
forward and looks at her - she’s young, her smile is shy but he can tell she’s
experienced and that notion helps him find some peace of mind: he has heard a
lot about sexually transmitted diseases and unwanted pregnancy but he still
doesn’t have a clue how to avoid those things - at least she knows, he thinks,
she must know.
The first thought that crosses his mind is that she really is an attractive
woman. She must be in her late twenties, perhaps her early thirties; it’s hard
to tell. Then his thoughts are set adrift, and the child thinks that it’s a
good thing that she’s already naked; he wouldn’t exactly know how to undress a
woman, where to start - bras seem really troublesome, he thinks…
He feels an urge he cannot describe. Not with words. He feels a part of him is
about to leave his body - a weird sensation, around his belly: it’s warm. It’s
nearly suffocating.
His eyes are unable to look away now, as she moves around him, and her breasts
dance before him and her legs - long, almost endless… Once again he feels like
giggling and once again he represses it, the child in him that fights back the
man - his father is waiting for him outside, she feels ready, her breasts are
dancing, she smiles so beautifully and the child suddenly realizes: he’s
holding his breath - he’s supposed to breathe.
So he breathes. He takes a mouthful of air and his head is suddenly spinning.
He’s not breathing. He’s hyperventilating. The man in him, awakening from its
stupor and its lethargy, begins to overcome the child: stupid brat, get it
together…
He takes off his clothes, albeit clumsily, responding to an instinct he didn’t
know he possessed. But he can’t afford to look at his erection - she’s staring,
and even though it feels as if things are progressing as they should, he still
feels embarrassed. His own masculinity is making him blush.
The child finally reaches out and touches the woman - he’s not entirely sure
what his next move should be but a part of him is eager to find out. This
thirst, this hunger - he doesn’t know where they came from and he’s not even
sure if they can be extinguished.
From that point on, everything happens so indescribably fast that his mind and
his body find it difficult to keep up. It’s like becoming one with someone else
implies a higher level of concentration, a different type of preparation that
has nothing to do with staying sharp and focused: she’s not his enemy, she’s
one with him now. The notion, fresh and unparalleled, strikes him.
The way she moves, the sounds she makes - is his father listening? Is she
supposed to make such lewd noises? Is she having a good time? Is he doing fine?
Something is changing, he senses it coming for him, overwhelming him.
When his orgasm surprises him the child tries to capture it but he soon
realizes that it’s not meant to last: it vanishes quickly, rendering him almost
powerless - his limbs seem to have a mind of their own but this heat is
different, it consumes all of his energy; his release is messy and he asks for
her forgiveness, his cheeks turn a bright red and he feels embarrassed, once
again.
He can see that she hasn’t experienced what he has and begins to feel like an
amateur lover - he knows he’s not a selfish lover, or at least he knows he
doesn’t want to be a selfish lover, yet the child doesn’t really know what to
do to extend what he has felt only seconds ago, he doesn’t know what to do to
make her feel it too - his mind reels: is it over already? Was he good at it?
Is she going to spend the rest of the night with him?
When the Father knocks on the door, all the questions inside the child’s mind
seem to disappear. The Father calls out to him and the child leaves the bed and
dresses up as fast as he can. Before approaching the door, the child looks over
his shoulder and takes one good look at the woman - god, she truly is
beautiful. The child tells her to cover her body, he doesn’t want his father to
see her naked. Then the child wonders if he should clean up, arrange the sheets
or perhaps run his fingers through his hair - he doesn’t want his father to see
him like this, doesn’t want his father to see the mess he has just created.
But the Father doesn’t enter the room.
“When I opened the door he didn’t ask me if I was okay, if I had enjoyed it,”
Hanzo remembered, “He said that I was a man now because my body had been
awakened. I thought the ritual was over, but it wasn’t.”
The Father says it’s time for the child’s mind to wake up as well but the child
doesn’t really get it. The Father kneels down before his confused son and
offers him a sword - it’s not just any sword, the child promptly realizes: this
is a much heavier weapon than the sword he uses to train every day also, it’s
significantly larger than the one he usually gets to use during the clan’s
missions and assignments, the dragon figure that’s carved into the sharp blade
is unmistakable: this is his Father’s sword.
The child accepts the offer, although he’s not exactly sure why his predecessor
is presenting him with such an honor. The blade is sharp, it truly belongs to
its master - the beauty of the symbolism is hard to ignore.
“He ordered me to kill the woman,” The archer whispered, the throaty words
nearly inaudible, “He said something about difficulties - said that my body was
ready, but my mind was not. If I could kill the woman that had just given me so
much pleasure, if I could overcome all the voices in my head telling me not to,
then I would be the leader the clan deserved.”
The child is petrified. He can’t hear the Father’s exact words - he sees the
Father’s mouth moving, phonemes and ideas are exiting the barrier of his lips
but the child’s mind is numbed by the uncanny, hellacious request. There’s a
fog clouding his vision: the child does not understand.
The child thinks about his mother. He struggles as his mind collects a million
images of his parents - happy, together, and unmistakably enamored. The Father
has taught them - him and his younger brother - that women are the most
precious creatures: they are supposed to be cherished, respected, worshipped.
In the child’s mind, contradiction arises.
Overwhelmed and almost broken-hearted, the child shakes his head vehemently: he
won’t do it, he’s decided not to do it and, for a brief moment, his mind
wonders whether saying no to such a macabre request was the real test: he has
always listened very carefully to the Father’s teachings, maybe the man is
simply trying to make sure that the child has been paying attention to every
word he said.
When the Father pushes the child slightly against the door, deposits the sword
in his small, sweaty hands and forces him to go back inside that room, the
child suddenly understands that his father is actually expecting him to kill
the woman. Enough wishful thinking. Panicking, the child tries to remember what
his father had just told him but his mind is empty, he can only collect
fragmented pieces of information scattered carelessly here and there. He lacks
coherence, he can’t really move. He closes his eyes and tries his best to
capture his father’s words but he doesn’t seem able to see beyond his father’s
lips as they move soundlessly before him.
Father says something regarding difficulties.
He searches within, for he knows he’s more than capable of joining the dots.
He’s been training all his life for this - to be able to see the whole picture.
The child thinks, yet his conclusion is not enough to mend the bruise in his
heart. His intelligible thoughts, even if perfectly logical, are not enough to
mitigate the pain in his chest.
He sees it clearly now. The child understands: he has killed many people before
this night and he knows there’s still a lot of blood he shall spill, in time.
But the brutal lesson he’s supposed to learn tonight is trying to make him see
that there shall be times when killing someone won’t be simple. The child
understands. He suddenly does.
His precarious experience has always told him that taking a life is not right,
but as long as the clan orders it, it is his duty. So the child’s hands always
move gracefully and swiftly - he’s quick and clean, that’s how they trained
him, that’s how they taught him. Guilt does not reach the child - it never
does. Remorse doesn’t seem to touch him either. That’s what the clan has taught
him: as long as there’s a reason, taking a life is fully justified.
But the child fails to see the justification for this kill.
He understands what his father is trying to do, he knows his father is trying
to show him that, sometimes, his heart and his mind will fight in
contradiction. Still, it is not enough for the child to kill the woman.
When the Father finally closes the door, the same feeling invades the child: he
is trapped, in a room without windows, with his father waiting on the other
side of the door. His father is not there to help him. He won’t be able to
leave the room until that woman is dead. The child feels sick - nauseated.
There are questions in his head he has never asked himself before: what if that
woman is someone’s daughter? Someone’s wife? Someone’s mother?
All those people he has killed before, they were nothing but irrelevant names
on a blacklist. They had no real connection to the world, he thinks. They were
just beings of evil that the clan needed to purge. This is the first time, the
child notices, that he’s actually able to see his victim as a human being.
The feeling is not pleasant.
The feeling is confusing.
The sword is heavy against his skin but suddenly the child’s mind sees a ray of
hope: perhaps the woman knows what’s going to happen. Perhaps she has agreed to
this, like some sort of ritualistic sacrifice - he’s not entirely sure if that
alone is enough to end her life but at least he feels that if she’s been
offered an honorable death then his hands will gladly do it. He finds solace in
that thought, or at least he tries to.
But when he finally steps into the room and the woman sees the weapon resting
in his hands, the fear in her eyes makes it evident: she doesn’t know that the
child is about to kill her. She’s not ready to die, she doesn’t want to die.
Enough wishful thinking.
The child cannot give her an honorable death.
The child doesn’t want to do it, but the woman fights back. She grabs him by
the wrists, desperately, even when she knows she has nowhere to run. The child
is frightened, he knows he’s got to defend himself but he doesn’t want to hurt
the woman. Until she trips and she falls, her head colliding against the
mirror. Shards of glass cut his forearms, and he feels them prickling on his
feet.
It was an accident. The child hasn’t even pushed her, the woman simply tripped
and fell.
The child gets on one knee, her blood stains his skin. She’s not breathing. The
child cries, inconsolably, even if he didn’t kill her it’s hard to fight the
guilt consuming him. He tells her that he’s sorry, and he genuinely feels
responsible for her dark fate. If he hadn’t frightened her with his father’s
sword, if he had said no… if only he had been strong enough to say no to his
father, to say no to the clan…
In the child’s mind, a moment of complete insanity.
He sees the sword in his hands, clean, unused. The Father must have given him
the weapon for a reason - was he supposed to use it? If he was, he has failed.
He has failed.
The child wonders, in panic, what’s going to happen to him now? He cries, he
doesn’t know what to do: the wound in the woman’s head, they will know it was
not caused by the Father’s sword. What’s going to happen to him now? Is he
going to have to repeat this ritual? Or even worse: now that he has failed,
does it mean the elders won’t entrust him with the leadership of the clan?
Everything he has been working so hard to obtain, every single thing - begins
to vanish.
If he’s not the one, then, if they decide he’s not good enough to lead them -
who will take his place?
The child suffers, for he knows his younger brother shall be the chosen one.
But Genji doesn’t really want to… he doesn’t even like… The child fears as he
stares at the woman’s lifeless eyes: above all things, he doesn’t want his
younger brother to have to endure this sort of test. He doesn’t want his
younger brother to experience this pain, to embrace this desperation.
Has the woman died in vain, then? This turmoil, this pain in his chest - has it
been all for nothing?
His innocence, nearly defeated, searches for a way out - a panacea of sorts,
something to ease the pain. The child soaks the Father’s sword in the woman’s
blood, as it pools around his feet, as it tarnishes his world. Then he exits
the room, head hanging low, shoulders about to collapse.
And the headache.
“My father patted me on the back, grabbed the sword and entered the room. I
guess he needed to see it with his own eyes.” The archer reflected, “He saw the
wound and the broken mirror - then he looked at me and nodded his head in
silence. He knew I had not used his sword to kill the woman, and perhaps he
could sense that I hadn’t killed her but he did not say a word. The way he
looked at me, it was like he was trying to make a pact with me. He was not
going to say anything. Before we left, he buried his sword on the woman’s
stomach, then he retrieved it. I guess he needed that sort of warranty to make
sure the elders would not try to convince him that I had failed.” He took a
deep breath, “I failed the test. But my father didn’t care - he had chosen me.
I guess, as twisted as it might be, that it was his way of showing me that I
could count on him.”
The child embraces the Father and cries, he didn’t know this kind of anguish.
He didn’t know the human soul could feel this bad. He thinks the ritual is
over, but it is not.
His body is no longer a child’s body. He’s a man now.
And his mind, accordingly, is a man’s mind.
His spirit, about to be awakened, assumes position. The Father takes him to
another room where one of the clan elders is waiting for him. Then another type
of torture begins, as the needle penetrates his skin over and over again. The
elder wipes the child’s blood, then resumes his work - the child can see pieces
of the ancestral beast he knows he possesses as the dragon becomes art, and
begins to take form. It hurts. He cannot describe this pain with words. The
Father says that by the time morning comes, it will be over. But he’s lying: he
knows such a complex design won’t be ready in a mere matter of hours.
They feed him bread and water from time to time. He wants to sleep and forget,
but they give him no such luxuries. Night turns to day and day fades to black.
The child endures. He still endures. When he emerges from the room, the man can
no longer feel many of the things he has felt before. The ritual is complete.
The man and the beast are but the same thing.
The child is dead.
“It took me such a long time, you know?” He confessed, “To get closer to a
woman again. To get closer to anybody, really.”
A few days after completing the ritual, the Father and his son visit an ally
clan - then the son sees her, for the very first time, the one that shall
become his wife. She’s only two years old, but the Fathers seal the pact and
the son watches in silence as both kumichos shake hands - it’s done, then, they
say: by the time Hanzo is thirty, the traditional wedding will be celebrated in
the beautiful gardens of Hanamura.
Until that time, which shall arrive in sixteen years, Hanzo is going to have to
visit her once a year.
He wants to throw up.
Before departing the compound, the son takes one good look at the sleeping baby
he shall marry, in time. But instead of feeling affection while contemplating
life in the face of an innocent child, the heir can only feel a mixture of
regret, pity and disgust.
The French sniper held him in her arms, unable to see the monster. He was a
victim.
Finally, she could relate.
Finally, she had discovered that he had existed long before killing Genji.
There was another Hanzo - the real one.
The one they had killed.
______________________________________
Rule N° 4
There’s no point denying it: even if it’s been too long, your body still
remembers.
“What is it, Angela? What can I do for you?” The soldier asks after a while -
the doctor is still petrified in the center of his room. He’s starting to
regret his decision: perhaps he shouldn’t have let her in so easily. “Do they
know that you’re here?”
He doesn’t need to mention their names, they both know who he’s talking about.
She explains it vaguely: the cowboy went to the kitchen, looking for the ninja,
but he still hasn’t returned. Perhaps they’re talking things out: they know
that coming back to Hanamura has been incredibly hard for Genji, and the bond
with his brother is not progressing as they expected, the wounds from their
past are still there, haunting them.
The soldier feels the need to point out the fact that Genji seems to disappear
every Sunday night - but he doesn’t. He can see it in her eyes, the doctor is
well aware of this - so the man quietens his suspicions, and takes a deep
breath.
He’s been trying so hard to avoid this moment.
He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t really know what to say to her.
The woman takes one step closer to him and she suddenly realizes: she has told
him why she’s in his room, but she has yet to tell him what she’s looking for.
Truth is, she doesn’t even know what she’s looking for - her feet led her to
his doorstep, her hands knocked on his door even when her mind was screaming to
turn around and go back to her own room.
Still here she is, sitting on his bed, embracing her questions.
The sight of her is enough to make him tremble. He will never stop feeling
guilty.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” she says, eyes about to rain, “I can’t believe I
didn’t realize.”
She attended his funeral. Perhaps he was watching from afar, from a comfortable
distance. She will never know.
“I was in your house, Jack - I was waiting for you to return.” She remembers,
“Then I got this call.... they talked about an explosion…” She stops speaking,
the memory overwhelms her. She was no longer a member of Overwatch when he died
- he had done that much for her, Jack had convinced her it was time for her to
become a true instrument of good, instead of just being a simple tool used by
the organization. She believed in him - she believed him when he said she
belonged out there, with the people.
“You never came back to me.”
Jack closes his eyes but he can’t shake the image of his younger self, the most
reckless version of himself - nearly dead, on a bed far away from home, missing
her, imagining her. She trusted him, she had put her faith in him - the
impeccable leader, the voice guiding them forwards. He had let her down.
“I couldn’t.” Is all that he manages to say - there is no point explaining his
reasons, there’s no point telling her that he couldn’t afford the risk to drag
her down into the life of a ruthless vigilante.
She covers her face with her hands, she doesn’t want him to see her cry. But
it’s too late. He sighs, and walks up to her, wrapping his arms around her neck
and back, protecting her, like he always did.
“You were never mine to begin with, you were always Jesse’s - I simply borrowed
you when he left.” He says and, for a small fraction of a moment, there’s s
weak smile curling up his lips. He still is a handsome man, she thinks. The
type of man that could steal hearts with a look, or a smile.
But his lips are wounded, she notices. There’s a red scar that doesn’t seem to
fade in time - it divides his expressions, each and every single one of them.
It fragments his emotions, compartmentalizes his gestures. Austere and pure,
severe and kind-hearted, Morrison and 76.
“You came to me when he left, you needed someone - and I did my best, I could
have done better, I’ll give you that much,” He says, “But I always knew that
you were not meant to be mine. Still, I loved you, deeply.”
He has said too much, he knows.
“And, think about it - if back then they used to say that you were way too
young for me, what would they say now?” He attempts at humor, he knows there’s
no way out. “Look at me now, Angie - old, battered and decrepit, but you…”
Still so young, and still so beautiful.
There comes the moment he fears the most - when words cease to be relevant,
when eyes meet and silence stretches. The awkward moment, the one that always
precedes a kiss.
“This is not your room, Angela,” He whispers, “You should return - before they
realize you’re not there.” She’s still in his arms and the feeling is so
familiar he can’t even remember why he has been trying so adamantly to push her
away.
There’s no denying it.
He wants to kiss her.
And she notices - so she leans in, timidly, but he tastes differently. The
feeling persists, it spreads through her rapidly, urgently - but the taste is
different.
It’s bitter.
The scar is there, trapped between her lips, her tongue traces the pattern
diving the soldier from the vigilante - it pains her to realize that the breach
will remain forever there, separating the one she loved from the one who has
returned from the grave.
She wants more but knows her heart is not ready to take the blow. She can’t
even imagine his body - all those scars she has helped heal… how could she not
notice? How could she be so blind? Defeated, the good doctor stands up, legs
shaking in the warm aftermath of a love long forgotten. Who was she to reproach
his decisions now when he had been standing right before her all this time and
she had never even recognized him?
Perhaps, she wonders, she has already left him behind.
“You act like you owe them,” she says, hands on the door.
“I do. They took me in, trusted in me… they hear me out, come to me when they
need advice - at least, they used to.” Jack whispers softly, though his mind is
already voyaging beyond this conversation - his mind is getting ready to watch
her go. A titanic endeavor. An impossible demand.
“Who taught them that?” She turns around, hands behind her back. “Who taught
them to be kind but smart, ever ready but friendly?”
He nods, silently, and the woman finally exits his room. He whispers a nearly
inaudibleI’m sorry as her shadow leaves his sight, he’s not sure if she’s
listened, but he hopes.
Her scent lingers in the room for a while - he can still feel her in his arms.
He won’t be able to sleep tonight.
________________________________________
Rule N° 5
Leave your parents at the door.
He had chosen silence - for minutes, for hours. With his legs still stretched
before him, and his arms crossed over his chest, the Japanese sniper seemed
lost inside his own tragic memories. Eyes inspecting each building in the
compound; each flickering light in each window - life, it seemed, could not
stop to watch him grieve.
Amelie, who had stayed by his side, suddenly stood up and placed her hands on
the railing: she could see why his eyes were so busy deconstructing the scene -
Shimada Castle was beautiful. So she walked back inside the heir’s bedchamber
and emerged again, carrying a bottle of sake in her hand - she wasn’t exactly a
fan of that sort of beverage but still, she knew the archer could use a drink.
“If I had to be honest, Shimada Castle is not what I had in mind,” she said, “I
mean, when you said castle, I imagined a completely different structure, a more
traditional one - according to western culture, of course.” She sat back down
beside him and offered him the bottle. “It’s different from Chateau Guillard,
but it’s equally beautiful.”
He nodded, even when he had never been to her chateau in France. Then he
remembered: she gave up an accommodated life in the pursuit of a dream, she was
just a teenager back then, when she decided to turn her back on the path that
her parents had planned for her.
He admired her for that. If only he had had the courage to do the same…
“You never talk about your parents,” He mused, “Are they alive?”
She shook her head and snatched the bottle from his hand.
“I killed them,” No, wrong, “She killed them. My parents were Widowmaker’s
first victims.”
His mouth agape, he had no idea. Amelie brushed his shoulder gently, trying to
erase the feeling of guilt still dwelling inside that man, “Don’t be sorry, you
didn’t know. Nobody knows.” They had taken everything from her and the void was
clear inside her eyes, “When I left my home, the bond between me and my parents
was severely damaged: they didn’t even come to my wedding,” A moment of
silence, dense and obscure, “I remember, when I went back home to kill them,
after all those years of silence, I saw a picture of Gerard and me on our
wedding day downstairs. I bet that was my mother, she was the sentimental one.”
“Families are… complicated.” He knew his words were vague and inconclusive,
still, he had learned the hard way how difficult it could be for a true bond to
bloom in discord, “Every time I see Meisa’s daughters I wonder which one is my
sister.” Hanzo finally said.
Now it was her turn to look utterly surprised.
“Our mother died when Genji and I were still pretty young - by then, it was
hard for us to see the whole picture, but Meisa and my father were really close
back then. As we grew older, we realized they all knew about Meisa and my
father - I don’t know if they were in love, but at least they had each other.”
“Your father cheated on your mother?” Amelie asked, but the heir shook his head
and smiled lightly.
“I don’t think he did.” He said, “He truly loved my mother.”
“But doesn’t it make you curious? Don’t you want to know if one of them is your
half-sister?”
Hanzo shook his head again, retrieving the bottle: “A little ignorance is fine
from time to time, Amelie,” He drank in silence, eyes still lost beyond the
balcony, “Why did they make you kill your parents?”
“They thought that killing Gerard could be too much for a first mission. They
knew who I was, knew all my friends, all my relatives - maybe they thought
that, since my parents and I were on such bad terms, it would be easier for the
Widowmaker to eliminate them first.”
She tried to stand up but the sake was already blurring her vision, the
aftertaste still burning in the back of her throat. Hanzo caught her as she
stumbled, her knees touching the ground in a less-than-elegant manner.
“When I left my parents' house and moved to Paris, I started working as a
ballet instructor at a dance academy,” she said, words rolling off her tongue
clumsily, “They didn’t pay much, so I knew I had to find another way to make
money - I didn’t want to call my parents for help. One of the instructors at
the academy told me that she was making good money at a nightclub, very classy,
she said,”
A nightclub - now tonight was starting to make sense, he thought.
“Anyway, they saw me dance, they interviewed me and they hired me,” She tried
to stand up again but Hanzo kept her in his arms, “It was good money, fast
money: I can’t seem to understand what is it about lap dances, but people love
them, you know? I thought I had everything under control - until one night, a
man touched my butt for the first time and I almost puked all over the bastard.
It was nasty, really.”
“You have a nice butt,” He said, blushing almost immediately.
“I was not ready for it,” She looked into his eyes, “I don’t know what I was
thinking, maybe I thought that since I was a ballerina they were going to keep
me in a crystal box where no-one could reach me… but I was so naive, Hanzo - we
were all nobodies, trying our best in a city full of nobodies.”
He kissed her hands ever so gently.
“I don’t know how he found out, but my father came looking for me one night.”
She was trying hard to fight back the tears, “We fought for hours in the middle
of the street, until he said that I was a disgrace and that he hadn’t raised a
whore. He slapped me in the face and left me there, alone. I tried to call my
mother after that night, but she never picked up the phone, I guess he didn’t
let her.”
Hanzo let the bottle rest on the ground, far from her reach, then placed his
arms around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him,
“When time passed, and I met Gerard, I sent them an invitation, you know? I
thought that if they came to our wedding we could talk things over, be a family
again… but they never showed up.” In her mind, the image of that day, like a
dull, thick curtain of fog clouding her vision: how she waited in vain, how she
longed to see them. “You’re lucky, archer - not even Gerard knew the whole
story, I just told him that my parents had never accepted my life choices… and
still he never tried to intervene, he always respected me.”
She tried to kiss him, but the man stopped her before her lips could reach his
mouth. Her hands were already roaming his body, clinging to his clothes,
pulling him near.
“Let’s go back inside, archer,” She said, leaning on him for support. Yet Hanzo
refused, stoic.
“I don’t… I don’t think that’s a good idea, Amelie.”
“You’re stuttering.” A soft kiss landed at the corner of his mouth, “You’re
panting, archer.” Hands wrapped around his neck, and a trail of kisses down his
collarbone, “Now you’re sweating.”
The archer stood up and took her in his arms. He carried her back to his room,
and helped her get on his bed - then he turned off the light, and sat on a
chair by the window, contemplating her.
“Just do it, already,” She protested, “You’re entitled to relax every now and
then, you’re allowed to have some fun.”
The man stood up, his face hovering over hers.
A soft kiss on her forehead, a genuine smile on his lips.
“You’re entitled to that emotion Hanzo, you’re allowed to like me.”
“I do like you,” he said, “I told you that already,”
She crossed her arms over her chest like a child, protesting furiously during a
temper tantrum but it only made his smile grow wider.
“So you’re not going to do anything?”
He took off his shoes and sat back down on the chair.
“You’re drunk. And I’m not that kind of man.”
She closed her eyes, giving up.
“Thank you, Hanzo,” she mumbled, half asleep.
The heir grinned softly at himself, leaned his back on the chair, and closed
his eyes.
________________________________________
Rule N° 6
Your greatest ally and your greatest foe: you can run and you can hide, but the
morning after is always gonna find you.
When morning came, and the headache began to disappear, the woman took a quick
shower and left Hanzo’s room. She needed a coffee - perhaps she could get an
extra mug for the sleepy heir as well, she thought. The feeling surprised her
once her body was already standing at the threshold, eyes focused on the
freshly made pot resting on the kitchen counter.
The realization struck her like lighting that morning: she hadn’t cared in the
slightest if someone saw her leave Hanzo’s room. She had always been careful,
guarded - she had always minded her surroundings, making sure neither she nor
the archer would fall victims of their prying eyes, at least not until they
could figure out what was exactly going on between them. Even when they all
seemed to know, even when everyone around them had begun to speculate wildly
about the nature of their relationship.
Now they hadn’t really talked about it but perhaps talking about it was not
entirely needed. The stories they had shared had done that much for them.
She felt free - sheltered from her own monsters, the ones reminding her that
she had killed one of their friends, the ones telling her that she was supposed
to mourn him forever, like an eternal widow. Perhaps that was the key to the
flux in their emotions - she had a right to be happy again, and so did Hanzo.
When she looked over her shoulder she found Morrison sitting alone by the
window, a smoky cup of coffee resting between his hands. He looked like shit -
sleep deprived and worried.
The old man smiled quietly at her, inviting her to join him. But the woman
shook her head, refusing politely.
When he smiled again, she knew he had understood her subtle message: she was
going to enjoy breakfast with Hanzo, in his room.
Still, the same feeling of complete freedom remained by her side. She poured
two cups of coffee, even when she knew he preferred tea.
“You know, romantic relationships are not frowned upon in the organization,”
Jack said, “that rule expired millennia ago. It was an act of pure hypocrisy to
even try to keep up with it - everybody had been with everybody, and everybody
knew, so...” He stood up, and leaned his back on the wall, “The only thing we
want now, is for the members to keep a minimum sense of decorum. A bit. Just a
tiny bit.” Jack grinned softly at his own words, the light finding his eyes,
“Maybe this is what differentiates this version of Overwatch from its previous
version: I like to think this new Overwatch, although still illegal, is less
dull than the old Overwatch…” He sat down again, ready to finish his coffee,
and Amelie smiled politely, as she approached the door.
“I don’t expect you to be his widow forever, you know?” She heard him say, as
she left the kitchen.
***** Microcosms *****
      “They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.” 
                                       Scott Fitzgerald ― This Side of Paradise
Introduction.
They don’t know it yet, but their bodies shall remain as they are right now,
naked and together, for a little more than two days.
Two cups of coffee shall witness the genesis of their passion, as the liquid
grows cold and the night fades to black only to shine brightly again, come
morning.
There’ll be times when the archer shall wish she was wearing clothes - only to
undress her all over again with hands that cannot be stopped and with the
hungriest of mouths. The woman, in time, shall cover only selected parts of
that slender body of hers with the bed sheets, inviting the man into a game in
which his wishes are finally heard.
But right now, her mind is struggling to remain focused on what’s happening in
that bed.
The intense marathon of his love has only just begun, yet she has seen him
repeat the same actions over and over again - his teeth tear open the small
wrapping and then she watches as the condom rolls on, only then he slides in.
The woman appreciates the caution but still, she finds it curious. His care and
his precaution disrupt the atmosphere - for a man so wild, it seems hard to
believe.
She can’t exactly blame him - she has yet to tell him about the many scars that
Talon’s corruption has left on her body. Up until this moment, she has only
offered him an abridged version of the truth, what everyone else knows, what
everyone else has seen with their own eyes.
But the terror still spreads inside. It knows no end.
There are things she won’t ever be able to give him.
He’s almost forty now, and the ritual of putting on a condom comes naturally to
him. It wouldn’t surprise her if he had lived the life that he should have
lived - or perhaps she’s wrong, maybe she's looking at things the wrong way.
Perhaps the fact that he hasn’t lived the life others had planned for him is
the real reason why such a thoughtful gymnasia became second nature to him.
Sex in the life of a clandestine mercenary must be a nightmare, she thinks.
Always ready to walk away, never sticking around long enough to forge true,
meaningful relationships. Sex for him must have been occasional back then, the
woman ponders, the repertoire of strangers roaming that body of his must have
been peculiar, to say the least.
Or perhaps sex was the last thing on his mind during those years. That would
explain this hunger.
But he is incredibly thoughtful. Amazingly gentle. For a man with a beast
dwelling inside, his delicacy is truly unparalleled.
Another condom rolls on and the woman can’t help but appreciate the gesture.
Still, her mind wanders elsewhere, trying to deconstruct and dissect the nature
of his moves - perhaps he’s trying to protect them from STDs that are
transmitted through skin-to-skin touching. Venereal diseases surely are a
thing, she knows - so she’s grateful for his altruistic, generous protection.
The woman closes her eyes as his tender ministrations bring her back to the
reality they have just created in the microcosm that is his bed. She smiles,
tenderly, feeling lucky and terrified at the same time for she knows she shall
tell him. She knows she shall let him in for good.
-
“Morrison, can I have a word with you?” Satya said, her arms were once again
folded across her chest. She had tried to talk to him several times during the
last couple of days, and he had successfully pushed her away every single time.
If the disapproval encysted in her eyes was any indication, she was displeased
by the whole situation. And who was he to blame her? They hadn’t seen Hanzo or
Amelie in the past couple of days – but they all had heard them. The former
Strike-Commander slammed his fist hard against their bedroom door, his eyebrows
knitted together, a frown of complete frustration taking over his aged visage.
“I asked for a minimum decorum, Amelie!” He yelled, “A minimum!” Not even a
single soul in Hanamura hadn’t heard their 48-hour-long marathon of loud moans
and nearly guttural grunts.
“This will only take a moment,” The architect insisted but her words only
seemed to exasperate him even more. Jack sighed, bringing his fingers to the
bridge of his nose - the pounding headache caused by those indiscreet snipers
was becoming annoying.
“Do you really think this is a good time, Vaswani? What makes you think this is
a good time, huh?” He slammed his fist against the door again, harder than
before. When his anger didn’t find a response, the ex-vigilante simply kicked
the door out of utter frustration. “I swear to god, I’m gonna kill them both
with my own hands the second they leave this fucking room.”
The woman tilted her head to the side: she had heard stories about the old Jack
Morrison, the authoritative, short-tempered Strike-Commander of Overwatch - yet
this man standing right in front of her was definitely the real deal, easily
surpassing all rumors about his moody temper. She watched him in silence,
smiling quietly to herself as the man kept on cursing the busy lovers - yet her
eyes darkened after a while, “Are you in charge?” Satya questioned, causing the
man to turn around and look at her, “Are you the one in charge of this team?”
The woman repeated.
It was an uncomfortable question. He had assembled the team, that much was
true, but he couldn’t really tell if they still saw him as a capable,
trustworthy leader.
“I need to speak with the one who’s in charge of this operation.” Symmetra
added, “If it is you, then, I would like to request an audience.”
Jack laughed, though his smile never reached his eyes, “You don’t need an
audience to talk to me, Vaswani,” He turned around once more, his fist
colliding furiously against the door again. “Not anymore.”
An unexpected sound prevented the woman from speaking again - it was guttural,
throaty and surprisingly high-pitched for a grown man’s moan. They looked at
each other in complete bewilderment: neither Jack nor Satya could really tell
for sure if Hanzo was suffering the most excruciating pain or if he was
experiencing some sort of ultimate pleasure still unknown by the majority of
mankind.
The architect and the soldier looked down, completely ashamed to realize their
cheeks were now turning a bright red. “For the love of god,” Jack yelled,
nearly helpless, “Shimada, you’re almost forty!” He turned around and stared at
the woman still waiting for him, “And she’s no child either…”
Satya grinned awkwardly, “Perhaps you’re right, after all. I don’t think this
is the right time, Morrison.” She whispered before leaving and the man nodded
his head quickly, energetically - he didn’t know exactly what had changed for
both snipers to be professing that sort of passion now and he wasn’t even sure
if he wanted to know what had caused Hanzo's mouth to emit such a sound. But
something had changed. Something had definitely changed between them and, deep
down, he feared his words had been the cause.
I don’t expect you to be his widow forever, you know?
A new sound interrupted Jack’s train of thought - it was louder than the
previous one and, for a moment, the man could have sworn he had heard the heir
begging for the Frenchwoman to stop. But then the sound changed again, as it
turned into a far more amicable exclamation - only to die in a brutal grunt and
the sound of the bed breaking. Jack slammed his fists against the door for the
last time that afternoon, defeated.
When he turned around to leave, he saw the omnic monk floating slowly towards
him - “Are they alright? I’m not sure if they sound alright.” Zenyatta said,
the filters modeling the monk’s voice were unable to hide a peculiar sense of
uneasiness. But Jack, unable to voice a coherent answer, only shrugged as he
walked by the puzzled omnic.
The cowboy appeared then, rubbing his sleepy eyes with his one good hand,
“Is there an animal in there with them?” He asked, his imagination already
creating the most improbable and far-fetched scenarios in his head, “And they
say Genji was the kinky one...” Jesse let out softly, but Jack simply raised
his hands, feigning ignorance, and kept on walking.
                   ________________________________________
                             Variations on a Theme
                                   Act VIII
                                  Microcosms
                          (or how to tear them apart)
                   ________________________________________
“I learn a great deal by merely observing you, and letting you talk as long as
             you please, and taking note of what you do not say.”
                                  T.S. Eliot.
                   ________________________________________
I – Borrow.
After resting his head on her stomach for a short while, the archer stretched
one of his arms and opened the top drawer on his bedside table. His fingers
searched, digits exploring the tiny mess of small objects resting inside the
container but to no avail. Then he looked over his shoulder only to find her
curious stare gracing him again - only mild concern was decorating his
expressions now.
“We’re out of condoms,” He let out softly as he stood up and covered his naked
body with his black robe. Amelie tilted her head to the side only to observe
how his narrowed eyes were clearly exhibiting signs of confusion: not even
Morrison’s profanities, only moments ago, had successfully threatened the heir.
She watched him as Hanzo approached his bedroom door - but then he stopped,
hands anchored to the doorknob, eyes transfixing a question he had yet to ask.
The man turned around slowly, he seemed lost in thought,
“Perhaps I can borrow one from my brother,”
The expression, that should have sounded logical and most obvious in all its
simplicity, had been stained by the unshakable reality of a bond he himself had
tarnished. It should have been simple, after all, for a man to ask his brother
for a spare condom - yet deep inside he knew he didn’t even have the right to
do so. Even the smallest of favors, even the most trivial, insignificant thing
was too much for him.
He just couldn’t bring himself to ask Genji to do a single thing for him.
Genji had already done enough.
“Hanzo?” Amelie whispered, noticing the look of complete emptiness devouring
his eyes. The Japanese man stayed right where he was. “Hanzo, what is it?
What’s wrong?”
He moved his head from side to side, slowly, meticulously, then he said:
“I don’t even know if my brother can use a condom anymore,”
She remembered the conversation they shared on his last day in Gibraltar,
during a training session. It had been nothing but a joke to her, a poor excuse
to make him feel uncomfortable: talking about Genji’s penis, if it was human or
perhaps, inorganic, just like most parts of his new body. He hadn’t known back
then, and he still didn’t know now - She witnessed every single question taking
hold of him: all the things he didn’t know about his brother represented all
the conversations he had chosen not to have, every little thing he didn’t know
about Genji was now a missed opportunity.
No wonder both Hanzo and Genji had agreed on something: it was not working.
Their bond was not healing. The distance between them had not moved a single
inch.
He didn’t say anything, but it was clear the realization of such a powerful
truth had hit him with unprecedented cruelty: it wasn’t working because he
wasn’t even trying.
.
.
.
II - Intimate.
It took him a while to move his body towards the bed again. The questions
remained inside his brain, slowing all of his movements, and making the man
doubt himself again. Amelie received him with open arms, helping him out of the
silky robe he had just wrapped around his frame, yet she was not willing to
question why he had chosen not to ask his brother for help. She could
understand the doubt in him, and could embrace the guilt as her own - she too
knew firsthand what it felt like to be consumed by the void they themselves
have carved into others' eyes.
“Are you on the pill?” He whispered, resting his chin on her shoulder. He
couldn’t remember the last time he had dared ask that question, or who had been
on the receiving end back then, but going back to the little reality he had
forged with that woman felt like safe harbor for him, plus, he knew there was
no point in acting naive, “I know I should have asked you earlier than this,”
he added, “For that, I apologize.”
Amelie grinned politely then ran her fingers through his velvety black hair. It
could be consequentially dangerous to even try to address the idyll they were
living as a second adolescence - people like them, she knew, were not exactly
entitled to experience that sort of romantic leisure and, furthermore, she
could not forget how hard it had been for them to finally open up and get
together. If anything, this romance they were sharing was nothing short of a
second attempt at adulthood - a stage of their lives they were supposed to
build, just like architects. When the notion dawned on her, the woman realized
she would never be able to help him unless she let go of her own insecurities.
She took a deep breath, her fingers still busy, clumsily trying to curl some of
those rebel locks of his.
“Hanzo, if you’re looking for a method to avoid getting me pregnant, you don’t
have to.” Her fingers stopped playing with his hair; her eyes and ears,
curiously expecting, were already waiting for a reaction.
Hanzo shifted in her arms, a puzzled look on his face.
“They emptied me.”
From that moment on, the man began to feel a little too conscious of his own
facial expressions. He didn’t want her to think he pitied her, nor he wished
her to feel he had made him uncomfortable. It took him quite a while to find
serenity in neutrality - the muscles in his face, the ones ruling his
expressions, could not look extremely stiff - that could make her think he was
angry at her - neither could he offer her a lazy expression without the risk of
making her feel as if he didn’t care.
“I never wanted kids anyway,” Amelie clarified, salvaging his honor from the
scrutiny of her almost surgical stare, “but I guess I would have wanted to be
able to make that choice myself. Angela confirmed this to me, I can’t have
kids.”
As he retrieved her fingers from his hair in order to squeeze her hand gently,
Hanzo found himself thinking that the fact that Talon had deprived her of such
a fundamental choice was an ode to what the terrorist organization had done
with her: they had crushed her will by demolishing her mind. He could see the
correlations with what the clan had done to him but still chose not to dwell on
it.
“You never wanted kids?” He asked, “Not even when your husband was still
alive?”
“He understood,” Amelie said, “and I always thought that, perhaps, since he was
already a father, he didn’t feel the need for us to have a child because he had
already experienced what it felt like to become a parent. Besides, he knew I
was no good with children: I don’t know how to act around them, don’t know how
to speak to them… he saw it first hand, every time I would try to talk to his
little daughter - maybe he saw that, and understood that you just can’t force
that sort of connection.”
Hanzo lay on his stomach, one hand placed on Amelie’s nearest knee, the other
one underneath his own chin,
“I didn’t know he had a daughter,” He said, causing the woman to nod her head
once in response.
“I was Gerard’s second wife;” The French sniper confessed, “his first marriage
had failed because, according to his ex-wife, he was never around. When we
started dating, we had to be very discreet because they were already divorcing.
Back then he was trying to get custody of the child - but looking back at how
things ended between us, I can say I’m glad he did not get it.” Her smile was
bittersweet, “When the divorce ended we were finally free to be seen in public
as a couple - but his ex-wife wasn’t happy about it. I was much younger than
her, a ballerina… so she would always come up with an excuse so he could not
see his daughter, it was heartbreaking, really.”
“Have you seen her lately, Gerard’s daughter?” The archer asked, but the woman
only shook her head.
“How could I?” She looked down, “I killed her father, Hanzo.” He propped
himself up with his hands and pulled her closer to his chest, “This is not like
you and Genji, Hanzo: that girl should still have a father.”
“Well, it’s not entirely the same, but I’ll have you know my chances of ever
becoming a father died out the second I killed my brother,” He stopped, even
when he hadn’t planned to break the tension with a joke he had successfully
done it, “That came out wrong, sorry,” He didn’t even know he had it in him,
humor as a valid resource. “But even if my life had been different, say for
example that I never got to kill my brother, and the clan was still a reality -
I don’t think I could have done what my father did. Walking your fourteen-year-
old firstborn to that ritual… I’m not that strong. I could have never let them
cross that door.” He confessed, “But all things considered, I’ll have you know
that I’m not good with kids either. If I had stayed as kumicho, if I had gotten
married to the woman they had promised for me, I would have delayed having
children - I would have delayed it until forever if possible.”
“The elders would have forced you to,” Amelie indicated, “They would have
needed an heir to ensure the clan’s continuity.”
Hanzo nodded pensively, then he looked up at her, “I would have been a father
by now,” he realized, “If I had stayed and if I had lived the life they had
planned for me…” He was stunned by his conclusion, yet he collected himself
quickly, and shook himself out of it, “Now I’m pushing forty, I think I’d be
too old for diapers, toys, and pacifiers.”
“You’re still young…” She whispered softly, the tip of her index finger was
busy drawing circles across his chest.
“I could never look them in the eye,” He offered in all honesty, finally
opening up, “A child’s stare must be something so powerful, like a magnet
pulling you close, drawing you near. How could I endure the look in those eyes?
Always shrouded in dark clouds of shame, forced to live in the shadows of such
a monstrous man like myself? I could never be a father, Amelie. Not after what
I did to my brother.”
“Hanzo…”
“It’s true,” He said, “I could spend the rest of my life performing good deeds
and becoming a better person. Still, the blood I have spilled will stain me
forever - my own brother’s blood, it’s unforgivable.” He looked at her, “It’s
the cross I have chosen to bear, Amelie - it is also my most important duty as
a guilty man: to leave no trace in this world, to cast no shadow - once I’m
gone, I’ll be gone for good, I don’t want to be remembered, I don’t deserve to
be remembered. I won’t extend this name no further; I will not let our
bloodline contaminate this world no longer.”
She contained him in her arms just like she had done many, many times since
joining the team in Hanamura - looking past his initial coldness and rejection,
the woman felt glad she had not listened to him back then. Fueled by her own
fear of never seeing that man again, Amelie had mustered up her courage in
order to find him in his element, in order to be with him. Now it was clear the
man seemed lost in that fortress of wood and stone that his own name had carved
into his skin - still unable to swim through the muddy waters of his past,
stuck in a mixed-up present he did not seem to comprehend.
But the alluring voice of comprehension faded quickly in the air, as the woman
understood how pathetic it was for them to find solace in the coincidental
nature of all those things they had wanted to be, but could never be, thanks to
the negative impact and the systematic abuse of others in their lives. It
seemed twisted, deprived of all common sense to find relief in the arms of
someone who shared the same emptiness inside but at the same time, the sole
notion of knowing that he understood, that he felt the same way, that he had
endured the abuse was comforting, to say the least. If she had to be completely
honest with herself, the fragile peace they could find in such a deserted,
hollowed void, was frightening.
Yet it was the only thing they could do.
Holding on to each other had become the only thing they could afford to do.
.
.
.
III - Frightening Thoughts.
That afternoon, Morrison decided it was time to finally sit down and listen to
whatever Satya had to say. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly what was
making him feel so uncomfortable about the whole situation, but he knew deep
down that it had to do with the fact that Symmetra had intended to speak to the
one in charge of the Hanamura operation. While it was hard for the man to
assimilate the effects of his decreasing authority, the fact that the architect
was so adamant had somehow validated the strange position he was now occupying
- juggling power and leadership, at the cost of proper authority or
credibility.
Accessing Sojiro’s office became, then, the next reasonable movement for the
former vigilante. Hanzo wouldn’t be using the room in the foreseeable future
due to his seemingly endless love session with Amelie, besides if Symmetra was
seeking guidance or true leadership, the least he could do for her was to
remain stoic in the image of the Strike-Commander he was no more. A simple
mirage, that’s what it was, but right now, it was all he had to offer.
Sitting down on Sojiro’s legendary throne was an ode to irony - and Satya
promptly let him know as she grinned somberly at him and looked around the
stunningly impressive room.
“Does it feel weird," She hummed quietly, "occupying the place of one of your
biggest enemies?”
Morrison chose not to answer - he knew those words could hold two very
different meanings: she could be congratulating him, giving testimony of his
endurance while his enemies had fallen long ago, but she could also be implying
a certain sense of desperation, as if subtly letting him know that only a man
in such an insufferable position would have the stomach to sit so nonchalantly
in the nest of a former crime syndicate.
He could have pointed out that the symbolical throne now belonged to Hanzo,
that the heir's intentions were good and that time and the right company had
fully reformed the man. Still, Morrison refrained from doing such a thing: deep
down he knew Satya couldn’t care less about the archer or his handful of
unformed ideas about personal redemption.
“I wish to leave,” she said, “as soon as possible.” Determined to be heard,
Satya went on, “I don’t know what we’re doing here anymore, everyone’s lost
their focus. For a vacation, this has been simply too long, for a romantic
escapade with a formidable view, perhaps you failed to see that not all of us
are in a relationship.” Morrison’s mouth was agape, he knew Symmetra was not
particularly thrilled by how the mission was going, but still, her words were a
hard pill to swallow.
“This is not a romantic escapade,” He began, but the woman only smiled, and
interrupted him.
“Oh, is it not?” The sarcastic smirk on her face was hard to ignore, “I did not
come all the way from Gibraltar to listen how other people orgasm, Morrison. I
can tell you exactly how many times your friend has climaxed over the past few
days - and the love triangle taking place in the other room,” She leaned
closer, feigning innocence, “I’m sorry, is it a triangle? Am I saying it
correctly? Their novella is slightly dramatic, I’ll give them credit for that -
they yell at each other, they fight, they have sex, sometimes they just stop
talking to each other… and then there’s you.”
“Me?” Jack asked, stunned.
“Yes, you. The timid schoolboy that is constantly looking at his crush, but
every time the good doctor looks back at you, you shy away from her…it truly is
heartbreaking. So the monk and I wander around, with nothing to do and, you
know, my skills are meant to be more than a mild distraction to spice things up
between the two snipers.”
Morrison narrowed his eyes; “Well, while I do appreciate your extensive
analysis of human behavior, I still have to remind you that we are on a
mission.”
“Is that so?” The woman asked, renewing her impeccable sense of sarcasm, “Are
you certain that Talon will strike? Are you absolutely sure they will penetrate
this fortress in order to exterminate us? Because I honestly don’t believe
that’s what’s going to happen - I think they are advancing towards their goals
and no-one is trying to stop them, Morrison. I believe your strategy, or your
lack thereof, has backfired, and your stubbornness has isolated us from the
enemy, giving them time to carefully elaborate their plans and space, to
properly see them to fruition.”
Leaning back in the chair, Satya crossed her arms over her chest and broke eye
contact: she couldn’t stand the sight of a so-called leader so overwhelmed by
simple facts, struggling so pathetically not to lose his composure in front of
her.
“Now I know, since controversy has knocked on your door, that you’re
desperately seeking validation as a leader, so I won’t be sharing my point of
view on the subject with the rest of the team, I can promise you that. But
understand that while you’re trying to figure out your position, they are only
wasting their time - and the enemy can only benefit from all this.”
The aged soldier opened his mouth to protest, but no words reached the outside.
Was she threatening him? Mocking him?
“I did not join Overwatch to make friends, Morrison, I joined because I
believed in this cause, and I was eager to do my best - but you’re only slowing
us down.” She sighed, though the sound was more a symptom of her frustration
than an actual proof of any possible empathy she could feel for that puzzled
man. “Please forgive me if I’m being rude to you, but I honestly believe Amari
could do a much better job than you. At least, in this strange context that we
find ourselves in.”
She stood up, but Morrison’s stern voice made her stop before she could leave
the room.
“I didn’t say you could go,” He slammed his fist on the desk, “Sit down.”
The builder raised a suspicious eyebrow but obeyed and sat back down on her
chair, crossing one leg over the other ever so elegantly, and allowing her
hands to rest on top of her knee. Her disposition and her gestures, even when
she had already made herself perfectly clear with words, remained unreadable.
One thing was clear for Morrison: allowing Symmetra to leave Hanamura could be
dangerous - her contempt could be contagious, and others could feel tempted to
follow. The only thing he could do to keep the architect on his side was to be
frank about the whole situation, seek her help and hope she would choose to
stay.
Giving up his stentorian voice, and letting it rest for a while, the soldier
began to show himself as a much more approachable man -  his tone was now
significantly softer than before, more friendly and accessible than it had been
only seconds ago.
“Over the last couple of weeks, the mission has changed: if at the beginning we
were aiming for precaution, now we must seek discretion instead,” he began, but
the woman offered him a puzzled look.
“If the mission changed during the past couple of weeks, how come I’m only
hearing about these changes now, Morrison?” Satya inquired, “I thought I was
part of this team.”
Morrison cursed himself through parted lips, for once he just wished she would
let him speak with no interruptions. Still, the man continued, knowing too well
that he was standing on thin ice. “Angela joined us because, when we analyzed
the bodies that we found just outside Hanamura, we discovered those corpses
were not Meisa’s missing sons.” His explanation was messy, he knew he could
have done so much better than that but the woman barely gave him any time to
clarify the words he had just told her.
Satya was confused, “So you’re trying to tell me that we held a funeral for the
wrong people? You are basically telling me that you let that woman mourn her
sons, even when you knew they were still alive?" Her eyes had darkened,
"Perhaps you enjoyed playing dead for a while, but please don’t think that
comes naturally to everyone,”
“We couldn’t tell Meisa because we still don’t know if she’s involved or not -
that’s why we needed to keep quiet about it.” He said, trying to justify his
chosen course of action.
“Morrison, that is just preposterous…” The upset architect retorted, “I can
understand why you started to suspect the maid, but when you say we, who are
you referring to? Who exactly decided all this, Morrison? Who decided it would
be best to just keep a part of your own team, the team that you yourself
assembled, in the dark?”
“Amelie and I.”
Symmetra laughed out loud, sardonically, “That’s why she came all the way to
Japan, isn’t it? You’re trusting our defensive strategies to a former Talon
agent now?”
Morrison lifted his hands, defensively. It was clear Satya still didn’t trust
Amelie.
“She came looking for Hanzo, and I was already doubting the maid, her story
seemed flawed, to say the least...” he explained, “That night, when I saw her
trying to get across the garden, I told Amelie what was going on. She shared
her thoughts with me, so I heard her opinion on the subject, and we decided to
take DNA samples and to take them directly to Angela. Mercy joined us as soon
as she got the results - those men are not Meisa’s sons.” He paused, and took a
deep breath - still the scrutiny of those dark eyes contemplating his
complicated truth at the other side of Sojiro’s desk seemed unperturbed by his
version of the story. “I’ve been trying hard to find these men but all I got
are dead ends and suspiciously detailed alibis - that’s why we agreed on not
telling the maid: is she’s been acting as Talon’s liaison, she can’t know that
we know.”
The woman shook her head slowly, “But that is precisely the point, Morrison: we
don’t know - I assume Zenyatta doesn’t know a thing about...”
“McCree doesn’t know either,” This time, he was the one interrupting her. “So
now that you know, you must understand that it’s imperative for us to remain
quiet about all this.”
“No,” She refused, determined, “You must tell them - you must tell McCree and
Zenyatta. If you don’t, I’ll tell them myself - then I’ll leave, and I’m sure I
won’t be the only one.”
The man shifted in his chair, sweaty, nervous and insecure. It was unlike him.
“They will be informed, eventually. Right now my priority is to find those
men,”
“Your priority?” Satya fought back immediately, “This demands plural, Morrison,
we’re supposed to be a team - how can we act as a team if you keep half the
members in the dark? You are supposed to lead us, Morrison - still, you’re the
only one who’s actually working on this case and when you had the chance to
trust your agents, you decided to bring Mercy in...” She stood up, “Call the
others and let them know, Morrison,”
Feeling suffocated by her constant questioning, Morrison stood up as well,
“Do I need to remind you who’s in charge of this operation?” His voice was a
menace, he was at the end of his rope, the man had already burned all his
boats.
“In charge, you say…Last time I checked, nobody really trusted you - not after
the woman you trust so blindly now took of liberty of uncovering your lies,”
She spat venomously, “I didn’t know Strike-Commander Morrison, but I heard a
lot of great things about him - now this man that has emerged from the lie…
confuses authority with true leadership, mistakes validation for simple
camaraderie and the worst part is that he lacks the clarity required in order
to establish real priorities, otherwise he wouldn’t have denied half his team
just for a chance to experience again what it feels like to share a secret with
the woman he loves.” Satya let her hands rest on the desk, her shoulders
hunched forward, she was exhausted.
The man walked up to the door, “I don’t think we should continue this
conversation. I’ll gather all agents, I’ll let them know.”
“I honestly believe you’re losing focus, Morrison.” She said.
“How could I be losing focus when I’m the only one who’s actively trying to
find these men?” He fought, “Up until this moment, and even now that you know
the truth, all you do is complain and highlight other people’s mistakes when
you could be helping.”
“Complain?” She exploded, “I literally had to wait until those two had finished
having sex for you to listen what I had to say. The Jack Morrison they remember
would have kicked down that door, he wouldn’t have taken no for an answer, they
would have never dared to ignore one of your orders,”
“I’m not that man anymore,” he stated matter-of-factly, “Because if I was, you
would have never talked to me like this.”
After that, Jack stormed off, slamming the door on his way out.
.
.
.
IV - Eastern Boys and Western Girls.
By Hanzo’s request, all of Amelie’s belongings were moved to his bedroom - even
when she had only brought one suitcase with her and the rest of her stuff
remained in Gibraltar. Still, Meisa’s daughters made a whole ceremony out of
it, as they moved across the room with renewed rapidity, making sure their new
master, watching calmly from his bed, was satisfied with their choices.
Every dress in a hanger; boots and shoes arranged by pairs and even her
training attire, neatly folded, resting on a chair and ready to be used if
necessary.
Amelie was observing them too, but unlike Hanzo, she was up. She even tried to
offer them her help but the maid’s daughters kindly refused every time the
sniper would so much as try to touch one of her own garments. When everything
was in its right place, the three young women exited the room, leaving the
snipers alone again.
Amelie sat down on the bed, “What makes you so sure that your father was not
cheating on your mother? These women are not much younger than you or your
brother.”
“I told you, he loved her, he would have never cheated on her,” Hanzo began,
with a smirk on his face and one of his hands resting on the small of her back,
“I know the oldest one is three years older than me, and the other two…” He
paused and tried to remember.
“You don’t know, do you?” She joked, and the man laughed quietly and nodded his
head, admitting to his faulty memory or perhaps, his evident lack of interest.
“My mother died when I was nine years old, Genji was barely six. Remember that
time in Gibraltar when I told you about her? She had asked us what we wanted to
be when we grew old,” Amelie nodded her head silently, “That was one of the
last days the three of us got to spend together, and I remember my brother was
five or maybe six years old when that happened. I believe Meisa-sama had two
daughters back then, but I'm not entirely sure.” He placed his hands behind his
head and leaned back on the bed, “Everything we suspect happened between my
father and Meisa-sama, happened after my mother died. I remember my father
would always say that he had been through both heaven and hell in order to be
with my mother, so I don’t think he would risk it all by cheating on her -
plus, my mother had her temper too, you know?”
The woman rested her head on his chest; his hands were now on her stomach.
“My father became kumicho when he was just twelve years old,” Hanzo told her,
“My grandfather died, unexpectedly, when he and a handful of his men got
ambushed by an enemy clan. Oftentimes, my father would tell me that at least he
had been the one initiating my coming of age ritual instead of some random clan
elder - I knew, and he knew as well that it was not enough to make things
easier for me, but he hadn’t had his father back then and as years went by, I
found myself agreeing with him on this because I know if he hadn’t been there,
I would have lost my mind that night.”  Many times he had tried to imagine the
events of that night if his father hadn’t been there for him - Sojiro’s
presence hadn’t exactly eased the pain back then, but his sole complicity had
prevented Genji from having to endure the same torturous ritual that Hanzo had
unexpectedly failed.
“After he completed the ritual, my father was introduced to the woman that
should have been his wife, exactly like I was, but during one of his many trips
abroad during his youth, my father met my mother.” He was smiling now, the
retelling of the story their mother had told them so many times was
surprisingly refreshing, “They met in Sussex.”
Amelie shifted her position so that her chin could land on his stomach. She
took a good look at him, but before she could express her surprise, the archer
continued:
“Now before you make a fuss about it, let me clarify: my mother was Japanese,
just like my grandfather, her father, but her mother was British - my mother's
parents met here in Japan, but her family moved to England when my mother was
still a child because my grandfather was a merchant, and he was... well,
following the money.” He said, “My father and my mother got married in London
and my father, anticipating the scandal waiting for him back home because don't
forget that he was supposed to marry another woman, sent a letter to the clan
elders explaining that he had met the daughter of a wealthy Japanese politician
and that they had gotten married. Of course, he was lying,” Hanzo laughed, “But
the letter had been incredibly effective because the second they read it, the
elders waiting for my father back in Hanamura bought the story almost
immediately: they thought my father had been clever enough to shake hands with
the Japanese government by marrying this woman - they thought the union was
going to grant them unprecedented impunity.” He looked at her, a new smile was
curling up his lips, “Can you imagine that? A yakuza leader marrying the
daughter of a politician?”
Amelie smirked fondly at him, then asked: “But what happened to the girl your
father was supposed to marry?”
“The clan elders gave her family a very generous compensation,” Hanzo said.
“So… money?” She concluded, and the man nodded his head.
“Basically,” he squeezed her shoulders gently as he sat up on the bed, “By the
time my parents arrived in Hanamura and the elders found out that my mother was
not who they thought she was, it was already too late. They were married now,
the contract binding my father to this other woman had been officially
terminated and I was already on my way - the kumicho’s first child, yours
truly, was already growing inside my mother’s belly, so they couldn’t even
touch a hair on her head without my father’s permission.”
Amelie listened as Hanzo’s story came to an end, yet the smile on her face
faded quickly.
“It must have been hard for your mother,” she said, “she followed the man she
loved but, ultimately, she had to adapt to the Yakuza life. Once she came here,
she really didn’t have a choice.”
Hanzo looked down, “We never got to talk about it, I was a child when she died…
but I can imagine being married to an assassin slash drugs and guns dealer
can’t be easy. She was young, with child, and far away from home. Still, she
loved him, deeply… if you think it over, the men from this family seem to have
a thing for western women: even if my mother was Japanese, she had spent most
of her life in England. Take Genji and Angela, me and you…”
She slapped his shoulder, “Is that supposed to move me, archer?” Hanzo raised
his hands defensively, yet her question disarmed him completely: “Do you miss
your mother?”
He nodded in silence. A part of him was grateful life had taken her away so
soon - that way, she had not seen him going through that ritual, that way she
had not seen him taking his younger brother’s life.
But another part of him, the part that hurt the most, still wished she was
here.
.
.
.
V - Elvis has Left the Building.
Ever since the day Amelie revealed his true identity, the man has been watching
the world turn in slow motion. Trapped in the perpetual inertia, his body
struggles to move but stays right in place, only slightly pulled forward by
inertia, but never really moving on his own. His muscles seek the recoil, the
moment when every single piece is supposed to fall back into place but there’s
no trigger - his hands, empty, cannot fire.
He watches others, as they enter his peripheral vision every now and then, and
contemplates their dystopic tempos. Some seem to be trapped in the same
timeless element, like Angela and her sentimental confusion, for example, while
others like Hanzo and Amelie seem invested in a deadly speed. He wonders what
will happen once the world slows down for them too, wonders who is going to
break their fall.
As they sit around the table, he gazes at them. All those faces cannot seem to
recognize who is that man staring back at them now or who he is supposed to be
anymore - does he still represent the sepia-colored clouds of a golden era long
extinguished? Or does he stand in front of the fall of all symbols? Does he
even have a name anymore? Is he the one he was before, or is he some other
version of himself - perhaps the ruthless vigilante known as Soldier: 76, or
perhaps the reformed version of that twisted version.
Just how many versions of one man can exist at the same time? Where is the
frontier where all lines overlap and all versions melt into one mess of an
incoherent version?
Is that what he is now? An unshaped travesty of previous versions of the
original man he is no longer, all matched together and mixed up in a frantic
blender where he only acquires aspects and details of each version of himself
but never enough to become a single, conjoined human being?
As he informs them that the bodies they buried are not Meisa’s sons, he watches
as their faces change surreptitiously - some are quite vocal, like Satya,
although the woman does not act surprised. She seems proud, somehow, that the
rest of the team is finally hearing the truth from his mouth. Perhaps she
thinks the team is no longer in the dark thanks to her. Hanzo and Amelie are
trying their best to back him up, answering questions and giving explanations
no one has asked for - it seems their bond has acquired a true symbiotic nature
where they act and react as if they were the same entity.
But Angela’s questioning is silent. Her lack of reaction is fascinatingly
strident. She sees the cowboy in distress; she suffers what Jesse suffers even
when she had agreed it would best not to tell him anything. Her reproach is
mute, those big blue eyes of hers are asking the man why he didn’t warn her
that this was going to happen and the man understands her frustration, yet
there’s nothing he can do to placate the feeling. Not when Jesse stands up and
says the words none of them are longing to hear.
Jesse says he’s had enough, and they know he’s not only talking about the
mission. Still, his courtesy knows no limits, so the cowboy sticks to the most
professional aspects of his speech as if he was aware of the fact that he’s
doing them a favor by doing so.
Jesse says he’s already been there, he says he knows how the story ends.
He exits Sojiro’s office, walks back to the room he shares with Angela and
Genji, packs up his bags and finally leaves Hanamura. Yet his last words linger
in the air long after he’s gone: he says back then, a man separated the team
with secrets and lies. He says that very same man is the one leading them now.
.
.
.
VI - Our Father’s Sons.
The repercussions of the meeting were still affecting them. While Mercy had
tried her best to convince Jesse to stay, her words had been aimed at deaf
ears. The cowboy was gone, Morrison’s attempts at keeping the team together had
backfired but what hurt the most was the fact that those ones that Jesse loved
the most had been the ones keeping secrets from him.
As the doctor busied herself trying to contact Jesse, Genji went outside his
late father’s office and sat by himself under a sakura tree. Amelie watched him
in silence: for the first time since meeting Hanzo’s younger brother, he
finally seemed approachable enough - aware of others, aware of the
circumstances involving the group, but still approachable enough. His
meditation posture, without a doubt learned from the monk during the Sparrow’s
stay at the Shambali monastery in Nepal, had indeed isolated the troubled man
from the rest of the team yet something in his artificial stare was piercing -
he was waiting, perhaps, for Jesse to return or maybe, just maybe, for Hanzo to
notice the sound of his heart breaking all over again.
But Hanzo didn’t notice. The older Shimada joined Morrison for a drink, and
while the Frenchwoman was glad the archer had finally made a friend - or a
battle buddy, to be more specific, since all their conversations seemed to
revolve around strategy and tactics for both offensive and defensive maneuvers
- the lonely scene taking place outdoors was hard to ignore.
She joined him outside, sitting on the green grass right next to him and
bathing her face in the pale moonlight. Her posture had yet to be perfected;
this became crystal clear when the ninja let out a soft chuckle, letting her
know that he was well aware of her presence.
“I didn’t know if I should come over or not,” Amelie began, apologetically,
“Angela is still trying to get a hold of Jesse, but he’s not picking up his
phone,”
“Of course he’s not,” Genji said, “He’s stubborn. She should give him time -
he’ll come around... eventually.”
“You seem quite confident, and laidback..." She remarked, as her hands came to
rest on top of her knees. “How can you be sure he’ll come back?” Perhaps a
little too calmly considering the seriousness of the situation, the ninja
chuckled once again: she really didn’t know him at all.
“Laidback?” he asked, “I’m boiling inside.” The green lights from his visor
flicked briefly, “I’m not a fan of drama, you know? He could have talked to us
if he was feeling so frustrated. He didn’t have to leave; he’s a grown man, not
a teenager.”
His words were harsh. The way he had said it, it was getting hard to perceive
the romantic bond between those men.
“I don’t think Jesse was frustrated by the news,” Amelie offered, “I think he
felt betrayed by you and Angela.”
The ninja was silent. Her words had killed his. It took him a while to gather
his thoughts, then he shifted position so he could face the woman staring
intently at him.
“Hanzo once told me that I need Jesse around because he brings me back to a
time of my life when my soul was ruled by dark emotions.” He said, “Jesse does
represent that darkest portion of my life: a time when seeking revenge was my
only goal - a time for murder and blood, for self-loathing and hatred.”
The sniper put her arm around his nearest shoulder yet she removed it almost
immediately, still unable to read the complexity of his character.
“Perhaps a part of you still needs to see Jesse that way,”
“I really don’t want to talk about him.” Genji retorted.
“What would you want to talk about then?” Amelie asked, a bit frustrated to
know that, perhaps, she hadn’t been as supportive and helpful as Genji would
have needed her to be.
“You and my brother,”
“Why does everything always have to be about your brother?” The woman smirked
disdainfully but what she didn’t know was that the ninja, albeit shielded by
his armor, had already replicated her gesture.
“I told you this already - since you’ve been taking up most of his time,
perhaps I should stop trying to talk to him and just focus on talking to you
about him. You’re much more amenable than he is anyways.” Just as she had felt
back in Gibraltar, it was still intrinsically hard to tell if he was being
friendly or not. “I wish to know what are your intentions with my brother,”
Genji asked, puzzling the ballerina with such an old-fashioned expression.
The woman was staring back at him with eyes full of surprise yet before she
could even manage to conjure an answer, the Sparrow went on:
“I heard you already moved all your stuff into my parents’ bedroom - you used
to move rather slowly when I first met this reformed version of you, but now
you’re moving at a completely different pace,”
“Genji,” She didn’t know what to say. His words sounded like an accusation.
“You’ve been fucking my brother non-stop for the past forty-eight hours... and
in my mother’s bed, no less.” When he finally removed his visor, he revealed
the angry look on his face, “Are we supposed to be family now?”
“I don’t know.” Was all she managed to say. She felt overwhelmed by him.
“You know what I once said to my brother?” The Sparrow questioned her, “She
told me that she feels closer to me than she feels to you. He knew I was only
bluffing, but he understands it’s only half a lie. I think you consider
yourself the victim of your story, just like I do when I think about my own
story. You and I can relate. But there’s this other feeling, this feeling he’ll
never get to experience: the moment when you open your eyes and you have to
struggle to recognize who you are, where’s home now, what have they done to
you, what are they expecting of you…” he looked down, “When I opened my eyes, I
knew I had to end the clan - and I’m sure, the second you opened your eyes, you
just knew it in your heart - you shall be the one eradicating Talon.”
It took her a moment to find her voice.
“I will end Talon, Genji. Even if it costs me my life - I have to.” Her eyes
were filled with tears, “I still don’t understand why you have to be so bitter
all the time.”
Genji shook his head, “Guess I just can’t seem to understand why you - someone
who is exactly like me - would choose someone like my brother.”
Torn by his simple confession, the woman broke eye contact.
“I believed you when you said you had forgiven him - but I don’t think you’ll
ever be able to fully forgive your brother,” Amelie said.
The ninja took a good look at the sniper then grabbed one of her hands in his:
“Look at me,” he commanded briskly, guiding her hand to his armored chest, “You
just look at me and answer this: what if I can’t forgive him? Does it make me a
bad person?” He laughed briefly, darkly, “You must really like him, Amelie. Did
he tell you how it happened?” She shook her head, “No? Really? He didn’t tell
you about the most defining moment of our lives?”
Hanzo hadn’t told her, but she hadn’t asked him either. She wasn’t sure if she
was strong enough to endure the tale of how Hanzo had murdered his own brother,
especially if narrated in the first person by the archer himself.
“That’s a remarkably cruel thing to say,” Amelie whispered, still taken aback
by Genji’s words. “Still, I can’t understand why you have to punish me for the
mistakes your brother made. Every time we talk I feel that way: like you’re
lashing out at me because you can’t lash out at him.”
“What makes you think I can’t lash out at him?” He asked, mildly amazed by the
naïveté of her words.
“Because if you did, others would realize you haven’t forgiven your brother -
at least, not genuinely.” Amelie retorted, “All your generosity, all your good
intentions would be perceived as nothing but lies.”
He took a moment to process her arguments - he had forgiven his brother, or at
least he had embraced that elusive sense of forgiveness years ago. Still, deep
within, his feelings for his brother were in constant contradiction. A
contradiction he could not yet dominate completely.
“I’m not trying to be rude on purpose,” Genji said, apologetically, “It’s just
that I can’t wrap my head around the idea of…”
“Us?” She finished for him, "Together?"
The ninja nodded. In all honesty, he was not trying to end the discussion as
quickly and as simply as possible - his curiosity was genuine. There had always
been a transversal difference separating the Shimada brothers when it came to
women: Genji had the experience that Hanzo seemed to lack. The Sparrow had
thought about this difference many times during their youth, but the thoughts
were still there - and now that Hanzo had finally found someone, Genji’s
questioning seemed to meet no end. Well, according to every single psychologist
he had visited during his teenage years, everything could be traced back to
their predecessors.
In other words, one could simply blame everything on their parents.
“I was only six years old when our mother died. If I had to be honest, I can
barely remember her,” He said, “But Hanzo got to spend more time with her.
Maybe that’s why he’s always been thoughtful and considerate with his partners
while I was a bit more…”
“Of an asshole?” She said, “I heard you were a playboy.”
The ninja offered her an ironic grimace, then continued as if she hadn’t said
anything: “While my mother was alive, she tried her best to keep our father at
bay. She said that even if Hanzo was the heir, and he was supposed to lead the
clan one day, they couldn’t just repress his childhood – but when she died, it
was game over for little Hanzo.”
Through his teachings and his strict sense of discipline, Sojiro had forged a
future for his older son. But Genji, helpless and younger than the heir, was
completely defenseless without a mother – so Sojiro took the Sparrow and placed
him carefully under his wings, sheltering and protecting him from the rest of
clan.
“I don’t think my father was trying to divide us on purpose,” The Sparrow
considered, “but he always told me that I reminded him of our late mother –
perhaps he tried to protect her memory by protecting me and spoiling me, just
like he had done for her.” Their mother had always been a free spirit, but the
freedom that Sojiro had procured for Genji was limitless. And, ultimately, it
backfired. "When he died I became a menace: they started to say that my
rebelliousness could infect Hanzo... Of course, they had other reasons to kill
me, they weren't so nice and innocent - but I'm sure none of them would have
tried to attack me if my father had been alive. Hanzo included."
The woman looked away for a brief moment then her eyes found the ninja again.
“So, if you were your father's favorite child, does that mean that Hanzo was
more of a mama's boy?” Amelie asked.
Genji scratched his chin minutely, “Could be,”
As cruel as it was, Genji knew that Sojiro could never see Hanzo as a son. He
was a tool, and Sojiro was the one supposed to turn him into a valuable
element.
In the kumicho’s eyes, Hanzo was the heir, the one supposed to take his place
after his death so there was never room for love to bloom between father and
son – all they shared was just a very solemn sense of duty. Sojiro’s
discipline, inherited from his predecessor and the clan elders, indoctrinated
Hanzo in order to create a future leader. When they finally suffocated the real
Hanzo and replaced him with this so-called superior version of himself, it was
all over for the siblings.
“I think my father saw a student in Hanzo, a successor. But he saw our mother
in me. While Hanzo was tradition, I was rebellion, just like she had been.” The
Sparrow went on, “My shrink once told me that the clan, and by the clan I mean
almost exclusively our father, had emotionally castrated my brother. Love was
always an issue for him: in the beginning, they made him feel as though love
was only a contractual obligation – they would choose a woman for him and he
would marry her, have children with her and grow old with her. But now, after
everything that happened between us, the notion seems to be finally mutating
into something new: now he is learning that he gets to choose the one he loves.
The only problem with that is that he still feels he doesn’t deserve to be
loved by anyone – that’s why he was trying so hard to push you away; he wasn’t
just trying to protect you from Talon,” He sighed, “And that’s why I often
speak about the sentimental education that he’s always lacked. But you’re
becoming his new dogma now – in a way, I feel as if you were becoming his new
Genji: the one that breaks all his walls and allows him to visit and explore a
brand new world.” He stood up, and offered her his hand for the woman to stand
up as well, “If I were you, I would be careful though,” He warned her, “Unless
you want to end up like the first Genji.”
Her wide-eyed gaze only intensified as the Frenchwoman stood up and saw Hanzo
standing behind his younger brother.
“What are you telling her?” He asked, causing his brother to turn around almost
immediately.
And then she saw it, the current difference between them: Genji had a broken
body while Hanzo didn’t have a single scratch. But Genji’s mind was intact and
Hanzo’s was still perturbed by the sights of yesterday.
“We were just reminiscing, you know? Going through some parts of our history,
Hanzo,” The Sparrow told his older brother.
Hanzo grimaced darkly, challenging the ninja, “Which parts?”
“Mostly about our youth,” The Sparrow offered, unable to contain the venomous
thoughts running through his head, “Like that day, when you said you had the
high ground, remember?” An eclipsed smile was reflected in his eyes, “Looking
back, I should have listened to you.”
Hanzo crossed his arms over his chest – “You should have listened many times
before that day. Perhaps, if you had listened, that day would have never
happened. Still, you never listened, you just kept on doing whatever you
pleased, wasting the clan’s money, driving the clan’s cars,” he raised an
eyebrow, his tone was getting sterner by the second, “It was simple, wasn’t it?
Your mouth kept repeating that you hated the clan, still, you seemed determined
to use all of its assets for your benefit.”
“By assets I take it you mean guns and drugs?” Genji retorted, his tone
matching Hanzo's.
“You and drugs?” The archer challenged, “Don’t get me started on that topic.”
The Sparrow laughed sarcastically, “Was I the only one, brother? And since you
mentioned me wasting the clan’s money, please know that I actually did enjoy
wasting it the way I did, especially knowing where it was coming from… Now
about the cars,” He scratched the back of his neck just as if he was trying to
pretend he was uncomfortable, “More than once I asked myself, wouldn’t it be
best, to just crash this thing into a wall and be done with it? But you never
noticed that, brother.”
Amelie took several steps back, but neither Genji nor Hanzo noticed it.
“Well, unlike you, I never took pleasure in harming others.” Hanzo reproached
him yet the ninja smiled viciously at him.
“Hanzo, your woman is here, you don’t want me to talk about the things that
used to bring you pleasure and joy.” Both brothers had their backs turned to
the French sniper. Even if Genji had just mentioned her, it was clear she was
the last thing on their minds. “I had to do things for the clan, and you know
it. But you also know that I always expressed my nonconformity – I wasn’t like
you, Hanzo, I couldn’t justify everything just by claiming it was my duty.
Thinking back, I should have left…”
“But you didn’t,” Hanzo interrupted him, “You couldn’t. A part of you has
always longed for that darkness.” The older Shimada looked over his shoulder
only to realize Amelie was no longer with them. He sighed, frustrated by his
own temper.
Only then Genji looked past his brother’s shoulder and noticed her absence. He,
too, sighed helplessly.
Not only were they hurting themselves now.
But they were also hurting others as well.
.
.
.
VII - Praesentia.
Only when his back had met the mattress, he cursed himself under his breath. If
only he had paid attention every time the ninja would try to teach him how to
read kanji… now his limited knowledge of the language had led his bones to a
cheap motel in the outskirts of Tokyo. The neighborhood per se was nothing to
be remembered, and he couldn’t tell for sure whether he had paid too much for
such poor accommodation or not. All in all, he felt robbed - to say that the
room he had booked was humble was too much. But he had a bed, at least his body
language had made it clear that he needed to rest.
After contemplating the dirty ceiling above him for a long while, Jesse stood
up and stretched his red serape over the bed - he wasn’t sure if his mind was
playing tricks on him or not, perhaps the feeling was just in his head, but he
couldn’t get rid of the sensation of having several tiny little insects
crawling all over his body.
He then lay on the bed again, but sleep was not meant to come his way. Not just
yet. He could hear it coming and going, its multiple, tiny legs strolling
freely across the room. The smell, that disgusting odor they exude… in spite of
Angela telling him those horrendous creatures have no smell, he knew he nose
never lies. The smell always precedes them - certain and unavoidable.
Until his eyes found it - a small cockroach, venturing his surroundings as if
he wasn’t even there. He got to his feet and followed it, instinctively, trying
to determine if the cockroach was alone or if it had brought some unwanted
company.
The second discovery of the night, however, felt better than the first one. He
was checking under the filthy motel bed when her feet became visible - her legs
followed, then the rest of her tricky existence. He tilted his head to the
side, a bit confused by her sudden apparition. Mercy had been calling him all
night, perhaps she had been able to pinpoint his location by tracking Angela’s
failed attempts at communication, he thought. He scratched the back of his
head, doubting his own theory - technology had never been his cup of tea, he
knew.
When he saw her shape fully formed, sitting on his bed, staring right into his
eyes, the cowboy sat down on the floor before her, allowing the insect to
finally run away. Sombra smiled bitterly at him, sliding her hands across his
shoulder. Her words resounded in his head, then, “Are you still playing
boyfriend and girlfriend, Joel?”
Perhaps, Jesse considered, she had known all along. Perhaps she knew such a
revelation would be enough for him to make up his mind and finally walk away.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” He asked, but instead of reproachful, his
tone was calm.
Sombra nodded; she had made herself perfectly clear that night in Hanamura: she
had told him to run. Now, at least, she wouldn’t have to worry about him.
“I didn’t know how was I supposed to call you,” He joked, “wasn’t sure if you
would come if I left a pie by the window, or perhaps you wanted me to draw a
little purple skull by the door… I just wasn’t sure.”
In the tender bitterness of her smile, Jesse understood that there was no need
for him to explain anything to her. If she was there with him, she already knew
why he had left Hanamura. The hacker surrounded him with her arms and pulled
him close.
***** Diary of a Dead Child *****
                             Variations on a Theme
                                    Act IX
                             Diary of a Dead Child
                                  (The Rift)
                   ________________________________________
“Where have you buried your best days? Have you lived or not? Look, one says to
                 oneself, look how cold the world is growing.”
                       Fyodor Dostoyevsky ― White Nights
                   ________________________________________
                                                                           2052
                                            (Hanzo: 14 / Genji: 11 / Misaki: 2)
The dead woman keeps on visiting in his sleep. Her lifeless eyes still ask him
questions - she still wants to know why. But even if the heir begs her to leave
him alone, she just won’t go away. The glowing blue that is now imprinted on
his skin can’t seem to protect him from these nightmares. They are frequent,
recurrent and incredibly bittersweet. He thinks, every time he wakes up, that
perhaps he’s the only one left to remember the beauty that is no more. The
beauty tradition has killed in order to make him eligible.

But wasn’t he eligible already?

For the first time in his life, the heir must face a reality that makes him
feel uncomfortable: perhaps tradition doesn’t have all the answers.

He shifts in his bed, covered in sweat. He misses his old room, the one he used
to share with his brother. But after his fourteenth birthday they gave him his
own room - a man’s room, they said. Full of symbols that threaten him, possess
him and try to reinvent the spirit of the child that died a few nights ago, in
a room with no windows.

His father has asked him not to tell his brother anything regarding the ritual.
Genji is still too young to understand, he said. And while the heir is
determined to protect his younger brother at all costs, a part of him can’t
help but feel relegated to the second place in his father’s heart. He has never
felt that sort of protection from the man - everything was different when his
mother was alive, he remembers. Everything was better.

The dark hours of the night envelop his frame as the heir flexes his knees and
clutches them tightly against his stomach. He looks so small in a bed so big -
a true man’s bed. He remembers the eyes of the one that shall become his wife
but he’s unable to see the candor in that innocent stare of hers. Misaki,
that’s her name - and while her incipient identity speaks of such a beautiful
blossom, the heir fails to see the beauty in her.

The image still disgusts him: if only she could understand what their impending
union means… her life will become hell. He can’t understand why her parents
would ever want their baby girl to be dragged down into that life - he can’t
comprehend why they would force her to marry such a despicable man as himself.
The voice inside his head tells him that it was an accident, that he didn’t
kill that woman - but why does she keep asking him why, then?

Why does her distorted face have to come back to haunt him each night? Why
can’t she just leave him?

The clan elders say he can’t tell Genji about the ritual because his brother is
not meant for such greatness. They don’t care about Genji’s age, they just care
about exclusivity. The heir is the only one supposed to know the details of
such a night - the heir is the only one supposed to carry the burden of such an
atrocity. They repeat it, they tattoo the words along the scales of the dragon:
he’s the chosen one, not his brother. He’s the leader. Not his brother.

He is the monster. Not his brother.

He covers his body with the bedsheets and begins to turn and toss in a bed
that’s far too big for him. His movements represent the turmoil in his head,
but he has yet to see it. For now, it’s just another restless night though he’s
no fool: he knows the second he falls asleep, that woman will question him
again.

Her eyes will reduce his shape until he becomes a spiritless dot floating alone
in the dark. He doesn’t have the answers she seeks, or at least he knows she
won’t be pleased to hear the only thing he’ll be able to tell her:

I had to.

I had to.

I had to.

He doesn’t know whether he should be thankful for his insomnia or not. He wants
to ask his father how he made it back then, how he overcame the nightmares, the
torture, the bitter aftertaste in his mouth. Sticky sheets and screaming red,
he wants to forget.

But he knows - the real nightmare has only just begun.
===============================================================================
 
                                                                           2053
                                            (Hanzo: 15 / Genji: 12 / Misaki: 3)
A whole year has passed, and a few more weeks got piled up upon his shoulders.
Dusty days of endless training and the monotonous roar of discipline are
suffocating his agonizing childhood. Even if his age suggests he’s no longer a
kid, somewhere deep inside he still wishes for the lights of innocence to
shelter him again. Their dogma incarnates the life that waits for him, their
doctrine has emancipated his freedom by locking it up in a cage.
This cage of wood and stone speaks of a profound legacy he’s supposed to
protect - but they don’t want him to just be a simple guardian. They want him
to lead an empire, and his mind has already found peace in the notion that it
was simply meant to be. There was no escaping his fate. The sooner he made
peace with such simple truth, the better.
For everyone.
Misaki hasn’t grown too much, or at least that’s what he thinks. He fails to
see the subtle changes in the small girl that still receives him with a smile.
He wonders if she remembers who he is - it’s been more than a year now, and his
hair is longer. It cascades down his shoulders, just like his father’s. Misaki
laughs at him, and even though her words are barely there, she can’t exactly
greet him. She seems happy that he’s visiting and the heir can’t exactly
understand why - the stern look on his face should be intimidating, to say the
least, even if Genji says that the solemnity that’s always written all over the
heir’s face now is becoming annoying.
The heir is not sure if Genji knows what solemnity means, perhaps the Sparrow
has heard it somewhere, and he’s only repeating the word as if trying to absorb
it…
Something about this second visit feels different. His father decided to stay
in Hanamura and the clan elders, fully aligned with the kumicho’s point of
view, decided to stay too, granting the heir a small portion of manufactured
freedom. Only the assigned clan chauffeur was there with him, but it was only
in a figurative way since the middle-aged man was waiting for him in the car.
What kind of future leader walks in with a chauffeur anyway?
He’s nervous, but Misaki’s parents also seem glad to see him - so they grant
him even more freedom by leaving the heir alone with his future wife. He looks
over his shoulder - he still can’t understand why those people are so
interested in leaving their baby girl in the hands of such a monster.
Money and power, he remembers bitterly.
At first, he doesn’t know what to do - the baby still laughs at him, and the
sound makes him feel uncomfortable. He doesn’t know how to talk to such small
creature, and god knows he has no wish to hold her in his arms or even touch a
hair on her head. So he stands, immobile, in the center of the room and acts as
if he was completely alone: what does a baby have to offer, anyway? They can’t
exactly engage in interesting conversations, they can’t talk about the future,
or offer you a decent drink… Not that he drinks that much anyway - at least,
not yet.
There is only one thing that Misaki can offer: her silent complicity. Perhaps
she won’t even listen to the words he has to say but that doesn’t mean that the
heir has to remain silent. So he speaks to her as if she was some sort of
magical void of silence. She giggles, from time to time, giving testimony of
her age. She doesn’t talk back, she doesn’t answer - and what’s best: she can’t
understand a single word he says.
It’s refreshing, he quickly notices: he can tell her anything, and she will
only giggle in response.
It’s not entirely fulfilling, but at least he can let some things off his
chest. Like the pressure he’s been feeling lately, the nightmares that still
plague his nights and the little time he got to spend with his younger brother
in the last couple of months. Obligations and responsibilities, numbers and
teachings that have nothing to do with a fifteen-year-old boy.
When he gets back home, the heir finds Genji watching the TV on their father’s
favorite room - not so long ago, the Sparrow became addicted to a new channel
that broadcasts all sorts of retro anime and a show called Neon Genesis
Evangelion has captured Genji’s attention. So the heir walks around his brother
in silence and sits down right next to him - the show looks incredibly old-
school but the heir has to admit that it’s entertaining.
Even when Genji only seems interested in the fight scenes, the heir begins to
recognize a variety of deeper, richer questionings that the Sparrow can’t quite
comprehend yet - religion and philosophy, moral decisions and loneliness
itself.
It saddens the heir - it feels as though he’s only able to float on his own in
a sea that’s only populated by people of very polarized ages. The older ones
talk to him as if he was one of them, only he’s not. The younger ones don’t
even seem to notice him.
It seems he’s become the only fifteen-year-old boy in the whole world.
===============================================================================
 
                                                                           2054
                                            (Hanzo: 16 / Genji: 13 / Misaki: 4)
Misaki speaks and, with the arrival of her words, the heir’s so-called freedom
dies.
He can’t talk to her now like he did last year. She’s a repeating machine now -
every single word leaving their parents’ mouths, she repeats it. Clumsily, not
exactly in the most intelligible of ways, but she repeats it. Every word. Every
single word.
Her innocuous giggles have also evolved: now the young heir can’t seem to
figure out whether she’s mocking him or not. He finds her exasperating, more
than simply irritating.
He doesn’t like children. He has never thought about this before, nor has he
ever felt the need to make such a statement, but this truth resonates through
him as he leaves Misaki’s house: he just doesn’t like children.
He’s not father material. He can’t standchildren - how they lose their
innocence, how their little gestures become more and more annoying by the
second. What are they even supposed to be? Tiny adults? Smaller versions of old
people? He is not entirely sure but he does know one thing: whatever they are,
he doesn’t like them.
On his way back home his mind thinks about his brother - it strikes him as a
surprise how everything always seems to lead him back to Genji. Thank god he’s
growing - he’s still pretty much annoying, now more than ever since an early
puberty has decided to show its ugly face, but he’s his brother so he has to
put up with him and all his antics.
He’ll have time to despise Misaki when they’re older, he knows.
He misses his brother. Every passing year seems to come with a little extra
distance that the heir cannot outrun. He has lost count of all those training
hours and those days long gone thanks to yet another clan assignment. As death
becomes just another ingredient in the recipe for his unhappiness, his brother
becomes a distant, blurry image that seems destined to be forgotten before it’s
remembered.
At least their father remains stoic in his relentless sense of protection. A
couple of weeks ago some of the elders suggested it was time for the Sparrow to
go on his first mission but Sojiro told them off, and the heir was glad to know
their father was still a sensible man when it came to protecting his precious
little Sparrow. Perhaps their fates had already been decided; perhaps the blood
the dragons shall spill will run like a river - but there will be a time for
violence. For now, the heir is glad to know that the Sparrow will remain a
child for a while longer.
When the heir finally reaches home, he sees his younger brother talking to the
twins under a sakura tree - he hears the Sparrow’s voice in the distance, as he
tells them the story of how he managed to watch while one of the maids was
changing her clothes. With a toothy smile, Genji claims he has seen it all and
the twins blush and cover their mouths with their hands. They are three years
younger than the Sparrow, and while the heir laughs quietly to himself, he sees
how those two boys are afraid to ask if, maybe, that poor maid he saw was their
own mother.
They seem to understand that, even if they play together every day, Genji is
the kumicho’s son - and the thought is scary.
As Genji goes on, exposing the obvious obsession with tits he has developed in
the last couple of weeks, another maid walks up to them and indicates the twins
it’s time to go inside: the heir watches their faces as they jump in surprise,
half-happy, half-scared: Meisa has just given them a brand new sister. They ask
if they can go meet her, and Genji asks if he can go as well, but the maid only
laughs and tells the small group that Meisa-sama and the baby girl need to rest
now. 
There’s mild disappointment in their faces, but it fades away quickly as Genji
tells them yet another sassy story but, just judging by the excessive amount of
detail he offers, the heir knows he’s making it up. In the distance, the baby
cries and the sound gets carried by the tepid evening wind - the heir leaves
the garden and walks to his room thinking how ironic this day has turned out to
be.
Just as he was beginning to realize how much he dislikes children, Meisa’s baby
was entering this world.
===============================================================================
 
                                                                           2055
                                            (Hanzo: 17 / Genji: 14 / Misaki: 5)
A five-year-old Misaki visits Hanamura. This is her first time in Shimada
Castle, and her wide-eyed gaze gives open testimony of her obvious fascination:
the place is much, much bigger than the house she shares with her parents, the
gardens look beautiful in bloom and her mind can’t help but daydream about
games and afternoons basking in the sun.
This year, Hanzo’s visit has coincided with Genji’s fourteenth birthday and so,
Sojiro suggested that the little girl joined the festivities, for a change. At
first, the heir had his reservations, but the kumicho assured him there was
nothing to worry about.
It was a gesture of profound connection between father and son - one of mutual
understanding.
They haven’t shared many of those. So the heir appreciates the gesture and
meets his father halfway.
The kumicho knows what a fourteenth birthday means to a clan boy, and even if
Hanzo’s memory of his own fourteenth birthday is still vivid inside his darkest
memories, the heir knows that Genji won’t have to go through the ritual because
the clan already has a future leader in the making. At least, that’s what
logics say - and that’s what the clan elders believe.
The truth lies elsewhere. Sealed in secrecy, hidden behind the stare that
connects a father with his son.
Hanzo has failed the test - his weakness prevailed that night. Now Genji was
the one supposed to take his place. But the elders don’t know that. Sojiro has
made sure the truth stayed far from their reach. Still, the heir fears - deep
in his heart he’s afraid they’ll find out one way or another.
Perhaps that’s the real reason why he’s been spending so little time with the
Sparrow: he doesn’t want to find any trace of pity or shame inside those eyes
the second they tell him it’s time to go, face the ritual because his brother
has failed.
But the elders don’t find out and the heir breathes, finding solace in the life
of such a necessary lie.
Genji’s fourteenth birthday comes and goes. And while they celebrate and dance
and sing and drink, the elders surround Sojiro and let him know that now that
the Sparrow is finally fourteen, they see no reason for him to stay in Hanamura
while the rest of the men are sent on missions and clan assignments. The father
understands that the Sparrow has now crossed the last barrier separating his
childhood from the raw life that waits for him as an adult.
The kumicho knows what a fourteenth birthday means to a clan boy…
The kumicho knows there’s only so much he can do.
The time for violence has already started, and the Sparrow is forced to join
the clan men as they leave the compound. Blood stains his fingers, drips from
his clothes and finally takes over his infantile visions. The time for toys and
TV shows is over - something begins to die inside that child.
They can see it, they all can see it. But there’s nothing they can do about it.
The damage is done, the wonderful crystal box that used to keep him safe is
shattered now.
The father says it was time for his wings to soar freely, but Genji cannot seem
to make peace with such a peculiar concept. There’s a furious shade of red
contaminating the feathers - his wings feel way too heavy. He can fly no more.
The heir struggles in silence, though deep down he wants to grab Genji by the
shoulders and scream from the top of his lungs: how could you not see this
coming? Did you think that childhood was going to last forever? What did you
think that all those hours of training were for? How come you could never
realize what this family did for a living?
You thought we were businessmen?
Well, we are, in a way. But what type of businessmen speaks so freely about
honor?
But even if the heir feels like dying inside every time a broken Genji returns
home from an assignment, his mouth never conjures the words. Only his silence
travels the distance and envelopes the wounded Sparrow.
Yet it’s not enough. It’s never enough.
===============================================================================
 
                                                                           2056
                                            (Hanzo: 18 / Genji: 15 / Misaki: 6)
Misaki reads and Misaki writes. Vaguely, barely, but she’s getting there and
communication becomes a reality. No longer the empty vessel that could contain
the heir’s stormy thoughts, no longer the barricade of endless, senseless
repetitions. She has a voice now, a voice of her own, but it only disheartens
the heir - even if all her dolls and toys are still there, the early teachings
of her brand new tutors have already begun to shape the proper young lady they
expect her to be.
Her long path to indoctrination has sadly begun.
Now she crosses one leg over the other every time she sits, resting her hands
on her knee. Now she always minds her dress and her contagious giggles have
been replaced by a much duller grin that doesn’t allow her to show her teeth.
Proper. Cultured. Indolent.
Things back home aren’t any better. The gap between the heir and the Sparrow
keeps growing in both magnitude and meaning although some other changes have
begun to take center stage between the brothers: Genji has been making new
friends, and even if the heir thinks his brother is only trying to fill some
sort of dark void caused by his brand new role in the clan’s affairs, he can’t
help but feel envious of the Sparrow.
Evidence suggests that even if the heir is the one supposed to be getting all
the attention, Genji seems more amenable to others than the heir himself. More
accessible and laidback, more friendly and approachable.
Even more attractive than the somber heir.
New topics begin to surface during their broken conversations: the Sparrow
wants to know about Misaki, he wants to know if his brother is ready to marry.
But the heir only laughs at his brother, indicating that the girl is only six
years old. He doesn’t say that he feels nothing for her. He doesn’t say that
he’s not ready to marry. He doesn’t say that he dislikes children, that he
never wants to become a father.
Through the days of madness and chaos that the Sparrow is living, the voice of
the elders reaches the heir and they say, over and over again, that Genji is
slowly becoming a bad influence for him. Clan member during the day, party boy
during his hectic nights, the Sparrow is becoming a liability. And while Sojiro
says there’s nothing to worry about, the heir begins to see the crack dividing
his younger brother.
Genji goes on, trying to jump across the increasing distance separating him
from his brother. He wants to know if Hanzo is still a virgin - but when the
heir says he is not the Sparrow can’t hide his evident surprise. He doesn’t
understand how could his brother find the time to do such a thing - and above
all things, with whom? Hanzo has no friends, there’s literally no-one with whom
he could have experienced sex for the first time. But the heir does not add any
sort of detail, he can’t bring himself to explain how it all happened.
It’s gruesome, it’s haunting, it’s despicable.
The Sparrow says he is not a virgin either, and the heir suppresses the bitter
sense of rancor filling up his stomach, concealing the uncomfortable feeling
with an easy smile. It’s not jealousy he feels, far from it. It’s an envy so
profound he can’t even find his voice. Why does everything have to be so
different from one sibling to the other? Why life is determined to be so hard
on him while Genji seems destined to be… happier.
Genji had a childhood, but even after it ended, their father’s protection was
still there for the Sparrow. He had a freedom that allowed him to make friends
and even enjoy his first sexual experience. Every single girl in town seemed to
have a thing for him, they all wanted him. The heir was a prisoner of
discipline and duty, forced to marry someone he didn’t love, bound to the
elders and their teachings, the kumicho was a leader, not a father to him - and
sex, that distant nightmare that still haunted him most of his troubled nights
was not something he was willing to experience again.
But the heir fails to see that Genji has grown up without a mother, and he also
fails to see that in the greatest portion of the adolescence that the Sparrow
is now transiting, he’s lacking the guidance of his older brother too. He fails
to see that, unlike him, Genji was born without the certainty of being the
kumicho’s heir - he didn’t have his entire life planned out for him: he was
supposed to struggle to find his place in this world.
Past his silence, the heir perceives that something’s not quite right.
Beyond all these new experiences, something remains broken inside the Sparrow.
Then Genji says the words that Hanzo doesn’t want to hear: he has killed
someone during his last mission and sex cannot erase the feeling.
Friends are not enough to mitigate the pain.
The Sparrow seeks his brother, that distance lighthouse that towers over him
and eclipses all his colors. He says he’s afraid of the man he’s becoming -
that this taste of true power is unsettling. He cries and asks what is wrong
with him, why can’t he just adapt to this life, why does this power feel like a
thirst that won’t ever be fully quenched.
The heir holds him in his arms for a brief moment. Yet his mind, distant,
cannot seem to remember when it was the last time he has seen his younger
brother cry.
===============================================================================
 
                                                                           2057
                                            (Hanzo: 19 / Genji: 16 / Misaki: 7)
Genji’s group of selected friends gets bigger and bigger every day and, deep
down, the heir can’t help but wonder if his brother really knows the meaning of
the word selected. Their karaoke nights know no distinction between weekends
and weekdays, and the clan elders are becoming more and more upset.
They say Genji’s late for his training every single day. That he acts
distracted, that the most frivolous things seem to dominate his attention. That
he’s been drinking and having sex with a variety of strangers - and that he has
been bringing home some of those strangers, acting as if Shimada Castle was
some sort of luxury resort.
Some of them dare say that Sojiro has lost control. That the Sparrow’s erratic
behavior is getting out of hand. That the kid lacks all sense of duty and
discipline…
That he should be more like his brother Hanzo.
The heir sees his father in distress - he watches as the kumicho curses the
Sparrow behind closed doors. A part of him wants to mock the leader, a part of
him wants to tell him that it’s all his fault. That freedom must be earned,
that it shouldn't be a consolation prize. But then the feeling of guilt
overcomes him, so the heir stays quiet, and watches in silence as his father
and mentor asks himself what went wrong.
For the first time since meeting Misaki, the heir actually wants to go visit
her. He just wants an excuse to leave Hanamura, even if only for a little
while. But the moment of peace is short and agonizingly trivial. The
indoctrinated girl cannot help him. At least, not yet.
The heir goes back home, but even if the elders and his father are silent,
there are other sounds preventing him from falling asleep. A choir of moans
keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling above him, the vices of orgasms galore
taking place in his brother’s room are getting on his nerves.
Respect for the home their parents built together - such a lack of manners,
such a decaying taste for good morals.
He gets up and leaves his bed. He is determined, furious feet lead him through
the corridor. He doesn’t knock on his younger brother’s door, even when their
father has taught them to always respect each other’s privacy. His unwanted
presence, far from interrupting the Sparrow’s pleasure, only elicits a quiet
chuckle from the ninja - then he turns around, stares into the heir’s cold eyes
and asks,
“Brother, would you like to join us?”
He’s mocking him. His younger brother is making a fool of him.
Little does the heir know, but this won’t be the last time he’ll be hearing
those words from his brother, and while this unexpected first time makes him
snort and scoff nervously to the point of almost spilling his green tea, the
last time will be remarkably cruel. The last time will make his heart tremble
in desperation.
The last time will make him doubt.
As he turns around and leaves the Sparrow’s bedchamber, the lonely heir catches
a glimpse of a shadow moving inside the room - the shape is so magnificent it
forces him to stay put and stare for a while longer. The shadows belong to his
brother and his brother belongs to the shadows, as he moves and breathes and
enjoys his sexuality without any restraints. Looking down, the heir realizes
that the chains that immobilize his body are his and his alone. That the
nightmares that still plague most of his nights are his and his alone. That the
shackles around his wrists are his, and his alone.
One last thought crosses his mind - his brother’s body, the body that casts
such a magnificent shadow, is the body of a man.
The Sparrow is no longer the fragile child he still remembers.
Genji is a man, albeit a rather premature one, and the heir can only wonder how
on earth he managed to waste so much time.
===============================================================================
 
                                                                           2058
                                            (Hanzo: 20 / Genji: 17 / Misaki: 8)
Even if the heir has been feeling like an adult for a very long time now, when
he turns twenty, he finally becomes one. Legally.
There’s little time for Misaki now, and so the heir’s visits become dull and
short: a polite greeting, a silent stare, a goodbye kiss. He can’t blame the
little girl for his lack of interest: being eight years old is an intrinsically
boring situation, even for a girl who’s in the middle of a rather dogmatic race
against the clock.
Coming of age day, (a ceremony that has been celebrated in Japan since at least
714 AD, when a young prince donned new robes and a hairstyle to mark his
passage into adulthood) is held in order to congratulate and encourage all
those who have reached the age of majority, twenty years old, over the past
year, and to help them realize that they have become adults - but the heir has
already realized.
He has realized his own adulthood a long, long time ago.
There’s little controversy in his mind about this day and what it represents.
As a matter of fact, those people around him - the ones that are also entering
adulthood, still look like children in the heir’s eyes and so, he envies them
in silence, trapped in his private elucubrations.
The festivities continue during the night as countless strangers gather
together in order to visit Shimada Castle and celebrate the heir’s adulthood.
He walks among them, trying his best to blend in a sea of faces he can’t seem
to recognize. People are strange, he muses: many of them live in fear thanks to
the clan yet this occasion brings them all together and, in their eyes, he can
see the comforting closeness and the hungry proximity to power and money
shining under a blanket of stars.
Women seem to notice him now. In fact, they have been noticing him lately - as
his twentieth birthday began to get closer and closer, women began to pay
attention to the heir. They praise his velvety black hair, they admire him for
his skills and his impeccable disposition… they want to be near him, touch him
if possible, get lost in those dark eyes of his…
He begins to wonder why all these women seem so interested in him - why now. He
wonders if they like him for him or for who he is, he wonders if they like
Hanzo or if, perhaps, it’s the figure of the future kumicho the real reason why
they’ve been seeking his company. When he looks over his shoulder and sees
Genji surrounded by friends he feels the doubt grow within him - he wants to
ask his brother if he ever doubts his friends, if he’s sure they want him for
him, and not because of who he is.
When alcohol takes over, the heir loses his inhibitions. He’s free to smile and
engage in small talk with people he doesn’t really know. He laughs and even
stares at some of those beautiful women who are obviously trying to captivate
him with their charm even when they all know he has a half-baked future wife.
They don’t seem to care in the slightest but, truth be told, neither does he.
Easy company means no harm after all...
Sex finds him again, after six years of fear and regret. After the nightmares
and the screams, the time has come for the heir to break free but this brand
new freedom feels different, it tastes different, it smells different.
When the heir returns to the party, he is finally able to look at his younger
brother without getting that feeling of jealousy or envy. He has finally had a
taste of that life and even when he knows it’s only a temporary panacea he has
to admit: it felt good.
Looking over his shoulder, the heir spots the one that takes his breath away.
He doesn’t know her name, but he’s seen her many times working at the little
ramen shop just outside Hanamura. Keeping score of all her moves, her father
watches her carefully but when the man notices the heir staring at his
daughter, he suddenly begins to instigate the poor girl, trying to convince her
to go talk to the future leader of the Shimada Clan. Hanzo turns around and
leaves the party: she’s lovely, indeed, but she does not deserve the terrible
life he has to offer.
===============================================================================
 
                                                                           2059
                                            (Hanzo: 21 / Genji: 18 / Misaki: 9)
Death has decided it’s time to revisit Shimada Castle.
It arrives unannounced, surprising everyone when its unexpected dark wings
envelop the living. Meisa’s husband was found dead this morning. Father of
five, strong and hard-working Reiji has sadly passed. His heart, they say, gave
up all of a sudden.
A small ceremony is held inside Shimada Castle. They honor the one that is no
more and give their heartfelt condolences to the ones he’s left behind: three
daughters, one of them still a small child, his beloved twin boys and a wife
that doesn’t cry.
The kumicho stands by her side, holding her hand in his.
The heir wonders if, perhaps, the leader of the Shimada Clan hasn’t heard the
rumors implying an affair between him and the maid - but he finds the thought
ridiculous: his father knows everything; not a single detail escapes his sight
and so the heir realizes that, if the kumicho knows about all those rumors, he
simply does not care.
The Sparrow stands by the twins, and even if their friendship has stalled over
the years, it’s nice to see them together again, even if they’re bonding over a
tragedy.
The heir, bored and seemingly unmoved by the circumstances, walks around the
garden all by himself. There’s something fascinating about those rumors, he
thinks, and even if he’s not entirely sure if they’re true or not, even if he
doesn’t know if he positively likes the idea of his father finding love again
or not, a part of him wishes he was as brave as the kumicho.
His father had been promised to somebody else, just like he was now. But his
father had broken all rules by marrying his mother - he had deceived the clan
elders, he had managed to create the family he wanted to have, with the woman
he wanted to marry. Hanzo knew he didn’t have it in him. He would marry Misaki
and she would give him children that, in time, would find their separate ways
in life just like he and his brother have done. But if the rumors are true,
that means his father has done it again. A kumicho cannot marry another woman
after his wife dies - at least, they’re not supposed to. But here, the leader
holds the maid’s hand in front of everyone and breaks all walls, amputates all
traditions.
He’s proud of his father.
But he doubts himself. He knows he doesn’t have what it takes, he knows he
doesn’t have the guts to be the man he wants to be.
They have taught him many things - but they never taught him how to say no.
He walks by himself until the sakura trees become a blurry landscape playing
tricks on him. The stones in his path are nothing but milestones of the life he
won’t get to live. The pond finds him rather quickly, his hair in the wind
dances around his shoulders. He doesn’t know it yet, but his feet are moving as
if they had a mind of their own.
His mother waits in the valley of death. She longs to hear his voice, but his
constricted throat cannot find the way to release the words he longs to say -
how he misses her, how he wishes she was still around.
What would she think of him now?
The heir sits before her immaculate name and closes his eyes - he thinks about
Misaki, and wonders what she’ll think of him in the future when he becomes her
husband. Would she remember how he visited her each year? Would she think it
was nothing but the dictatorial course of tradition? He fears she’ll see him as
some sort of pervert - a delusional man obsessed with a child. If only she knew
he felt absolutely nothing for her…
He contemplates the process with eyelids that don’t want to see the world. He
senses the perverted nature of their bond, forcing him to witness all her
transformations: from careless child to indoctrinated lady; from girl to woman,
from woman to wife.
It’s repulsive, it’s irksome.
It’s bloodcurdling.
But still, he plays by the rules and he visits her each year and takes note of
all her changes. Just because they want him to.
They have taught him many, many things.
But they never taught him how to say no.
===============================================================================
 
                                                                           2060
                                           (Hanzo: 22 / Genji: 19 / Misaki: 10)
Misaki is ten years old, and the heir cannot believe just how much she has
grown in the last year. She’s brighter, clever, funnier and for the first time
since meeting the girl, her delightful company makes him call her young lady
and her mother blushes for her, anticipating the life her daughter has earned
just by… being born - and consequently traded, like cattle.
Livestock…
He still doesn’t feel anything for her and, deep inside, he wonders if he ever
will. He knows love is only for the brave, and he might be the future leader of
a yakuza organization but when it comes to the heart, he simply has no clue.
Genji has been trying to get him to talk about Misaki again, but to no avail.
It seems, lately, his patience is wearing thin. Every time he tries to reach
out and talk to his older brother, the heir only shies away from him, offering
only monosyllabic answers and vague explanations. He says he’s busy, says he
doesn’t have the time and Genji knows he’s only trying to avoid him because he
fails to see that even if their worlds are changing, there’s still so much they
have in common.
But the heir can’t seem to see it.
Lately the elders have been spending a lot of time with the heir - teaching him
numbers and how to properly administer the clan and the compound. Math is
exhausting, but the heir knows he needs to pay attention to these lessons. The
importance of these moments is crucial: in the future, not only his capacity
for leading the empire muscle will suffice to ensure the continuity of his
predecessors’ legacy.
Still the Sparrow misses his older brother. He has been missing him for so long
a part of him still struggles to remember what it felt like to have a brother.
Taking the seemingly petulant heir by surprise, the Sparrow tells him that he
has been seeking help from a professional. He says that he can no longer
discern between day and night, right and wrong, company and solitude. Genji
says that the woman has been most helpful so far, and that they’ve spent
several hours talking about the heir.
Hanzo trembles - is his brother so naively stupid as to tell a stranger about
their family business? Even when everyone in Japan knows that the Shimada
lineage conveys one of the strongest names in the yakuza business, the elders
still demand discretion - and so does his father.
But the Sparrow only laughs, as if he doesn’t know the man staring back at him
with eyes that can’t seem to see beyond the most obvious facts. But then he
says nothing else, and the heir thinks that perhaps, he has just lost yet
another chance to connect with his younger brother.
Why is he seeking help outside? Why does he feel the need to trust a stranger?
Why - when he’s there for him.
Is he there for him?
He doesn’t have the guts to admit it. He can’t face a truth he knows by heart:
year after year, the bond between them seems to break a little bit more. They
haven’t really talked in ages now, and while the elders say that it’s better
this way because the Sparrow’s rebelliousness might be contagious, deep down
the heir knows he has to take responsibility for his actions.
He should have done more.
He should have listened more.
He should have talked more.
But he fails to see that the Sparrow doesn’t have the time to keep up with his
silent monologues. He fails to see that his younger brother misses his voice,
not his judgmental stare. 
Genji just smiles, a mocking grin that taunts the dubitative heir.
“Do you like babysitting your future wife that much? Isn’t it a bit weird?” The
Sparrow asks, and he leaves.
===============================================================================
 
                                                                           2061
                                           (Hanzo: 23 / Genji: 20 / Misaki: 11)
Misaki stands in the middle of nowhere, facing a childhood that’s slowly
starting to leave her as she timidly takes her first steps into the bumpy roads
of teenage heaven. She’s not this, but she’s not that either, and the lifeless
expressions taking over her face give testimony of just how hard it is to grow.
And the heir understands.
Growing up has been troublesome and even traumatic for him. The years gone by
have come to represent an entire universe of missing stuff that he can never
recover. Raw experience has molded his mind, subjugating his will. Now the
headache goes wherever he goes and the tremor underneath his skin makes him
feel much older than he is.
He, too, has fallen victim of alcohol and substances - just like the Sparrow.
And while Genji needs it to fill the void, Hanzo needs it in order to face
reality: he cannot fill his brother’s void. He should. But he just can’t.
This year, Genji is the one officially entering adulthood. The celebration
makes the heir think about himself only a few years ago, back when he was just
a desired face trying to blend in a sea of countless strangers. The Sparrow’s
friends are there, all of them, they greet him and they congratulate him but
they don’t know that the second son of the leader of such a macabre empire is
about to face his darkest years.
Alone with everybody, the Sparrow dances and laughs - and speaks, but he does
not talk. Says, but he just won’t mean it.
One after the other, his companions march in a mad parade of easy pleasures.
And the heir watches, from afar, as his younger brother’s every sin becomes a
vice that can be neither repaired nor expiated.
He will trace his younger brother’s steps, and will be led down the same
corridors now bursting in profane lights. He’ll see the sparks come blazing,
aiming for him. And while their moans and their groans echo through the
decaying layers of yesterday’s tradition, each brother alone in each separate
bed, with each separate companion will drown in an ocean of complete emptiness.
The bridge between them has ceased to exist.
Now they only dance as broken shadows, always longing for the lost innocence of
a shared childhood, always bleeding the brotherly bond they could not save.
By the time the party ends, the kumicho walks up to Genji and offers him a
book: White nights, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. The Sparrow thanks his father, and
then the kumicho notices it: his younger son does not remember.
“It was your mother’s favorite book,” He says, almost brokenhearted by the
notion that his beloved Sparrow has forgotten the woman they have loved the
most.
Genji contemplates the book, as it weights lightly on the palm of his hand - he
can see the yellow pages, sees the edges that have been worn away after years
of oblivion and the symptoms that time has inflicted upon the item. Yet it’s
not enough to bring her back - her voice has faded from his memories a long
time ago.
He can’t remember her.
He can’t remember the last memory he has of his mother.
The following morning, he puts the book back on his father’s nightstand and
claims that he finds it boring, slow-paced, and terribly old-fashioned. But the
heir rescues it and once he starts reading through the pages, he can’t stop.
Because he remembers her.
Because he still needs her.
===============================================================================
 
                                                                           2062
                                           (Hanzo: 24 / Genji: 21 / Misaki: 12)
Genji is in Ibiza.
He didn’t tell anyone about this trip, nor did he care to explain why he was
leaving so suddenly but with every picture he sends the elders explode in sheer
fury and Sojiro, for the first time in his entire life, doesn’t know what to do
with his son.
Hanzo remains inalterable in his place as second-in-command. He’s the perfect
son, the perfect clan member - he’s the perfect product. Thoughtful, strong,
determined… The only one that stands when everything else falls down.
And down they fall.
Sojiro looks at his older son like a caged animal that’s about to be devoured
by the most gruesome of beasts. And the elders are relentless in their witch
hunt, pointing out every flaw and picking on the weak. The clan leader tries to
defend his younger son by stating that even if Genji’s behavior has been
questionable, he still is one of the most important members of the clan.
He is his son. They cannot touch him.
He’s getting tired of this, so his voice becomes loud and clear: as long as he
lives, no-one shall question his beloved Sparrow.
Hanzo works harder during Genji’s unexpected absence. He fills in for his
brother in missions that don’t require his presence, runs all his errands, and
completes his every task. He knows Genji won’t appreciate the gesture and,
perhaps, he won’t even say thank you - but at least he’s trying.
Misaki understands why this year’s visit is so brief - the heir has been
incredibly busy lately, and while Genji is gone and partying someplace else, he
needs to make sure that nothing comes in the way of their family business.
Until one night, Hanzo’s phone rings and the sky turns a shade darker. One of
his brother’s closest friends is asking him to come pick him up at the airport.
Alone. And discreetly.
Genji has ODed on their flight back to Japan.
He’s rushed to the hospital and while the doctors try their best to save his
life, Hanzo weights their name down upon the cops waiting for the Sparrow to
regain consciousness. It’s a good thing they’re feared, the heir thinks. It’s a
good thing they rule the entire city.
He should be so furious right now… but he’s not.
His worry blinds him.
One by one, the Sparrow’s friends leave the hospital. It seems that an
unconscious Genji is not entertaining enough for them. Hanzo remembers their
names, and commits their faces to memory: they don’t deserve his brother’s
affection but if he has to be honest, neither does he.
He sits by the Sparrow’s bed, once the doctors say he’s been stabilized, and
waits ever so patiently for those young eyes to find him again. It takes longer
than expected and the wait quickly becomes torture - there’s just so much he
wants to say to him.
But when the Sparrow opens his eyes and finds his brother waiting for him, he
breaks down and cries like a helpless child and so all of Hanzo’s words are put
on hold again. The heir promises his brother that he won’t say a word about it,
that he’ll make sure the elders never find out about this and Genji listens and
nods his head, appreciating the gesture.
As the IV drip gives his brother the substance he lacks, the heir’s heartbeat
quiets in the middle of his chest and for the first time that night he breathes
out.
They both have hit rock bottom. Now the only way out is up.
===============================================================================
 
                                                                           2063
                                           (Hanzo: 25 / Genji: 22 / Misaki: 13)
It is safe to say that after the incident, the brothers have found peace in
each other’s silence. While Hanzo stayed true to his words, Genji understood
that the least he could do to repay the favor was to pretend his life wasn’t so
miserable. So he joins his older brother and becomes the perfect son, the
perfect clan member. Thoughtful, strong, determined…
They still don’t talk as much as they should, but at least Hanzo has recently
shown him a picture of Misaki and the Sparrow congratulates his older brother -
although little does he know that the last thing his brother wants is to be
congratulated.
Five years.
Five years until their wedding day becomes a reality. Five years until his last
dream dies.
Such a slow agony for the soul… The period of time he’s meant to wait seems
capricious and inconclusive: is it too long? Is it too short? What’s life going
to be like in five years’ time? Will he change during those years? He breathes
out and realizes that, for example, five years ago he was entering legal
adulthood. Five years ago he was welcoming sex as yet another part of his life
- a part finally dispossessed of the nightmares and the trauma.
His silent tribulations don’t reach the Sparrow. His younger brother is staring
intently at him, as if trying to deconstruct his every thought with nothing but
the powerful magnet of his eyes.
But then he looks down, and Hanzo knows that even if his brother is trying his
best, he’s clearly losing the battle. He’s becoming a machine: the perfect clan
assassin during the day, the perfect playboy during the night. Excesses are
knocking on his door again and the heir worries once more - he almost lost him
once, not so long ago…
“Some of the elders saw me the other night, making out with a guy.” The Sparrow
says and Hanzo shrugs his shoulders in a rather innocent manner - they all know
Genji has been with both boys and girls.
But the heir has once more misinterpreted his younger brother’s words - Genji
does not care about the elders, it’s the boy he likes the one that actually
worries him.
“The elders have tried and will keep on trying to find arguments against you,”
Hanzo says, “But father knows, so you’ll be fine. There’s nothing to worry
about.”
Only there is - and his brother is not asking for his opinion as future
kumicho. He just wants him to listen.
“I like him.” The words are so simple yet they carry so much meaning that the
heir doesn’t know what to say in response. “I really like him.”
“Well, of course you do. Otherwise you wouldn’t be with him in the first
place.”
Genji doesn’t want to fight, that’s why he doesn’t ask his older brother how he
of all people could say such a thing. He, the one who was being forced to watch
Misaki, a woman that means nothing to him, grow under the inescapable scrutiny
of the doctrine in order to become his wife.
The heir fails to see the whirlpool of questions assaulting the Sparrow. He
fails to see that his younger brother is feeling something he has never felt
before.
Genji smiles, ending the conversation. Then he pats Hanzo on the shoulder, and
leaves.
===============================================================================
 
                                                                           2064
                                           (Hanzo: 26 / Genji: 23 / Misaki: 14)
The elders only offer him their most serious faces today, as they summon the
heir alone. It’s not the first time they seek his company - it’s not the first
time they try to talk to him without his father’s constant supervision. Three
of them are waiting for him in a dimly lit office, the large wooden table
separating them feels like a barrier.
They inform him that there’s something wrong with the girl. The heir asks them
about her, then, he wants to know if she’s sick - and this sudden act of
unprecedented concern surprises him until he realizes that, perhaps, that was
the point of his annual visits: to facilitate familiarization as if it was yet
another step in the seemingly endless path to systematic indoctrination.
She’s already fourteen, the elders say, but she still hasn’t had her first
period and while it’s a known fact that age at menarche varies considerably
between populations, they are visibly worried by this unexpected delay.
So they ask him, plain and simple, what he thinks about the possibility of not
being able to provide the clan with a new heir. They want to know his honest
opinion. They demand to know what he would do in such a situation.
The heir contemplates his options for quite a while but then he simply shrugs
and says that if she wants to have children, adoption is always a viable
option.
He doesn’t tell them that he doesn’t want any kids - he understands that
becoming a mother is transcendental for some women and if that’s Misaki’s case,
he’ll help her - it’s the least he can do for her, he thinks, after the
perversion of all these years watching her grow, after dragging her down to
yakuza hell.
That’s the least he can do for a woman he does not love.
The heir doesn’t know it yet, but the elders are about to teach him the most
important lesson of his life.
“Adoption…” One of the elders says as he stands up and walks towards the heir,
“Such a befitting answer for half a leader.”
It takes him a moment to understand the meaning of those venomous words and,
for a fleeting instant, he fears they have somehow found out the truth
about the ritual - but then he sees it, crystalline and unavoidable: he’s only
half an heir because her mother was not the woman they had chosen for his
father.
Half an heir, half a bastard.
Rage burns within him, the feeling directs his fists forward and so the heir
punches the man in the face until the weakling lies on the floor, with his
hands up, begging for mercy. But when he’s about to deliver one last blow, the
other two surround the heir and reduce him, forcing him down on the chair
again.
The man on the floor laughs, and rivulets of blood paint his lips. They throw
her blood-stained panties across the table for the heir to catch. They lied,
once again. There’s nothing wrong with Misaki. The lesson becomes evident: the
clan will never accept an adopted leader - blood shall always come above
everything else.
He throws away the garment, he doesn’t even want to know how those elders got
hold of such an item. His stomach churns in complete revulsion, he feels sick -
he wants to throw up.
That’s what she is to them - a trophy, a pretty little ornament meant to
embellish him like an expensive tie or an ancient brooch. But underneath all
that superficiality, absolutely nothing lies therein: she’s just a pan, a
container for a future heir. A living test tube. But the leader himself is also
made of shadows: he’s just a sperm bank ensuring the clan continuity - he’s the
one that makes their dreams come true, allowing them to live in luxury and
opulence.
A name to blame when things go wrong.
An idol to adore when power and money soar over the horizon like the only
silver linings that can save them from the shitty lives they have to live.
“If your wife does not give you any children, you go fuck some other woman,”
They say, “Do you understand?”
He nods but the dragon roars. For the first time, the man controls the beast,
and not the other way around.  
===============================================================================
 
                                                                           2065
                                           (Hanzo: 27 / Genji: 24 / Misaki: 15)
He’s waiting for Misaki to come visit him for a change as his mind drifts away
and he realizes that it’s been long since Genji has brought someone over. The
Sparrow’s multiple companions have become part of the landscape, always coming
and going and practically owning the place, but now the parade of countless
strangers has stopped.
But even without all of his partners, Genji doesn’t look lonely or depressed
and the heir thinks that’s a good sign. After everything he’s been through, the
Sparrow could use some peace and quiet.
Slowly, gradually, he’s also becoming more and more responsive to the clan's
demands. Genji doesn’t protest now, he doesn’t fight back and the elders are
pleased to see the boy finally changing. He goes on more missions, he gets
chosen more regularly… they say he’s even getting better and better with the
sword, perhaps, even better than his older brother.
Hanzo does not mind. He’s too busy tasting this unprecedented feeling of
stillness, just as if every single piece of their puzzle was finally falling
into place.
A new mission requires the Sparrow to get on a train, and go to Kyoto - and
Genji goes, without saying a word, without rolling his eyes at them. He takes
longer than expected to return home but the heir doesn’t mind: his younger
brother has been working hard, he sure deserves the rest. When the ninja
returns his hair is green and his smile is wide and toothy - he hugs his
brother and says he wants to take a picture,
“My hair is green, brother, come on,” He begs, and the heir accepts, crossing
his arms over his chest as he leans closer.
The Sparrow tells him about his trip to Kyoto, about the mission, about his
duty - he even says he has met someone.
He says he’s changing, says he’s feeling better.
But the echoes of their laughter disappear in the cold morning lights as the
place comes to life and the wind makes the curtains dance. The kumicho has died
peacefully in his sleep and such a delightful death is befitting of him.
Now they are alone, they know.
Now life begins.
===============================================================================
 
                                                                           2066
                                           (Hanzo: 28 / Genji: 25 / Misaki: 16)
Rehearsal time is over.
He’s a leader now. An actual one.
And those who mocked him in the past now fear him. Those who didn’t know who he
was are now being forced to learn his name by heart - letter by letter.
They tell him that he’s beginning to change. That power is corrupting him. But
he shakes his head, stubborn as ever, and denies whatever they have to say. But
the truth is that he has already changed and those around him can sense the
dragon taking over the man.
Misaki is afraid of him now. And no, he hasn’t hurt her, he hasn’t even touched
a hair on her head but the girl sees the darkness spreading and she knows -
when it reaches her, it will demand a reaction from her.
She reacts, or adapts or… what does she mean to him? She has two years to
prepare herself, to become something she’s not, to meet his expectations. But
what does he expect? She’s known that man for fourteen years now, how come she
still doesn’t know who he is?
The girl decides to start by the simplest part: he’s attractive. He’s visually
attractive. She could like him. She could be with him. But he wants a wife, he
demands a wife - he doesn’t want her to like him, he wants her to love him. He
is not interested in holding her hand, his body has walked long paths she has
yet to visit. He won’t want to kiss her, he will want to fuck her.
The girl breathes in and breathes out, alone in her room, as anticipation
quickly turns to desperation. Two more years until their wedding, two more
years…
She has to be ready by then. She has to. So she calls him and tells him to come
visit her and the kumicho, polite as usual, obliges. She has never kissed
anyone before, she doesn’t even know how to kiss someone but she knows they
expect her to do it right. So she tries her best, as she clings to his neck and
her tiptoes struggle to keep her standing firmly against his frame but the man
grabs her by the wrists and tells her to stop - he hasn’t come to steal from
her these last two remaining years before their wedding, he says.
“There’ll be time.” He calms her, and the girl cries in his arms for she knows
she won’t be ready.
He doesn't love her but he can’t deny a certain attachment. He’s watched her
grow, after all, it’s only natural, he thinks. That’s their dogma - that’s the
clan.
When he gets back home, they’re waiting for him. They’re furious but their
anger is different - he senses the change.
“He betrayed us,” They say, “He betrayed the clan for Overwatch.”
He cannot hear the words they say, there’s a numbness in his head that he can’t
fight. Their filthy echoes surround him as he moves across the halls. Perhaps
that’s why his brother was acting so nicely lately - was he selling them,
exposing them? Was he destroying their father’s legacy? More than once, the
elders had told him that Genji was a liability, that there would be a price to
pay for all his pointless rebelliousness - but this… he can’t. He just can’t.
They warned him. They told him to do something about it, to make his brother
change, to force him to take responsibility.
But now the Sparrow stands right in front of him, and his hair is green, and
his hands are in his pockets.
The kumicho asks him only one question: he wants to know if what they say is
true.
The Sparrow smiles and opens his arms,
“Look around us, Hanzo - what more could they possibly offer me?”
Freedom.
His hair is green, and there are a few freckles scattered on his cheeks, but
you won’t get to see them unless you look really close.
He hears his older brother say that he has the high ground and he knows Hanzo’s
right. Hanzo’s always right. Hanzo is the perfect son. So he won’t fight Hanzo.
How could he fight Hanzo?
His father says he's like a small Sparrow.
His hair is green.
His smile is contagious.
It’s obvious and confusing at the same time. They haven’t really talked in ages
- why start now?
His name is Genji. He loves to eat ramen with his brother, sitting side by side
on the sidewalk, right after training.
His name is Genji, and while he barely walks, he dances on his tiptoes as his
older brother plays the piano.
His name is Genji. His hair is green.
Most of his porn is animated.
When it’s done, the kumicho looks at his father’s sword - the same weapon
from the ritual, cursed and bloodthirsty, forged by demons, wielded only by
sinners.
Are you happy now?
Am I good enough now?
He gets on his knees, cuts off his hair and leaves the sword behind. Each
symbol still represents the mystery of all those ones that are his no more. His
hands... his own hands have left him on his own. His loved ones are a museum
now and the dragon dies a little death, its iridescent blue fades away in the
night.
His name was Genji, and his hair was green. His smile was contagious, and most
of his porn was animated.
His name was Genji and he loved his anime.
His name was Genji, and he didn’t remember his mother.
His name was Genji.
But his father would always call him the Sparrow.
***** Tilting at Windmills *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
                             Variations on a Theme
                                     Act X
                             Tilting at Windmills
                   ________________________________________
“I do not deny that what happened to us is a thing worth laughing at. But it is
 not worth telling, for not everyone is sufficiently intelligent to be able to
                  see things from the right point of view.”  
                  Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra ―  Don Quixote
                   ________________________________________
I - Tom, he was a piper's son,
Night had surprised him with her absence. In a broken bed, ruined by their
distinctive kind of love, the archer was having trouble sleeping on his own. He
could have blamed her so easily… the woman had been trying so hard to become
his anchor, she had provided him with a renewed sense of company, far and
detached from the penitent loneliness that he was made of. But now, in the
blink of an eye, she had taken it all away from him.
He could have blamed her so easily… yet he knew, deep down, that it was all his
fault.
The archer got out of bed and let his feet guide him through Shimada Castle –
the gardens, the pond, every single hall and corridor, eroded by time yet still
magnanimous in spirit, welcomed the former kumicho as he searched for her.
Every room became a labyrinth for him to explore; the kitchen and even the
shrine were now temples of the most profound, impenetrable solitude as the man
kept moving through both mire and confusion.
Until he found her.
The door was half-open, the unmistakable light coming from Genji’s old lava
lamp – a souvenir from the Sparrow’s insufferable youth – was gracing her legs
with a faint green.
She looked beautiful.
With her legs curled up tightly against her stomach and her pale skin welcoming
the night. All hues belonged to her – the prism of light and color breathing
life into her bones was a sight to behold. Only the arms surrounding her were
not his.
The doctor was sleeping by her side, with her phone resting on the pillow, as
if in some sort of a perpetual vigil, waiting for the cowboy to call her.
Stepping timidly into his younger brother’s room, the archer stood in front of
the bed until Genji’s artificial stare reached out to him from the darkness of
the balcony.
The Sparrow was sitting on the railing, with his hands on his knees, as if
eager to cheat death again – only this time, out of his own volition. His eyes
were trained on his own bed - back in the day, the image of two ladies sharing
a bed would have done it for him yet now, the true meaning and correlations of
such an image seemed dispossessed of the echoes of a distant yesterday. As soon
as Hanzo noticed his brother, he took a step back instinctively – he knew
tension was pretty much the only element connecting him with his younger
brother, and he didn’t want to wake up both Angela and Amelie with yet another
completely avoidable scandal.
But Genji was faster. Always had been.
His visor, green and alive, addressed his older brother’s shape with a simple,
brief spark – like lighting, ignited only to acknowledge Hanzo’s presence, but
still short-lived and unmistakably temperamental. Darkness found him again
quickly, as the ninja abandoned his perfect Lotus position and walked towards
the heir, brushing his shoulder ever so lightly as he walked by him.
“I’m gonna go. Before you get the wrong idea…” The cyborg ninja hissed on his
way out.
Warm skin against cold metal, Hanzo used his body as a barrier and stopped his
younger brother from leaving. Eye contact was out of the question, yet the
simple touch, the clash of textures was forming a brand new way of
communication. Taking a deep breath, the archer let his palm land on Genji’s
nearest shoulder –
“This is your room, you don’t have to go anywhere.” He said, “And you shouldn’t
worry either. I won’t get the wrong idea,”
He could have sworn that the flashing lights of a scornful smile were beginning
to shine brightly through each layer of metal covering his brother’s face – yet
Genji didn’t give him any time to ponder about the nature of such a gesture.
The Sparrow nodded his head in silence, removed his brother’s hand from his
shoulder and exited the room, leaving the archer alone in his wakefulness,
staring intently at the cause of his insomnia now dreaming away from him.
The archer felt tempted to sit on the bed but ultimately decided against it –
if only Angela hadn't been there, sleeping with the ballerina, it would have
been a completely different story.
Tempted by such a peaceful sight, the archer leaned over and brushed his
fingertips lightly across Amelie’s forehead, but her eyes caught him in the
moment, forcing the man to retrieve his hand before the French sniper could
snatch it off her skin with her vehement disposition. Careful enough as to not
to disturb the doctor, the former Talon operative left the bed and dragged the
heir out of the room,
“What are you doing here?” She questioned coldly with her back glued to the
door and her arms folded over her chest, but before the man could conjure an
answer she pressed on, smiling bitterly, “Earlier today you realized there’s so
much you don’t know about your brother, but the second you saw him, you
snapped,”
“He provoked me,” Hanzo began as one of his fingers cruised before her,
accusingly.
The woman shook her head,
“Just cut the crap, you’re so full of shit, both of you are,” Her tone, albeit
immensely reproachful, was an ode to secrecy – they were standing in a
corridor, after all, it would be wise to at least try to avoid any unwanted
attention. “You Shimadas are so childish, you can’t make amends, but you cannot
leave the other alone either,” she paused, the anger boiling up her blood was
making her cheeks turn red, “You’re such cowards, you don’t have the guts to do
what it takes to become a family again or to just walk away for good,”
Her moment of courage felt like a slap in his face, but he couldn’t blame her.
“My brother and I, we chose different things,” Hanzo whispered apologetically.
“That was not the problem, Hanzo, and you know it. The problem was that the
choice wasn’t real.” She said, as her hands landed on his broad shoulders, her
body leaned towards his, but not close enough to make him feel the proximity.
She looked down, “You are a war waiting to happen…”
She caressed his face ever so gently. The man tried to reach out to her once
more, but Amelie removed his hands from the sides of her waist and went back
inside Angela’s room.
.
.
.
II - He learned to play when he was young,
Nobody knocks on the door. It’s an understatement.
People don’t knock on Shimada Castle’s main gate, never have, it’s unusual.
There’s no-one waiting at the other side, it would be such a foolish thing to
do.
Perhaps nobody knocks because there’s no-one waiting… But as the archer began
to walk alone through the quiet maze of halls and corridors, he heard them
knock – a sound he wasn’t used to, a sound he had never heard before. Even in
the past, when the Shimada empire was still adorned with the golden ribbons of
good fortune, no-one would come knocking on their door. Those ones seeking an
audience with the current kumicho would surround the castle instead, trying to
find their way in via a relative or an elder that could facilitate or arrange
the meeting. Even those other ones, the ones in charge of juggling power and
assets in the clan’s name would only come if the kumicho requested their
presence – but still, they would not knock. Their chauffeurs would always drive
their expensive cars around the perimeter for them to appreciate, from the
comfort of their leather seats, the incomparable magnificence of such a
fortress.
But now they were knocking. Someone was trying to mock all those old
traditions, or so it seemed.
Hanzo approached the door with determined steps – his black robe danced around
his ankles in the windy midnight hour and only then he realized he had never
opened Hanamura’s main gate in order to let someone in – not even for Amelie.
The unexpected visitors shook him out of his reverie and helped him see that
even if the turmoil in his heart and the confusing voices in his head were
giving him a hard time, there still was a world spinning furiously outside that
door, a world that could not wait for him to make up his mind.
He recognized them as soon as he laid eyes on them - beyond the blood and the
bruises, all across oblivion and the lethargic element that constitutes time.
He remembered them immediately, sitting under their favorite sakura tree with
his younger brother Genji, playing, listening to the most absurd stories just
to pass the time. Carelessly innocent, back in a time when life was so much
easier.
Meisa’s missing sons almost got to their knees when they saw the former heir –
such confusion, such despair would demand more than a simple explanation, Hanzo
knew. They hadn’t seen Sojiro’s successor when the heir and his younger brother
were first deployed to Shimada Castle by Morrison, Winston, and Amari. They
hadn’t seen Genji…
They didn’t even know that the Sparrow was alive.
He couldn’t hear the lament in their voices, or the convoluted words pleading
to leave the confines of their constricted throats. Muscles aching from the
effort, bones tired and about to give up. As the archer retreated further and
further into the depths of his own mind, the desperate prayers of a mother had
just been heard – her legs guided the old maid in the night, and her arms, wide
open and eager to hug the ones she had lost, the ones she had not buried. Her
daughters were running too, trying to keep up with the heart of a mother that
had been forced to mourn strangers- strangers like sons, like her own sons,
like Sojiro’s...
Arms like bridges, the communion of a reunited family broke the night with
brand new colors. Nobody cared about their bruises and their wounds – the pain
they all had felt had been more than simply physical. When their voices became
but weakened echoes of a foreign victory, of a mundane glory over a common
enemy, the archer smiled quietly to himself as he left them by the gate – they
would have only a few moments of genuine, familiar intimacy before Morrison
found out about their unexpected return, then the questions would begin, as
usual.
Three little boys are sharing stories under a sakura tree,
the sun boops the tip of their noses.
Three little boys have died within these walls - but they have returned. They
all have returned.
His feet led him to the shrine where Genji’s life had met its end. Seen through
the distance and the caustic outcome of history, it was nothing but an empty
structure now. Dispossessed of all possible symbolism. Sacred in its heretic
mysticism, there were no guards to shelter the memories, no gods and no
goddesses left to protect the pantheon of a broken destiny. They were empty
temples, all of them, and each tale his father had told him, each creature
sleeping inside his infantile imagination, and each actor in the ineffable play
that was their life were milestones in a path that no-one had walked.
Coward, he heard, and the voice resounded furiously all around him. Could be
his father’s, his mother’s perhaps. Hanzo looked over his shoulder, even when
he knew there was no-one there.
“Genji was going to be attacked anyways” He yelled back at no-one, reminiscing
the same old excuse that had kept him sane, or close enough to it, throughout
the years of solitude and abandon. “I chose it to be by my own hand, I wasn’t
going to give them the pleasure...”
He turned around, understanding that visiting that godforsaken shrine had been
a terrible idea. Still, the voices whispered back at him, over and over again,
until the visions of the past enveloped him completely.
Maybe it was the sound of cold steel damaging something as fragile as skin what
shook him out of his trance for good. Maybe it was the choked pleadings from
his agonizing brother, as he slowly began to kiss away his life. Now that the
nameless dark cloud that had invaded his thoughts and guided his arms had
finally dissipated, he could see the result of his actions - the shape of all
violence; the fixation of his every dream now receding and dying in front of
his stupefied eyes.
Shimada Hanzo dropped his sword as the laconic sounds of his weapon cutting
through flesh and bone kept ringing inside his numb ears. Even if the trance
was over - even if he was no longer possessed by that crimson, unquenchable
thirst, those sounds would still not leave him. He stared at his own hands,
fingers dripping with sweat, scarlet droplets of Genji’s wasted blood
illustrating him. There was art across his body, the scales of a dragon that
couldn’t fly any more and the solitary vision of a world in red. Dada. Mother,
father, and even the woman from his ritual, his brother. Dada.
Coward, he heard the voices mocking him once more. We are not here to help you.
We are not sentimental.
I’m not here to help you, son… remember?
In the pursuit of a legitimation that was never going to come, he had
irreversibly mistaken the path he was meant to follow. Now those other memories
were thriving, testimonies of his coldness, of his lack of interest, of his
gradual punishment: he had killed his brother long before his blade had touched
Genji’s body.
Genji, not now.
Genji, I’m busy.
Genji, pay attention.
Genji, stop it.
Genji, you have to.
Genji, it’s an order.
Genji, enough.
His brother’s last breath interrupted his torment, only to unleash hell as the
tongues of brimstone washed over him with renewed ferocity. That final beating
of his heart, anticipating that the fragile cycle of his brother’s blood
running through his veins had been altered forever: then the slowness, the
deadly laziness in that crimson stream slowly abandoning Genji’s body - then
the final release, the definitive abandonment.
He had murdered his own brother. He had killed his father’s protege. How was he
supposed to become the head of the Shimada empire when the one he should have
protected was now dead on the ground? How was he supposed to carry his father’s
legacy when his hands had destroyed that tender boy his father had loved so
dearly?
Flesh of his flesh; blood of his blood.
The heretic dragon had set his own church on fire - only the ashes of a lost
paradise would be left for him to rule; an empty castle - the pantomime of a
life that was simply not worth living anymore.
Pureness and evil blended together, then, in the shape of his dead brother. It
was clear now: seeking a misplaced greed he had ripped apart the skin and the
blood of his own lineage.
Hanzo leaned his back against the nearest wall as his knees trembled helplessly
until his whole body, powerless, crumbled down. Then a dark thought set on his
mind: what if it had all been a Machiavellian test? What if the elders had
ordered him to murder his own brother to learn about his true priorities?
He was no stranger to this desperation.
I’m not here to help you, son. Remember?
The clan was a family - everybody knew that. It was the number one rule for
every member of the Shimada empire.
So how could they ask him to murder his own brother - even if it was true that
Genji had never shown the slightest interest in the clan’s activities, even if
he was nothing but a spoiled playboy? Even if he had spilled all their secrets,
even if he had chosen Overwatch… blood comes first.
Cold sweat began to stream down his temples as scorching tears suffocated his
vision: he was supposed to protect Genji; he was supposed to show the elders
that family comes first - and he had failed miserably.
He could never represent his father’s legacy now - he was a sinner; he had lost
the only purpose he had ever had. And he had murdered his own brother for no
reason.
“You’re leaving traces of his blood wherever you go, son.”
“I am not your son.” The troubled Shimada spat venomously without even turning
around to face the voice that had dared to address him during such a crucial,
intimate moment.
Orochi’s footsteps were light yet immensely heavy. The old man approached Hanzo
and rested one soft hand on the young master’s shoulder – the boy flinched
under the unwelcomed touch.
“I did what you compelled me to do,” Hanzo spoke in a low tone; he wasn’t
trying to justify his actions still the tone of his voice was stern, touching
the fragile edges separating a simple statement from a crude reproach.
“How can you be a good leader when you cannot protect your own?” Orochi removed
his hand yet proximity remained a palpable, intimidating factor; impregnating
the room with a brand new sense of awkwardness. “Tell me: how can you be a good
leader when you can’t even make your own choices?”
Hanzo’s bloody hands curled up into tight fists and his fingernails began to
bite through the skin of his already calloused palms – that man’s cruel words
were confirming all his fears.
“I didn’t have a choice.” He roared back.
“Of course you did.”
Temptation invaded the young man then as he considered, briefly, the stormy
chance of picking up his father’s sword.
“You planned this.”
Orochi, the most prominent voice of the council of clan elders, took a step
back – he was old and wise: he knew Hanzo’s blind rage could shred him to
pieces in a mere matter of seconds. Yet the man did not find comfort in
silence: “Of course we did plan this: we provided you with a choice – a very
simple choice. We never thought you were actually going to murder your
brother.”
Enraged, Hanzo turned around and faced the man, his sweaty hands pinning that
old body against the nearest wall: “Then why didn’t you stop me?” He yelled,
brokenhearted, as he released Orochi only to cover his own face with his
bruised hands.
The clan’s trustworthy elder took a deep breath; taking advantage of Hanzo’s
mental and emotional fragility to regain his composure.
“I am not here to talk about what happened.” He began, his tone was distant but
it wasn’t exactly lifeless either, “I am here to talk about what shall happen
now. You and I – we are going to discuss the terms of your transition: I am
positive I don’t need to tell you that after this, you’re no longer welcome
here.”
Keeping his distance, Orochi paused for a brief instant to take in the image of
the fallen leader – like a weathered monument; Hanzo’s crumbling figure was
already speaking about an era meant to be forgotten.
“You failed your test – your father covered for you, but we know how your
coming of age ritual really ended,” The old man confessed, “The heir is dead,
Hanzo, you murdered him.”
Hanzo opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“Pick a weapon, you’ll need it to defend yourself in the future, boy, and
leave.” The elder commanded.
Knowing that he couldn’t stay yet finding it hard to assimilate Orochi’s rather
simple request, Hanzo turned around once more as a futile attempt to understand
what he had heard:
“Why don’t you just kill me?” He asked, his voice full of bewilderment and
torment, his mind already caressing the misleading notion of his own life
coming to an end after what he had done to Genji.
“Pick up your Father’s sword and leave, Hanzo,” Orochi ordered. “I’ll let you
keep it.”
The young man’s eyes darted around the shrine for a moment before focusing on
the bloodied sword still resting carelessly on the ground. He walked towards
the deadly weapon yet instead of picking it up, he spat on it.
“That sword will never be wielded again – at least, not by me.” Turning his
scorching gaze back to Orochi, Hanzo asked: “What will happen to the clan now?”
“I shall become its leader – you left me no choice, I’m afraid.”
A half-smile set on Hanzo’s lips then, the bitter conclusion to this never-
ending nightmare now clear before his eyes: he wasn’t the only one corrupted by
power. Laughter escaped his throat; the deranged sounds ricocheted through the
room.
“How convenient – and how honorable.” He clapped his hands together as the
laconic echoes of his sarcasm lingered between them, then he grabbed one of the
many bows decorating the walls and approached the man: “I can only assume I
shall need this weapon in the future because you’ll be sending assassin after
assassin for me. You have to know: I will send them all back to you – their
dead bodies; one after the other, for you to know I am still alive so if you
really want me dead, you should pick up that sword and kill me.”
Orochi’s visage became completely expressionless as he watched the young man
kneel down before Genji’s body only to stand up again in a mere matter of
seconds. As Hanzo approached the door, the elder’s voice rang inside his
reddened ears one last, bitter time:
“I could never kill you, Hanzo, not even if I actually wanted to. I am not like
you.”
Hanzo cursed through clenched teeth but didn’t turn around. He kept on walking.
His body, filled with nostalgia and quiet desolation, already saying its silent
goodbye to his beloved Hanamura.
Wearying, deranged footsteps marched through the city, then, as his confused
body meandered relentlessly: each house in that city seemed to have mutated
into an unreachable fortress - each one of the places he had visited time and
time again during happier, simpler times of his life were now incandescent,
ignited memories of an existence that was his no more - each manifestation of
his past ready to be triggered almost immediately, conveniently hidden under
such benevolent masquerades: the name of a street that had once been funny for
the young and carefree siblings, the intricate patterns of a vine climbing up
the edges of old windows; even the synchronized dance of the traffic lights,
getting blurrier and blurrier in the distance; the ever-ready neon lights
adorning the stores facing the sleepy avenue - no matter if their doors were
already closed, the old merchants would always try to sell something... or at
least that’s what their father used to say.
As the image of the city gradually began to forsake Hanzo’s tired sight, the
stillness of the clear waters washing the shore seemed fresh and soothing just
like the first dewdrops as they gently kiss the green grass with each new dawn.
The troubled young master let his knees touch the still-warm sand as he leaned
his torso forward, his chin nearly contacting his chest. He breathed in and out
as if his mind was struggling hard not to forget the seemingly effortless
mechanism still keeping him alive.
Timid waves came to meet him, in their constant ritual of rolling towards the
shore as an attempt to leave the waters only to fade across the sand. Hanzo
closed his eyes as he rested his back on the deserted beach - stars in the
distance; the sound of the clear waters and the perpetual rotation of the Earth
had now become his compass as a brand, brave new world opened its abundant
gates for a man with nothing to offer to step inside and find his way again.
Rocked by the platonic vision of a seemingly forgiving astronomy, Shimada Hanzo
finally found some rest, but when he woke up in the morning, reality was still
there.
The platonically romantic vision of the waters during the low hours of the
night had little to do with the contrasting image of a virgin shore that
clearly no-one visited anymore. Loneliness set in his eyes, then, as he
acknowledged the fact that, unlike in movies or books, no gentle stranger would
magically appear to save him from his predicament. No lovely ladies were there,
eager to take him by the hand and lead him towards the light again.
Love, he pondered briefly, the father and mother of all whimsical emotions, had
always been a distant harbor he had never managed to visit.
Love had made him wonder, once, what it actually felt like to be loved by
someone else.  But it was a foreign kind of love; a love that was not his. It
had happened one February afternoon, right after one of his many training
sessions. He was headed for the bathing area, back in his beloved Hanamura,
when he saw them: his younger brother Genji and a girl, chatting carelessly
under a lonely Sakura tree. The sight per se wasn’t all that peculiar: Hanzo
was fully familiarized with Genji’s many lady friends yet this girl, in
particular, was trying so hard to express something else… he didn’t stop back
then, yet it had been mildly impossible not to look over his shoulder to
confirm his suspicions: as Genji kept on talking, narrating the adventures of
his trips abroad and exotic conquests, the poor girl just couldn’t stay put –
her body was moving; even if it was nearly imperceptible, her hands hovering
midair, arms soaring, knees busy; the way her eyes were glued to his brother’s
face; everything – everything about her body language was pleading for a kiss.
She wanted to be kissed: she wanted to feel Genji’s lips on her lips yet there
was something preventing the girl from actually asking for it. So her body,
unable to contain its longing for the younger Shimada, was projecting all the
right signs.
Yet Genji didn’t kiss her.
The archer had pondered back then why would his brother choose to pass the
opportunity of catching such an easy prey: it was obvious she wanted him.
Maybe; just maybe, Genji wanted her too. Maybe; just maybe, his brother had
only tried to settle a barrier between that girl and the rest of the girls.
Love and its whimsical, capricious notions had been an unsolvable riddle for
the archer back then yet now he was finally able to see it all too clearly: was
she going to miss his brother? Mourn him? How many girls like her were out
there – real companions; not just diversions.
It saddened him to think that, if things had gone the other way around, nobody
would miss him that way. Misaki was still pretty much a child. Nobody would be
forced to forget all the visions of a future together, of a family…
Alone, lacking a future, those lifeless strands of onyx hair that had once
constituted one of the many symbols portraying him as a warrior were now a
phantom pain as his hands kept trying to brush a nonexistent mane – the warrior
he had been, the one he should have been was nothing but a categorization he
felt alien now. He was just too ashamed to recognize any traces of that ancient
thirst, of that unfathomable spirit thriving for honor and blood. Now the
ancient symbols of the man he was no more were as cunning as they were
uncertain - who was this other man, the one he was longing to become? Was he a
coward, ready to turn his back on everything and everyone he had once held dear
and become less than a weathered shadow? Was he a loner, a nomad bound to
wander the earth in search of something he couldn’t even begin to imagine?
The task was exhausting - how was he even supposed to embrace this search? How
was he supposed to put a name, to shape up a need he didn’t know he could have?
How was he supposed to search for something when he had never felt the urgency,
when his whole life had been decorated by the luxuries of wealth and fortune?
What was he even supposed to be looking for now? Now, when he didn’t even know
who he was supposed to be anymore.
Resolute, Hanzo stood up and made up his mind: all that nonsense and
uncertainty could not reach him so easily. He considered his chances: throw
away his life or go back to Hanamura, and reclaim everything they had made him
lose. They had trained him all his life to become their leader; a leader was
the only thing they would be getting in return. A cold-hearted, impartial
leader and his very first resolution would be to clean the clan from the
hazardous threats contaminating it from the inside. He would avenge his
brother, reclaim what was his by birthright; he would make sure his father’s
legacy would remain intact, he…
There was no point in denying it anymore: they had played him like a small
child; their simple manipulations had sufficed. They had dispossessed him of
everything - they had even caused him to aim his rage towards the only real
bond still connecting him to the real world - the world outside Hanamura.
And now, that cold and lonely world seemed just too big for him to wander it
all on his own.
“You must have been really broken inside,” Her soft voice brought him back to
reality. Her hands were on his shoulders - daylight could not wait any longer.
“for you to ever leave such a beautiful place.” The man turned around,
exhausted, just as her hands descended slowly and came to rest on his chest,
keeping him up, “I shall not judge you.” She said, “Not anymore. This man I see
now, as he stands in front of me, is not comparable to that other man; the man
you were before. This new you, the image of the penitent, the one I have chosen
to follow, is all that there is to you. That is why what you did cannot define
you anymore; it can only define the one that you were, the one they told you to
be.” She stared into his eyes for a moment that felt like an eternity, then she
looked down: the memories had devoured him completely. “The one you are now is
only definable by the sorrow in your eyes.” Her fingertips abandoned the slight
pressure keeping him up and moved up his chest, his neck, his face - traveling
each line in his skin, each symptom of time.
But then she stopped, and her eyes assaulted him with renewed certainty.
“I don’t ever want to feel that way again,” Amelie stated, “I don’t ever want
to feel like you can’t be helped.” She rested her head on his chest, a clear
sign of peace, a hopeless attempt at hope.
.
.
.
III - And all the tune that he could play
He woke up alone, in a broken bed, unable to remember how the night had ended.
The last image in his memory was her slender silhouette pressed hard against
his chest, but after that everything was an incomprehensible blur.
Dark bags around his eyes were yet another symptom of his struggle. A pounding
headache welcomed him the second he got up - that, and the loud knocking on his
door. Begrudgingly, the sniper positioned himself in the center of the bed,
covered his legs with the bedsheets and rested his hands on his lap.
“Come in,” He ordered, keeping the illusion of the leader intact.
Morrison walked in and sat on Hanzo’s bed - then he offered the heir a smoky
cup of freshly made coffee, even when he knew the archer would have preferred
green tea.
“So, what did they say?” Hanzo asked as he accepted the hot beverage after
inspecting the cup for a moment.
Morrison stood up and opened the windows in order to let the light in - he
wasn’t going to scold the archer for staying in bed, nor was he in the mood to
ask him what had caused him to be in such a calamitous state.
“Not much,” Jack breathed, “They said they were locked up in some sort of
facility, but they don’t seem to remember where, or for how long. They say they
didn’t get a chance to see anything - no equipment, no machinery,”
“What about the guardians?” Hanzo stopped him, “I assume Talon must have kept
an eye on them,”
“Regular goons,” Jack said, sitting down on the heir’s bed once again, “When I
described some of Talon’s high-ranked members for them, the twins did not seem
to recognize any of them.”
The archer scratched his chin, then asked:
“How did they manage to escape?”
“They are still in shock, so they didn’t give much detail. They said they
learned their schedule and one night, they prepared to escape when one of the
goons brought them dinner.” He paused, and looked down at his own hands, “One
of the twins stabbed him in the chest with a kitchen knife, then they ran, as
fast as they could - He says he feels as if his hands will never be clean
again,”
“They were never involved in the clan’s affairs back in the day,” the archer
remembered, “They are handymen, not trained assassins.”
“They asked questions about you,” Jack said, “those Talon agents, they wanted
to know if you were here, in Shimada Castle, but the twins didn’t know, they
didn’t have the slightest idea about your current whereabouts, that’s why they
were so surprised when they saw you last night.”
“Do you think Talon knows I’m working with Overwatch now?”
It didn’t go unnoticed how the archer had chosen to say that he was working
with Overwatch - not that he was an actual part of it.
“Well, you captured Widowmaker, so I assume they’ve known for a long time now.”
Jack offered, “I think this confirms our suspicions: if they are recruiting
former members of the Shimada Clan, they are gonna need a leader. With the
elders gone thanks to your brother, especially those in the council of elders,
you are the next best thing. Talon has what it takes to regroup them, but they
won’t be able to keep them together for long without the elements that they
seek,” Hanzo nodded in silent agreement: he knew what Jack was talking about,
“This system of clans relies heavily on concepts such as honor, duty, and
glory; clans are families - they have history, they move together as one: a man
with your name, your lineage, is the type of leader they need in order to
function.”
The archer got out of bed and paced around the room, trying to absorb what he
had just heard but Morrison went on.
“I think Talon kidnapped the twins because they wanted to get your attention.
They wanted you to come here, they have always wanted you to join their ranks
after all,”
“But I have always refused,” Hanzo interrupted him, crossing his arms over his
chest. “They kidnapped the twins before we got here, and I didn’t even know
they were missing until Meisa told me.”
Jack turned around, facing the archer.
“They didn’t want you to go rescue them, Hanzo, they just wanted you to return
home and, if you think about it, it makes sense. We find out about Talon
operating in Japan and they kidnap Meisa’s sons a few days after that, that
can’t be coincidental.”
“Meisa had no way to contact me,” The archer retorted.
“They didn’t need her to contact you - we knew they were trying to find old
members of your family clan, of course we were gonna come here… and of course,
you were gonna come with us.” Jack stood up, and approached the silent archer,
“I have reason to believe that youare their target. Now, I don’t know how
they’re gonna approach you, I don’t think they will just knock on the door and
ask you nicely if you’d be interested in becoming their leader… Maybe that’s
why Talon didn’t care if the twins escaped, maybe they needed them to return
home for us to be sure that they’re here; learning your captors’ schedule is
indeed a clever thing to do but acting on it does not require bravery: it
mostly demands desperation, an emotion that every human being gets to
experience at least once in their lives. Perhaps now that the twins have
returned home, we should go back to Gibraltar. By bringing you here, we gave
them exactly what they wanted, and let’s not forget about the fact that your
brother and Amelie are here too.”
“No,” Hanzo refused, “With or without me, the Shimada Clan cannot regroup.”
“But your brother ended the clan, he killed every single elder - I hear the
yakuza don’t take revenge lightly.” Jack said, “Especially if they think your
brother betrayed them. And what about Amelie? Widowmaker was their creation, it
wouldn’t surprise me if they at least tried to get her back.”
Jack’s last words conveyed a whole new concern for the archer: he had a promise
to keep, he had told her he wouldn’t let her go back to Talon.
“Do you think they know she’s here, do you think they know about us?” Hanzo
asked, but all Jack had to offer was a simple shrug of his broad shoulders,
subtly letting him know that the former Strike-Commander of Overwatch had no
clue. “I’ll stay here,” Hanzo affirmed, “And I would like Amelie to stay with
me. Talon won’t attack us here, I’m positive – but if they do, I will protect
her.”
===============================================================================
 
After an entire day completely dedicated to long, silent hours of training,
dinner went smoothly for the agents, especially considering the fact that it
was the first time the group was sharing a moment together after the cowboy’s
unexpected departure.  But right after dinner, like every Sunday night ever
since arriving in Hanamura, the cyborg ninja left Shimada Castle without any
sort of explanation. His momentary absence, however, did not awaken any
questions – it only helped reveal the real dynamics inside each inner circle.
While Satya chose to sit next to the Omnic monk outside in the beautiful
gardens, Angela and Amelie went back to the Sparrow’s bedroom, ready to call it
a night. With a bittersweet smirk plastered on his face, the archer was left
with no other choice but to accept the fact that another lonely night was
coming his way.
As an act of pure companionship, Jack decided to stay with him a while longer.
He didn’t want to intrude, least of all give advice about the matters of the
heart because he could still remember the last time he had dared do such a
thing, both snipers had enjoyed a rather scandalous sex marathon that ended up
lasting for a little more than forty-eight hours.
If Jack had to be honest with himself, Hanzo was the most complex man he had
ever met. Given the archer’s twisted history, the soldier was awestruck by his
determination. Any weaker man would have chosen to die, to give up on everyone
and everything – still Hanzo seemed determined to fight, he seemed more than
eager to face the struggle.
The old man would never say it out loud – but Hanzo had now become the one he
would always choose every time something was to be discussed or decided. A
battle buddy, like Amelie would often say.
They weren’t exactly friends neither were they mere acquaintances, they would
not talk about their lives neither the weather, but having the archer around
made him feel better. His was a voice to be heard – a manufactured leader, just
like he was, a connoisseur of tactics, a child of discipline, exactly like him.
An equal, who had made terrible mistakes, exactly like him.
A lone wolf, now forced to work with others in order to survive the mirages of
a blinding yesterday. For the archer, it was the memory of his brother. For the
soldier, the disheartening thoughts about that long-lost friend…
They weren’t friends, neither were they acquittances.
But sake helped.
Until those crimson screams of violence shook them out of their reverie. Both
men stood up and ran towards the kitchen, and there they saw it: Meisa was
dead. Her throat had been sliced open and torrents of her blood were now
streaming down the kitchen counter, and pooling around their feet. One of the
twins, as if hypnotized, was stabbing his mother’s dead body with a kitchen
knife, completely unable to acknowledge the fact that the woman was already
long gone. The other twin had cornered his oldest sister against the wall,
pinning her arms over her head. Morrison sprinted towards him, pushing him to
the side and allowing the woman some space to maneuver – but she, completely
stunned by the unthinkable scene, was unable to react.
Hanzo stepped inside the kitchen only to be faced by the gruesome recreation of
his own past: a shattered family, murdering bonds that should have stayed
alive. He called out her name, trying to encourage the woman to move towards
him as Morrison busied himself, having found Meisa’s younger daughters hiding
under the table. The ex-vigilante extended one of his hands for the girls to
reach out – unlike their eldest sister, they left their hiding place and ran
towards Jack, who sheltered them with his body until they were safe, outside
the kitchen.  
“Find Angela,” he commanded, “Quick.”
But the shock was too much for the last woman to take a step forward. Her
vacant stare was lost in the gruesome image of her own brother, butchering
their mother’s corpse.
Understanding that she was completely unable to move, Hanzo walked towards the
woman. His hand, still offered to her, was eager to find her. But his proximity
was not helping her – the woman was shaking, her back still glued to the wall.
Jack crouched down and moved around the kitchen counter until he positioned
himself behind the seemingly hypnotized twin – then he stood up as silently as
he could and put his hands around the man’s neck.
Sensing the former vigilante’s presence, the man turned around and buried his
knife in Jack’s nearest shoulder, causing the old man to writhe in pain.
Startled, Hanzo divided his attention minutely – both Jack and Meisa’s eldest
daughter needed his help now.
Completely unarmed, the archer sprinted towards the woman and took her hand in
his, forcing her body to move forward. Now that he had her with him, the man
kept running for the door, but before she could make it, the second twin called
out for the archer,
“Talon could restore your family’s empire,”
The first time they met, she had said those exact same words to him. Back then,
it had been just another invitation from the terrorist organization, and a
rather alluring one if he had to be honest, wrapped up in cold, blue skin and
golden eyes. Sophisticated and tempting.
The twins had endured the same torture that Amelie had endured back in the day.
They had murdered their own mother, just like the Frenchwoman had murdered her
own husband.
Frozen in place, Hanzo felt the heavy weight of the woman’s body falling limply
against his chest. His mind had tricked him, providing the other twin with the
necessary window of opportunity to throw a knife in the woman’s direction,
burying it in her back. As she began to collapse, rivers of blood were
streaming down her mouth – her eyes were closed and her skin, so cold and so
pale…
He could hear Jack calling out his name, commanding him to react. As the old
man kept on fighting for his life, with his hands coated in his own blood, and
his fists, furiously punching his attacker.
The archer laid the woman on the ground and dodged the incoming attack in the
blink of an eye, his combat reflexes intact and ready to fight back. With one
swift moment, Hanzo got to his feet and reduced the man. Nearly breathless,
Jack smashed the twin’s head against the kitchen sink, finishing him instantly
while Hanzo retrieved the knife from his attacker, and plunged it into the
twin’s neck.
By the time Angela arrived, the scene of a bloody massacre was fully painted
for her eyes to see. Meisa, her eldest daughter, and her twin sons were dead.
Jack was injured, and Hanzo still had his hands around the blade that had ended
the second twin’s life.
She tended to Jack’s wound carefully, dressing up the laceration with her usual
celerity, then moved towards the archer to confirm that the man wasn’t hurt.
“Now we know two things for sure,” The archer whispered as the Swiss doctor
patted him gently on the shoulder. “Meisa wasn’t involved, and Talon knows that
Amelie is here. He said the exact same words Widowmaker said to me the first
time we met: Talon could restore your family’s empire.”
“What did you tell her back then?” Jack asked.
“But at what cost?” The archer remembered, “This is the cost.”
 .
.
.
IV - Was 'over the hills and far away';
It was naïve of him to think she would be there by his side the moment he
opened his eyes. Sneaky as she was, there was no such thing as certain with a
woman like her.
The cowboy stretched his arms over his head after a nap that had gone for far
too long. He got out of bed and opened the window to realize sunset was already
history – the dark night had already enveloped the outskirts of the city in its
obsidian blanket.
He checked his phone – thirty-two missed calls from Angela, zero from the
cyborg ninja. Sunday nights were meant to be lonely, or so it seemed.
He tried to watch the TV, but the language barrier was truly impassable. Then
he sat on the bed again, as his eyes inspected the small room for any clues
indicating that the hacker would be back – a note, a message of some kind, even
a small purple skull painted on the wall.
Her absence was just as mysterious as her presence.
Instead of a note, Sombra had left him a bottle of fine tequila and two glass
shots glasses in a silver tray. The cowboy poured himself a drink and raised
his glass in silence before the aguardiente began to burn in the back of his
throat, dry and persistent, exactly like her. Putting the glass back in its
place, there he finally saw it: hidden under the silver tray, an old folder.
The first thing that crossed his mind was that it was unlike her to keep a
paper document; her whole life existed in the ethereal domains of bytes and
kilobytes. As he sat on his bed and began to scan the file with such hungry
eyes, he understood that Sombra wanted him to read it – more than that: she had
trusted him with the very thing she treasured the most: information.
She would never be as careless as to leave such an important item behind nor
could she just tell him about its contents. Whatever was on that file, whatever
he was about to discover, he could not learn it from her own mouth.
An unfamiliar name welcomed the cowboy as soon as he started to read through
the pages: doctor Tom Beuhs. The man had left several handwritten notes at the
sides of the document, complementing his ideas with what seemed to be
unexpected break-throughs he had witnessed or experienced along the process.
Then the cowboy understood: what he held between his hands was the original
copy of the document. Sombra must have gone to extraordinary lengths in order
to extract the file from Talon’s archives, though deep down McCree suspected
that the hacker had already digitalized the whole thing, creating countless of
backup copies of it.
He didn’t know how often they would check the archives, didn’t even know if
they were ever going to find out that such an important file was missing, Talon
didn’t strike him as a sentimental organization – still the truth, evident and
right before his eyes, was helping him see things as they truly were: she had
given him the original copy – she wanted him to trust her, she needed him to
trust her.
The cowboy kicked off his boots and poured himself yet another drink.
It was definitely going to be a very long night.
.
.
.
V - Over the hills and a great way off,
Under the bridge, there is a part of the pond where the waters are deep or, at
least, deep enough to sit and relax. Even when his body was already clean, the
archer found himself surrounded by the tepid, tranquil waters, as his tired
back met the earth. Amelie was standing behind him, with a towel in one hand
and a glass of fine wine in the other.
“Those girls are saying that you and Jack are heroes,” she whispered as she got
on one knee, and left the towel on the ground. “Still, he looks as if he has
seen the devil, and you seem to have chosen solitude, once more…”
He threw his arms back, behind his head, and reached out to touch her.
“Well, he still blames himself. He says it’s the second time Talon makes him
look like a fool,” Hanzo explained, “Me… I just murdered Genji’s childhood
friends, brainwashed or not. I’m no hero, Amelie.”
The woman sat behind him after resting her glass of wine right next to the
towel. Legs at the sides of his body, she placed her arms on his shoulders as
her digits began to massage his neck, drawing small circles on his skin.
“You really don’t know how to accept a compliment.” She said, “It’s
heartbreaking, really. So fierce when in battle... so conflicted when no-one’s
there to see your struggle.” Amelie wrapped her arms around his shoulders,
“Your brother will understand – the only thing that worries me is that you
might have created a brand new excuse for you to punish yourself a little
more.”
The man leaned into her touch, resting his cheek on her forearm.
“It’s a shame, really, but you don’t know who you are, who you really are.”
Amelie went on, “And I think you don’t know your brother either - what he’s
like, or how he feels… you grew up to be the one they told you to be, there was
no real room for the real you to bloom. And the only example of a somewhat
different type of life that you had was the opposite extreme, and it was bad
because they said so. It had to be removed.” She let go of him, and took off
her clothes, leaving only her underwear on. Then she joined him on the pond,
“You were Hanzo Shimada, the future leader of the Shimada clan but when that
man ceased to exist the pain inside of you was so strong you couldn’t even
start over and find the real you… So you went deeper into seclusion, and that’s
exactly what you’ve been doing lately, I’m afraid.” She shifted inside his
arms, facing him.
“Even today, their teachings persist.” Amelie whispered, “I can see you still
have a great deal of respect for a symbolism that is long gone.”
The archer contained her in his embrace, awestruck by the notion that even if
Talon had sent her the cruelest of souvenirs for her to remember the one they
had forced her to become, she seemed unfazed by it. Her own past didn’t seem to
be a problem for her, she was completely over it. Hanzo was the only reason for
the woman to worry.
“Contrary to popular belief, I wasn't born a fighter or a leader.” The heir
said, “I haven't always been the warrior I am now – there was a time when I
felt weak in my own skin, limited by it; a prisoner of my name instead of the
king they thought I was supposed to be. There was a time, when I was younger,
when I was merely intrigued by shadows, not suspicious of their unreadable
shapes.”
She kissed him ever so gently, her hands were resting on the sides of his
waist.
“One of the twins said that Talon could restore my family’s empire, Amelie.”
Hanzo confessed, “And while Jack insists it would be best for us all to go back
to Gibraltar, I don’t feel the same.”
“You want to stay here?” She asked, worried, and the man nodded his head in
silence, confirming her suspicions. “Hanzo, can I ask you something?” He nodded
again, “Do you still want to be an Overwatch agent?”
The archer smiled quietly, “If I had to be honest, I’m not sure I ever wanted
to be an Overwatch agent in the first place – Genji played me, the night when
we captured Widowmaker, but I’ve only been playing along ever since, trying to
rebuild our bond… I never thought I’d find someone like you or someone like
Jack. I don’t mean to leave Overwatch, I don’t want to burn all my bridges –
but I still want to find my own way, and I believe this is where I need to be,
at least right now. I want to be free, Amelie.”
Now it was her time to nod, “First the clan, now Overwatch – even Talon tried
to lure you in… I can understand this thirst for freedom, Hanzo, even if it
means I’ll have to let you go.”
“Actually, I was going to ask you to stay with me.” He surprised her. “I can
protect you here,”
“I don’t need protection, Hanzo, I’m not a child.” Amelie retorted, letting go
of him and folding her arms over her chest. “And what about Genji? Are you
going to ask him to stay too or are you just going to forsake him again?”
“Genji’s been giving me a hard time, Amelie, and you know it.” He said. “But he
won’t stay – whether I ask him or not. He’s already found his own way, and I
believe I can help him from here, even when the Overwatch he spoke about in the
past has little to do with this other Overwatch - the Overwatch that doesn’t
care about good or bad anymore, the Overwatch whose sole purpose is to
eradicate Talon. This Overwatch only seeks vengeance, Amelie – they don’t want
to see their long-lost friends when they look at their enemies,”
“Can you blame them for it?” Her hand cupped the contour of his face and the
man leaned into her touch, “After everything they’ve been through, after
everything I’ve been through… I need to make sure they won’t hurt anyone else.”
“I can understand the need,” He said, cupping her hand in his, “but that
doesn’t mean I’ll let go,”
The Frenchwoman positioned herself between his legs, her chest glued to his
now, allowing her mouth to leave a trail of kisses across his jawline.
“How do Japanese people say I love you?” She whispered against his mouth,
“We don’t.”
The woman offered him a puzzled expression, but the man simply smiled.
“Honestly, it’s a cultural thing,” Hanzo excused himself, “You can ask my
brother if you don’t believe me.”
She could live with that.
“Stay,” He said. “Stay with me.”
She nodded, but from that moment on, every single one of the words coming out
of his mouth became a distant echo she could not fully understand. As he held
her in his arms, running his hands all over her body, she began to feel
intoxicated by his heat. Toying with the warmth he had to offer, just as if it
was the most powerful aphrodisiac, she took off her underwear.
“If you want me to stay here with you, archer, it’s going to cost you.” She
said, but the man only smiled against her mouth and shifted her inside his arms
so that now it was her back the one kissing the warm earth. She watched his
mouth move, still his words, echoing in a strange distance, could not be heard
by her numb ears so she silenced them with a kiss. Perhaps it was the wine, or
maybe it was the fact that he had chosen to keep her by his side; that he
wanted to protect her…
Perhaps it was the fact that he was willing to offer her the keys to the church
of his past for her to walk and explore freely, for her to make decisions, for
her to act like she belonged.
Her knee connected with his crotch and the man looked her in the eye,
addressing a pain that he wasn’t expecting to feel.
“Sorry,” She mumbled nervously, “I must have been a little bit too eager.”
But even when her mouth was apologizing, her knee kept on pressing until the
pain became unbearable. Hanzo placed his hands on her wrists, trying to
separate his body from hers but the woman was relentless. Leaning against his
chest once more, her mouth devoured him – her teeth sinking on his lips,
tasting blood.
He had heard there was pleasure in pain, but he was unable to feel it.
She shook herself free from the tight grip of his hands on her wrists and let
her hands land on his chest. Her soft digits were now vicious claws, drawing
perpendicular lines across his torso. Then her hands moved up, surrounding his
neck. She kissed him once again, renewing the fire, as her knee kept on
delivering the most agonizing pain. Then he felt the pressure smoldering him,
her hands now circled around his throat.
“Amelie…” he somehow managed to say, nearly out of breath, but the ballerina
didn’t stop. Her lips had sealed his, her hands were choking him, and the pain
was already making his vision blurry. There was no pleasure waiting for him,
the man knew instinctively – this was no steamy foreplay, no kinky fantasy:
this was torture.
When he tried to break free, the woman reached out for her glass of wine and
smashed it against his temple - his pale face, illustrated by crimson rivers of
his own blood, was irrevocably imitating the image of a kabuki actor. He closed
his eyes, feeling his legs getting weaker by the second until the pressure in
his crotch subsided.
Then he looked her in the eye, unable to understand what was going through her
mind. He tried to get out of the waters, but her hands dragged him down – she
was no match for him, at least not in close quarters combat, but she had been
wise enough to wear him out long before he could even notice what was really
going on. Hanzo tried his best to fight back, throwing punches in the air as an
attempt to find some space to maneuver.
He didn’t want to hurt her.
Couldn’t afford to.
But the blue electricity emanating from his arm was already speaking of an
imminent danger.
He begged her to stop, but the woman kicked him in the stomach and the beast
roared inside, the misty clouds that precede its deadly presence were already
wrapping up his arm. One last effort helped him get out of the pond, but the
woman followed him. Mustering all her physical strength, Amelie tackled him
then sat on his back, keeping his head up with her hands.
He watched her as she reached out one of her hands and grabbed a shard of glass
- he felt the dragon thriving for release, yet the man knew that unleashing the
ancestral beast was out of the question.
It took all of him to hold back the mystical creature – he was certain of it:
if the dragon intervened, Amelie wouldn’t live to tell the story. Blindly, he
grabbed one of the many stones surrounding the pond and smashed it against her
head right before the woman could pierce his throat. Then he moved her
unconscious body ever so gently. He lay her down on the wet grass and sat down
beside her, holding his head in his hands.
Then he closed his eyes, welcoming the darkness closing in on him, and
collapsed beside her.
Far away, in the distance, Angela’s screams resounded like a siren.
The doctor kneeled before the archer, checking his pulse and asking questions
he knew he could not answer.
She forced him to open his eyes and then he saw them – Jack and Genji, running
madly towards the pond. Laboriously, he craned his neck and contemplated
Amelie’s peaceful face.
“Cover her,” He told Angela, but the doctor only offered him a puzzled look in
return. “The towel,” he indicated weakly, “Please cover her, Angela. She’s
naked, they’re coming.”
Angela reached for the towel, keeping it close to her chest. “You’re naked
too.”
“It doesn’t matter,” The archer’s words were barely audible now, “I’m sure she
wouldn’t want them to see her like this,”
Angela leaned in and covered the woman’s body with the towel, then she went
back to the archer, her fingers tracing the rivers of blood adorning his pale
face.
“Thank you,” The man mumbled groggily.
Then he closed his eyes, and the whole world faded to black.
.
.
.
The wind shall blow my top-knot off.
Chapter End Notes
     Kudos to those spotting the Kuroshitsuji reference. I just had to.
     Plus, the Kuro character that sings this song in Book of Circus is
     Joker - Joker is voiced by Matt Mercer in the English dubbed version
     of the anime. Matt Mercer = Jesse McCree. See what I did there? =)
***** Project: Lacroix *****
Chapter Summary
     This situation between us was quickly perceived as "problematic" by
     Talon. Many agents would talk on corners, telling the tales of the
     unthinkable romance between the mad scientist and the brainwashed
     widow.
Chapter Notes
     Preliminary note: every single archive warning known by mankind
     applies for this chapter - Please proceed with caution.
                        “We shape our tools and thereafter our tools shape us.”
                                                              Marshall McLuhan.
                                                                              -
 “Inability to distinguish between degrees of clarity: to lick the penumbra and
                       float in the big mouth filled with honey and excrement.”
                                                 Tristan Tzara – Dada manifesto
                                                                              -
When I look back and think about this process as a whole, I’m not surprised by
the outcome. Even when most of my colleagues as well as people in this
organization act as though the majestic results they now see before their eyes
are simply occurring by wild happenstance, I am inclined to believe that this –
my manifesto – is an ode to those who work with a clear goal in mind.
Now, as they marvel at my creation, I feel the need to write this document for
generations to come to know that is procedure is completely achievable. In a
little less than twelve months, I was able to successfully complete each stage
of this unprecedented process. There are some rather crucial factors that need
to be considered, in case someone wishes to replicate this work in the future.
I will give detail for those in need, not only as a way to ensure some sort of
professional legacy but also to give testimony of my many mistakes.
There are some preliminary notions that need to be addressed before I begin:
fifteen months ago, I was contacted by an organization (Talon) because they
were interested in procedures such as brainwashing and manipulation of the
human mind. I took the liberty of devoting three whole months to complete my
research and to conduct small tests in various anonymous subjects. The first
thing that caught my attention (and began to awaken my fascination) was the
fact that most theories seemed to revolve around the concept of conditioning.
Conditioning, per se, is not meant to be a detrimental activity. It’s a
procedure that, when aligned correctly with mental manipulation, can guarantee
complete dominance over an individual’s force of will but, again, a clear
majority of neuroscientists don’t consider conditioning a reproachable or
questionable activity. 
To put it simply, conditioning is strengthening yourself through repetition.
My most genuine concern back then was to determine whether the successful
completion of these techniques was an achievable reality or just a useless
handful of theoretical postulates. Fiction seemed invested in the theory, but
fiction can also be quite deceiving (especially in the eyes of a scientist) so
I decided to turn to history instead. Many examples show that mental
conditioning, brainwashing, and mental manipulation have been utilized in the
past, especially in times of war but, in most cases, these techniques seem to
go hand in hand with concepts such as propaganda and political social
indoctrination.
History can’t seem to provide us with an actual example – most of the times,
social behavior was molded by channeled messages broadcasted by the media. The
results were only temporary, or simply bound to achieve commercial success. It
is interesting to point out the fact that all investigation regarding mass
media and the manipulation of social behavior derives from psychology. The very
first theory in the field (The hypodermic needle model), for example, relies
heavily on Behaviorism.
When an artist is performing, they are communicating. Subliminal or liminal,
all messages have something to say, something that sticks around, something
that doesn’t leave whoever is on the other side of the screen or the stage.
Every message carries something more – even silence carries something more.
Communication is indispensable – to think about communication without the
psychological foundation that must always go with it is simply unjustifiable.
It’s all meant to be connected: communication, psychology, and art.
The subject chosen by Talon made it possible.
When I first read about the subject in question I learned that she was a
ballerina. This is no small detail: Talon had a rather poetic plot in mind and
this woman was an artist. The fusion of the two elements made me think of
Dadaism almost immediately – if Talon was looking forward to rewriting the
Dadaist manifesto according to their own system of beliefs, they were
definitely going to revisit the definition of art and, somewhere down the line,
the very definition of an artist as well.
There’s a primal, egotistical agent in every performer. The body (the most
representative and iconic element proving their existence) acts as a conduit –
it sends a message, it makes a statement. Actors repeat lines that others have
written for them, dancers perform because a choreographer is dictating all
their moves… If Talon wanted to recreate the analogies of the essential poetic
narrative by revisiting the concept of art, they had all the right reasons to
choose their own artist in order to mold them. I merely framed the entire
operation in a very distinguishable art movement: Dadaism. What they were
trying to do was dada. What they ultimately did, was dada.
The following pages contain every necessary key to create that artist, every
factor ensuring us that, when the time comes, they will perform accordingly.
Three crucial pillars have sustained all my work throughout the process:
hypnosis, drugs and surgery – their correct implementation and their orderly
administration guarantee permanent results. I hope this work can inspire those
who are still trying to achieve the impossible. You should know, however, that
the price you must pay for such remarkable success is only calculable by
measuring the limits of eternity according to the devil’s accountant.
                                                      Tom Beuhs – Psychiatrist.
                                                   Vienna. November 15th, 2067.
===============================================================================
                                        
                            Stage 1: The Performer
The first and most important thing that needs to be understood about this
procedure I’m about to describe is this: not all minds can be conditioned. If
we keep in mind the previous definition of conditioning (the act of
strengthening yourself through repetition) and if we agree on the fact that
strengthening is a form of improvement, we must conclude then that not all
minds can be improved.
Some minds have, literally, nothing left to offer.
While this might come off as a rather discriminatory, hateful assumption, I’d
like to focus on the fact that choosing the right target demands real talent.
This enterprise requires a conjoined effort: the targeted subject needs to be
susceptible to change while the ones in charge of choosing them need to address
the fact that some minds have already reached their peak. So, while I would
gladly take all credit for my creation, the humble man in me needs to recognize
the fact that I couldn’t have accomplished such success if Talon hadn’t chosen
the perfect target.
Amelie Lacroix had an open door. Most people have one, if I had to be honest,
an open wound or a traumatic experience that makes them permeable. When I first
read about her I was shocked to find out that Talon hadn’t seen it. They wanted
the woman to kill her own husband, but they didn’t pay that much attention to
the fact that she hadn’t spoken to her parents in years.
If we take that (missing - vacant) paternal figure and place it as the genesis
of her internal conflict, we have an open door right there, waiting for us to
walk through it. If we take into account the fact that this woman’s husband is
much older than her, we might as well assume that what she sees in him is that
missing guidance she can’t find in her own father. The juxtaposition of roles
is a very common phenomenon – when roles overlap, the mind simply replaces
actors, compensating losses by simply bypassing faces. This is one of the most
ordinary examples of transference as a defensive mechanism. I understood, then,
that if we were to succeed, her first victim could not be her husband.
Every process requires a period of preparation, it’s only natural. I had
already completed mine, but that didn’t mean that the target was ready to
succeed – replacing victims became my goal: I needed to convince Talon that it
was necessary to delay things in order to obtain the best results. This
unexpected turn of events delayed the operation for a little more than a month.
I finally approached the target for the first time on the afternoon of February
2nd, 2067. Talon had informed me that her husband, Overwatch agent Gerard
Lacroix, was away on duty. We set up a false audition and made contact with her
in a theatre in Paris, but I was well aware of the fact that the chosen victims
were currently residing in Annecy, so transportation had to be taken into
account as yet another item in our seemingly endless list of needs and
logistics.
Since I wasn’t working on my own that day (a variety of Talon agents were there
with us, in the theatre, playing different roles such as dancers, technicians,
evaluators, etc.) I formulated a small set of rules and distributed them.
The following information was available to all agents involved in the
operation:
    * The target will be kidnapped but she cannot, under any circumstance,
      realize that she is being deprived of her freedom.
    * We will be replacing (as subtly as possible) small fragments of her
      reality in order to create a stable misdirection. She is not supposed to
      notice any changes, but she might feel a little confused. If confusion
      turns into mistrust, the entire operation shall be aborted immediately.
    * Once the subject is under the influence of drugs, nobody is allowed to
      speak to her but me. Not even on our way to Annecy.
I had already set my mind on a mixed procedure: conditioning, brainwashing, and
mental manipulation were all going to play a significative role, all of them
providing different aspects to the combination I was trying to create. Once the
target arrived in the theatre I introduced myself as one of the evaluators as a
first attempt to establish a steady bond of mutual trust between us – I offered
her a bottle of water and stayed with her to make sure she drank it. Even when
her pupils were visibly dilated, she did not verbalize if she was experiencing
nausea or dizziness. The water, of course, had a combination of anxiolytics and
sedatives in it. (Anxiolytics to palliate the effect of all those things she
might find wrong or out of place; sedatives to make sure her mind wouldn’t try
to fight back.) I excused myself after a while and joined the rest of the
evaluators and the audition finally began. One after another, our dancers
performed before us until it finally was her turn to dance. She was the last
one to perform that afternoon – I was merely trying to give the drugs enough
time to kick in plus a prolonged waiting period filled with nothing but sheer
anxiety and nervousness always makes for a wonderful context.
Amelie’s performance was flawless, even for someone like me, who’s not a
connoisseur of ballet it was easy to tell she was great. But self-confidence
was risky, so we asked her to stay and repeat her performance, we showed her
uncertainty and doubt, we made her feel she wasn’t giving it all, that she was
not all that good.
Dilated pupils (compromised balance), excessive sweat (dehydration), slowed
movements (disoriented mind) – the three fundamental pillars of a compromised,
warped sense of reality, were playing in our favor. She was asked to repeat her
performance many times – twelve times, to be exact. The thirteenth time,
however, was different: we asked her to repeat her performance but, this time,
we played the music in reverse.
In processes such as this, there must be a certain sense of challenge for the
subject to interact with the environment. A compelling request – not verbal,
not fully expressed but still there, lingering tacitly between the subject and
their seemingly endangered goal.
When Amelie heard this music in reverse, it took her some time to adapt her
moves to the distorted rhythm, but she eventually danced anyway. She undid
every step in her own choreography, dancing in reverse and creating a dystopic,
warped perception of the dance itself as a whole. The swan that had died during
her previous performance was now resurrected. Her death was now her brand new
genesis.
When I wrote the original report of that day, many people questioned why she
had danced, they couldn’t understand why she couldn’t just figure out that
something was wrong – they said: she could have just told you that dancing to
music played in reverse is simply impossible. I reminded them that she was
already under the influence of drugs, but there was something more: to achieve
the best results, the subject needs to identify a clear goal and pursue it at
all costs. Everything they do must contribute to the illusion of obtaining that
desired, final goal. Amelie wanted to succeed: she wanted that role, she wanted
the recognition that would supposedly come with it, and in order to get those
things (those alleged rewards and gratifications), she needed to work. This
simple goal was, subsequently, sustained by a variety of smaller goals: the
need to succeed in the profession she had chosen for herself, the need to make
her husband feel proud of her, the need to prove her parents that she was an
independent, capable woman.
In every step of the way, there must be a clear purpose for the subject to
pursue. The subject must always try to achieve that goal: a personal
improvement, a final prize - that’s why the subject endures the tests and
trials they find in their path. Since we are placed at the other end of the
line, our job is to procure a friendly environment for them. There must be
strange elements that threaten to jeopardize the very sense of reality, but the
subject must feel comfortable at all times. Uneasiness, per se, can only be
interiorized as yet another test but unlike a concrete difficulty or a given
obstacle, it cannot be assimilated. A hostile environment that the subject
cannot either alter nor modify because it is beyond their control will only
distance them from their goals since seeking that missing comfort will become
the only reason why they would choose to thrive and make an effort in the first
place.  
We control the environment and we provide the goals. The subject perceives a
false sense of autonomy when in fact, they depend on others. The goals that
make them work have been previously established by others, the prizes they want
to win are given by others. In a way we can say that the subject exists alone,
the subject is but one, like a satellite, orbiting others that choose to keep
them there, floating in their orbits.
The satellite-subject exists because others provide a false perception of
gravity.
The subject passed out, as expected, before the song had ended. Our operatives
collected her, and the second phase of the operation began. The trip from Paris
to Annecy (by car) lasted for a little more than five hours, giving us enough
time to work on the subject and prepare her. Just as I had previously ordered,
no-one but me was able to speak to the subject from this point on.
Knowing she was going to regain consciousness rather sooner than later, I took
advantage of her state and decided to add a small dose of crystal
methamphetamine to the equation before the effects of the anxiolytics and the
sedatives could wear off completely. This cocktail of contradictory sensations
was the enabler I was looking for: desperation and euphoria, urgency and
despair.
While many had longed for artificial intelligence in the past, I had decided to
achieve the opposite: artificial emotion. We had previously recorded several
phone conversations between the subject’s parents – Talon’s technicians
modified the audio files, sampling and imitating their voices and reformulating
many of their original statements. While the subject was still unconscious, I
used these altered sounds to induce and trigger a nightmare. These familiar
voices were the necessary anchor for the subject to secure a well-known,
plausible universe for themselves. The environment must always demand action
and reaction from the subject: it’s not supposed to be just make-believe;
pretending is not enough. But guidance is a must at all times. The subject
moves, they act and they react because we are the ones who make that possible,
because we create (and sometimes even become) the stimulus.
For five hours, the subject was exposed to the following repetition of
messages, played in a seemingly endless succession:
    * “Our daughter has betrayed her own family.”
    * “Our daughter is not good enough.”
    * “Our daughter is a whore who has disgraced our family.”
    * “Our daughter is dead to us.”
    * “Our daughter destroyed all of our dreams.”
    * “Our daughter doesn’t deserve to be happy.”
This was my first ever attempt at conditioning: I was determined to strengthen
her through repetition.
The sound of her parents’ voices, lulled by the soft movement of the moving
vehicle and channeled by the drugs in her system created a lucid nightmare she
could not escape from, overall making her more and more receptive to the
messages flowing from the headphones to her barely-conscious (but still
incredibly active) brain.
Even when she finally managed to open her eyes, she was still unable to discern
nightmare from reality. She struggled, trying to force herself awake but to no
avail: she was awake, but the nightmare we had created was so strong it was
impossible for the woman to shake herself free from it. If you’re having a bad
dream and you can’t wake up, what do you do? You fight. You pinpoint the cause
of your despair, and you attack it. You point out where the monster is, and you
annihilate it.
When we finally arrived at her parents’ outstanding chateau in Annecy, some
aspects of my plan began to fall to pieces. I wanted her to recognize her
surroundings, I wanted her to approach the scene with a certain sense of
familiarity despite the impossibility to differentiate between simple degrees
of reality that she was experiencing. But she gave me no time. She moved faster
than us, went straight to the kitchen, grabbed a knife and hunted her parents
down like a vicious, wild beast.
Many of the men who were working with me that day suggested we followed her but
I decided against it. I searched the house instead, while I waited for the
woman to collect her first victims, until I found a picture of the subject and
her husband on their wedding day. I placed the photograph (the decoy) on the
little coffee table in the living room and went upstairs, thinking she was
taking too long.
When I found her, she was asleep on her parents' bed. Covered in their blood.
Comfortably resting between their butchered corpses.
She had an open door: her parents. I walked through that door and with a simple
combination of hypnosis and drugs, I had finally helped her close that door.
Many asked me why she had fallen asleep right after murdering her own parents:
since she was still inside the nightmare, I’m inclined to believe she attempted
to sleep only to wake up. Others suggested she might have found relief and
closure in the act of eliminating the source of her unhappiness – that was the
first time we actually considered and consequently analyzed the chance that she
might have actually enjoyed killing her parents, even if she was still trapped
inside the nightmare we had built for her.
Talon cleaned up the scene (they even cleaned herup) before we departed Annecy
– we needed to make sure nobody could connect her to the gruesome murders. When
they offered to erase her memory (a technology Talon had developed about a
decade ago, with the invaluable assistance of a fellow colleague), however, I
declined: I needed her to remember. To remember something – vaguely,
incoherently. The subject could not discern between dream and reality: we could
use that in our favor. I forced her to take a good look at the picture of her
own wedding day on our way out, the decoy I had planted in her brain, meant to
create an imponderable doubt. She was barely awake, but I was counting on the
fact that if she was to remember something, she would find that picture
intriguing, to say the least.
The hypothesis that she had felt some sort of satisfaction while killing her
own parents led me to believe that she hadn’t murdered them as an act of
justice. If she had indeed felt that satisfaction, she had surely found a
reward much greater than simply killing the monster in her dream. This was
personal, this plot was not just a concatenation of events ultimately shaping
up a story: the actors were more relevant than the acts they were performing.
This was purely a character-driven story. And when a character dies and another
character replaces them, finding parallels and connections becomes a natural
exercise for the mind. The subject had already overlapped roles in her head in
the past: her husband had replaced her father a long time ago. And if she had
managed to kill her father, she was more than capable of killing her husband
(the natural replacement she had found for her father) as well.   
===============================================================================
 
                           Stage 2: The Performance
I knew the police was eventually going to find out about the brutal murders in
Annecy. I wasn’t worried about it, we had been careful enough, nobody was going
to connect those bodies to Talon, least of all to Amelie. But I also knew that
such a crime was definitely going to make the news and the exposure was only
going to add to the confusion that the subject was supposed to be experiencing.
We decided to use that moment of confusion to our advantage.
There was an unnecessary risk in waiting too long to approach the subject
again. I had used a decoy and I had planted an imponderable doubt in her mind,
the time was right, the opportunity was ours for the taking.
Every possible crack in her behavior could be explained by the circumstances.
If she was to disappear, if her moods were to suddenly become erratic, people
would just assume that the subject was in emotional distress due to the loss of
her parents. At this point, the best thing that could happen to us, was for the
case to go public.
A week after our trip to Annecy, I saw her again. It was early in the morning,
the subject was accompanied by a young girl (presumably her husband’s only
daughter, a seven-year-old girl named Bertine Lacroix according to the
investigation provided by our research team). The subject drove the girl to
school that morning and I intercepted her when she returned home. She
recognized me almost immediately, in fact, she approached me, not the other way
around.
At first, she asked me about the audition, but I could see her interest lay
elsewhere. She was just trying to strike up a conversation, and she had found
the perfect excuse. I didn’t know at that point if the fact that she had been
able to recognize me so easily was a potential risk or not. I had intended for
the woman to have a hazy memory of that day, but I had only focused my
attention on everything that had happened once the nightmare was fully
constructed. I didn’t consider the chance that she might remember how the day
had started, with the fake audition and our first encounter. The audition had
just been a setup, an elaborate excuse for me to approach the subject in a
controlled environment, I didn’t deem it important.
She invited me to come inside and have a cup of coffee with her and I accepted
mostly because I needed to find out just how much she remembered. But the
person I found was deeply disturbed and plagued by many unanswered questions.
She asked me how the audition had ended because she could not remember – she
told me she had never passed out during an audition, it clearly embarrassed
her. But she could not remember the music playing in reverse and I thought it
was strange because she had passed out while the music was being played in
reverse. She didn’t have any sort of recollection of such a peculiar event
happening that day.
When I realized these distorted fragments of memories were the advantage I was
hoping to gain from this interaction, I decided not to use hypnosis again. At
least, not immediately. I needed the subject to remain as lucid as possible
since I still needed to gather some more information from her.
I informed her that she had failed the audition, that the company had given the
role to somebody else and she grimaced at me, a forlorn gesture taking over her
face. She told me then that her parents had been murdered that week, that she
couldn’t care less about the audition.
When she said that to me, I simply asked her:
“If you don’t care about the audition, what are we doing here?”
She hesitated at first, but I knew she would eventually crack under the right
amount of pressure. I had done such a remarkably good job on the day we met
that this time I didn’t need to use hypnosis or drugs. I simply picked things
up right where I had left them. Facing her silence, I insisted, repeating my
previous question many times under she finally said it: she needed me to make
sure that the audition had indeed existed. She was doubting her own perception
of reality.
She said she had vague recollections of a nightmare: she was back at her
parents’ home, but they didn’t want her. She said the visions from her
nightmare matched the scene they described on the news. She said she had a
feeling she had murdered her own parents “as crazy as it sounds” but she wasn’t
certain of it. Then she finally mentioned the photograph: she told me that, in
her dream, there was a picture of her wedding day on her parents’ house – she
said she and her parents hadn’t been on good terms for many years, they had
missed her wedding, that photograph was an inconsistency in her nightmare.
I told her that I was no expert, but dreams were supposed to be inconsistent.
Still, I could see her struggle, she was trying hard to remember something she
had not fully experienced.
We went out for a walk after that. She told me things about her and her life,
she told me about her parents, her youth and her husband. She didn’t mention he
was an Overwatch agent. We stayed out until sunset, when she told me she had to
go back home because her husband was surely starting to worry about her. I
asked her if she had been trapped in that instability since her parents’ tragic
passing and she nodded her head. It was perfect: she could go missing and her
husband would just assume that the only thing driving her was grief. In his
eyes, her erratic behavior was completely normal and, of course, justified.
We were standing in the corner, the house she used to share with her husband
already visible in my peripheral vision. She stopped, grabbed me by the wrists
and asked me if we could meet again someday, she said she wanted to talk some
more about what had happened that day. I told her I didn’t understand why she
needed to do that when she had indeed killed her own parents.
I was expecting a dramatic reaction, but she merely defended herself by stating
that she had had no other choice. Then she repeated all those lines I had made
her hear that day,
    * “Our daughter has betrayed her own family.”
    * “Our daughter is not good enough.”
    * “Our daughter is a whore who has disgraced our family.”
    * “Our daughter is dead to us.”
    * “Our daughter destroyed all of our dreams.”
    * “Our daughter doesn’t deserve to be happy.”
And she said the only words I was not expecting to hear:
“I know you were there.”
She wasn’t accusing me. She was seeking my help. I did not say anything to her,
only watched her as she went back home alone until she disappeared behind that
door. When I went back to my hotel room and began to analyze our latest
encounter, I discovered a certainty that gave me reason to believe she was
ready to kill her husband that very same night: I had told her the truth, I had
told her she had murdered her own parents – but she did not fight that notion,
if anything, learning the truth had planted more doubts than certainties inside
her mind.
I had to make her feel as though she was still auditioning for that role. I had
to make her feel it wasn’t over yet, that she was still trapped inside that
confusing nightmare she could not fully understand.
I contacted Talon that evening, ordered them to assemble a team and meet me as
soon as possible. It disheartened me to find out that Talon was not planning to
keep her after that day, the just wanted her to murder her husband, they wanted
Overwatch to find out about it but she was disposable. They would let her go
with Overwatch and face whatever future they could offer her: a life in jail, a
prolonged stay in a mental institution, Talon didn’t care.
But I did.
Once the audition was over, I wanted her to return to me.
Suddenly, the realization became crystal clear to me: if I was to succeed, if I
was to keep her I had to set some ground rules for the whole operation to work.
    * She could not develop a sense of loyalty towards Talon – at least, not
      just yet. I would have to make her see that she was merely a tool to
      them, nothing more.
    * She could not see Overwatch as her own personal salvation either. I
      needed to maintain the illusion of autonomy I had procured for her, she
      had to feel as if the choices she was about to make were her own.
    * Only then I would become her only puppeteer. She was just too fascinating
      of a process to let her go. There was no Talon, no Overwatch – just my
      desire to continue to work with her.
I ordered the team to wait outside the house, I didn’t want them to interfere.
The subject had given me enough reason to believe that she was ready to perform
without the aid of drugs or hypnosis but if this was to work, I needed a moment
alone with her. I stood outside her house (something was telling me she
wouldn’t be able to sleep that night) and waited until I saw her approach her
bedroom window.
I’ll never forget that look. It’s impossible to explain, and I could never
describe what I felt with enough accuracy, but I knew she was expecting me.
She let me inside her house and covered my mouth with her hands. I understood
immediately that her husband – an Overwatch agent – was sleeping upstairs. I
nodded my head. The subject led me to the kitchen and there we sat in silence.
After a while, she looked me in the eye and she said:
“I think this is about my husband. I think they’re trying to get to him.”
I was starting to regret my decision not to use hypnosis. If she had already
figured out that much, the operation was undoubtfully endangered.
I asked her: “Who are they?” but she didn’t have an answer, at least, not a
reasonable one. She kept on talking about her parents, specifically her father,
but she seemed unable to identify who was targeting her husband and,
furthermore, she could not seem to be able to join the dots and connect her
father with her husband (at least, not consciously.)
I asked her then, once more, what was she doing with a stranger, why she had
let a stranger into her house in the middle of the night. She flinched, cursed
me under her breath and held her head in her hands. Time was running out, the
target was still alive, Amelie was breaking down and Talon was waiting outside
the door. The elements that had helped me that day in the theatre were gone. I
was on my own – I needed to stretch the nightmare.
I told her that her husband was not the project. She was. I lied, but only
partially: project Lacroix, to Talon, was about Overwatch agent Gerard Lacroix.
To me, instead, it was entirely about his wife. The subject gave me a puzzled
look as if she was contemplating her own importance in the matter. Then she
looked up, looking more resolute: “I am the project,” she whispered, and I
nodded my head vigorously.
I was tempted to give her an order, a direct command for her to obey. I decided
against it, she was not quite there yet.
Many elements from the nightmare had survived: the environment was familiar to
the subject, it did not present any hostility towards her, she could feel in
control when in fact she wasn’t, and she could not point out that inside that
familiarity, there was something amiss: the stranger talking to her in her own
kitchen. I was only missing the impact of the messages she had heard that
evening, if I could find a way to emulate those voices, the nightmare could be
complete, but I didn’t have any audio records I could use – I was the only
instrument I had left.
“Why are you here,” I asked her.
She didn’t have an answer and I pressed on: I grabbed a kitchen knife and put
it in her hands, resting the blade against her fingers. The subject could have
perceived my actions as hostile, but it was a risk I was willing to take.
The following transcription contains many of the lines I told her that night,
while the knife was still in her hands:
    * You are here, with a stranger, because your husband did not protect you.
    * You’re grieving, and he cannot comfort you.
    * You cannot tell him that you killed your own father, he would never
      understand.
    * You cannot tell him that you killed your parents because he’s an
      Overwatch agent.
    * You fear he’ll hand you over to the authorities.
    * You fear they will lock you up forever.
    * You fear he’ll think you’ve gone mad.
    * You fear your own husband.
    * You killed your own parents because your husband was not there to stop
      you.
    * If he had been there, you wouldn’t have murdered them.
    * Why couldn’t he protect you? He protects everyone, he protects people,
      that’s his job.
    * He protects people, aren’t you people?
    * And what about your parents? They forced you out, but aren’t parents
      supposed to protect their children?
    * Aren’t parents supposed to be responsible for their children?
    * Weren’t you their child?
    * And what about your husband’s close friend, Jack Morrison? Where is he
      now? Isn’t he everyone’s hero? Why isn’t he here?
My only hope back then was to make her feel as if all those people were
actively trying to drain the very essence of her prominence in the whole
matter. Her parents, her husband, and even Jack Morrison had to be perceived as
real threats trying to force her out of the limelight where she belonged – this
was her struggle, her grief, her moment, her audition.
After a while, she looked me in the eye and interrupted my repetition of simple
statements. She said: “I am the project, but what should I do now?” and I
understood it was time for me to give her an order.
An order, when placed in such an altered mindset, is a command that guides an
action and demands a reaction from the subject. More than that, an order given
to a conditioned mind, subjugated and strengthened by repetition, becomes a
leitmotif, an echo forever rooted in the subject’s mind. Any order I could
think of had already been adorned by a certain appeal – this woman trusted in
me, and she didn’t even know my name or who I was. I had become an entity
occupying the vacant spot in between a controlled atmosphere and a misleading
sense of self-awareness.
I didn’t have much time to think about an ideal order, Talon had been patient
enough. The first plausible command that crossed my mind was to order her to
kill her husband, but I discarded it almost immediately: I couldn’t afford to
be so sharp, it was too specific, too bold. The veil of confusion I had placed
before her eyes was strong but, like most fabrics, it was still permeable - a
command as accurate as “kill your husband” was powerful enough to erode her
conditioning with sheer cohesion. I opted to order her to kill the one she
loved (a vague statement, I confess, a double-edged sword not worthy of
accompanying anyone’s thoughts for as long as they live) and the woman grabbed
the kitchen knife and went upstairs.
I should have felt proud that night, but when I saw her leaving the kitchen I
realized I didn’t want to go with her. I didn’t want to witness the moment when
her life became a meaningless recollection of moments she had not fully lived,
I didn’t want to see her becoming a disposable tool in the eyes of Talon.
Professional distance is an ideal frontier I had crossed a long time ago.
While she was in her bedroom, murdering Overwatch agent Gerard Lacroix in his
sleep, I let Talon know that the mission was completed. They rushed in and
extracted me from the scene but they left her there, shocked and covered in
blood. They didn’t clean up the scene, they didn’t care about fingerprints or
evidence. They wanted Overwatch to know exactly what had happened.
===============================================================================
 
                         Stage 3: Art of the Performer
My biggest concern, at this point, was to get her back. How to get her back.
Since Talon had ditched her on the scene, the subject was now in the custody of
Overwatch – and they were definitely going to try to undo what I had done. My
little progress (little when compared to everything that I accomplished once
the subject was retrieved) was too frail to stand their tests and I knew that
the second she was free from the nightmare I had created for her, it was all
over. I didn’t want to start over from scratch, that would have been a complete
waste of time and resources. Also, I didn’t want to have to start over from
scratch with some other subject – this was her project, finding a new subject
would have been pointless.
I figured out I would never convince Talon to try to get her back if there
wasn’t a clear reward for them at the end of the line. At this point, I wasn’t
exactly sure what I wanted to do with her but I knew she had the potential to
become something unique. Talking to several low-ranked Talon members, I
discovered that the number one cause for desertion in the organization was a
compromised moral. Many operatives were just interested in their paychecks,
they didn’t care that much about Talon’s ideas or causes – but when compelled
to act in behalf of the terrorist organization, a clear majority of these
operatives would crack under pressure, feeling like they were “doing something
wrong.” A compromised moral encysted deep in your own ranks is far more
dangerous than any skilled enemy. This gave me an idea: I could offer Talon an
agent that would never succumb to guilt: a sleeper agent, beyond all loyalties,
beyond all morality.
In order to achieve this, the nightmare was supposed to continue. The nightmare
was supposed to become permanent.
The subject was rescued by Talon eight days after the death of Gerard Lacroix.
Overwatch had tried to reform her, but the pain they found inside this woman
was something they weren’t counting on. Their efforts were good, but their
reasons were stained by contradiction: why help someone who had murdered one of
their own? To what end? Was redemption an option for someone like her?
When we met again, I did not like what I saw. They had changed her, she had
changed: this individual was fragile, she was unstable, and she was no longer
trapped in a controlled environment.
This was the starting point for a new sort of relationship between the subject
and me: it became imperative for her to transition from subject to patient.
Our first month was a rocky start for the both of us. I devoted most of our
time together to therapy. I also began to write weekly reports for Talon,
informing them of her situation and evolution. Up until this point, Talon had
perceived her as a necessary instrument to define their own poetic, but now
that the artist had played her role (now that the audition was over), they
still saw her as a disposable tool. All the while, I kept on highlighting an
innate potential that no-one but me could see in her.
She (we) had materialized Talon’s poetic, but I knew this woman had a poetic of
her own.
The language was a barrier. My French was vague and her less-than-basic English
was a calamity. Talon offered to pay for an English teacher but I declined:
language, as a system, is a conduit in itself. I taught her the language
myself, using the very definition of conditioning to mold every lesson –
repetition to strengthen her mind.
I tried to establish a simple system of rewards during this period but the
subject did not want anything. She just wanted to spend time with me. I became
her reward – we would sit for half an hour and talk as if we were friends. She
was lonely, helpless, and far away from home. Life as she had known it was
over: her parents were dead, her husband was dead, and she did not have anyone
else. In a way, I had become the only one she had – when she needed to talk to
someone, she could only talk to me; when she needed to cry or laugh, she could
only do those things in front of me.
This situation between us was quickly perceived as problematicby Talon. Many
agents would talk on corners, telling the tales of the unthinkable romance
between the mad scientist and the brainwashed widow. This led me to believe we
were lacking a system of penalties – rewards are helpful, but a reward without
the contrast of a possible penalty becomes an empty panacea, not a real prize.
The penalty for her was the opposite of her reward: every time she would do
something wrong, she would be forced to spend thirty minutes on her own, locked
up in one of the many cages Talon had in their headquarters.
This system of penalty and reward worked well from the beginning, but in order
to obtain the best results, it became imperative for me to establish two very
different phases (or moments) that would take place from time to time: pause
and reset.
Pause: the patient is about to make a mistake (earning a penalty) so the
professional has the chance to stop them and help them analyze what they’re
doing wrong.
Reset: every time the patient returns from the cage (penalty completed), the
professional has to make sure they understand that this punishment does not
define the subject. A penalty (just like a reward) is simply a momentary
circumstance.
However, as weeks turned to months, I could still feel she needed to be close
to me. At first, I thought she had gotten used to having me around but then I
became suspicious of her true motives. When I opened up to her and told her
that I could not trust her affection, she said that she had exceeded her art.
I want to take a moment to emphasize the importance of this revelation: she was
able to perceive herself as Talon’s performer. She was able to see the strings
behind the puppet. Her loyalty (towards Talon) was not yet developed but still,
she chose to stay – not because she had nowhere else to go but because of me.
Amelie stayed because I was there.
Now I had reason to worry.
Trying to confirm my suspicions, I told her I had to leave town. I said I would
be back in a week. She broke down and cried and slapped me hard across the
face, then she threatened to end her own life with my own pen. This led me to
believe the following: that order I had given her the night when she killed her
husband was still there, in the back of her mind. It was a hunger that would
not cease to evolve – and now she was starving. And since she didn’t have
anyone to love, her mind was ready to create a loved one for her. I was that
loved one. I was going to become her next victim.
She was right: she had performed, she had delivered. This woman had given her
all and now she had become the surplus of her own art. I had told Talon I was
onto something big and now my own life was on the line. “Kill the one you love”
was a monumentally vague statement.
She was used to overlapping roles: she had done it before, she was surely going
to at least try to do it again. This was a behavior I had detected earlier in
the process: the husband had replaced the father and now the professional was
replacing the husband. Each layer (each new actor) acted like a mental bypass.
The order was behind all those actors – “kill the one you love” had been big
enough to hold generations of people. Now the order could not be retrieved
because the actors that could have defused it were dead. Besides, “kill the one
you love” was an obscenely wide statement: you can love your husband, you can
love a friend, a coworker, your parents, even a neighbor. Love, per se, does
not always require a romantic intonation.
I had failed. I should have found some middle ground between the utterly
specific “kill your husband” and the scandalously vague “kill the one you love”
– this mistake was giant, it couldn’t be undone. The order was now a triggered
response that would always demand a reaction from her. She would overlap as
many roles as necessary in order to create that victim. She could not bond with
other Talon agents now: she was far too dangerous.
I knew her love for me was not real. I never doubted this notion. But her mind
had gotten used to this warped perception of reality and it was too late to
change.
I had fallen in love with the idea of her as my creation – with the one she
could have become, with the whole concept of assisted, artificial emotion. But
now it was much too late. From this perspective, the command should have been:
“kill the ones who are trying to push you out of the limelight” – that way we
could have found a simpler excuse to keep her around: to kill Jack Morrison. I
needed the resources that only Talon could provide, and I needed the shelter of
an ambiguous morality in order to conduct these tests and experiments. But it
all had backfired. And I was next.
Cornered by the circumstances, I understood that the only way out was to make
her unable to feel. This, of course, was only going to render her useless to
Talon but I was certain this was the only way. If she became unable to feel
she:
    * Wouldn’t pose a threat to everyone around her (but she would finally be
      able to bond with others in the organization.)
    * Self-loathing, guilt, and remorse could no longer affect her.
This second reason, I’ll admit, sounded like a cheap excuse back then, but it
was all I could do to help her. I had ruined this woman’s life, the least I
could do now was to exterminate the constant self-deprecating behavior that had
taken hold of her.
We implanted a lock (a figurative padlock) in her frontal lobe to keep her from
experiencing feelings and emotions. Contrary to what I had previously assumed,
this drastic solution eventually became the very reason why Talon decided to
keep her: a killer that cannot experience any guilt or remorse is worth the
effort. The process cannot be undone – let’s suppose someone removes the lock:
she’ll be able to feel again, of course, but that rooted order (kill the one
you love) will bypass each actor, taking control of her actions once again.
From that point on, Talon and I focused on different aspects of her
conditioning: they took care of the physical parts and I devoted myself to her
mind.
They said she had potential to become a sniper – with some adjustments. The
gold in her eyes was added to deprive her vision of any traces of
photosensitivity. The cold blue of her skin is the result of a process that has
slowed down her pulse in order to increase her accuracy.
Their only concern now was to determine whether she was able to experience
fear. They locked her up in a room with several tarantulas and they just left
her there. The woman did not scream, she didn’t even make a sound. When they
finally opened the door, she had several bite marks on her arms and legs, but
the spiders were all dead. When the test was over I asked them why they were so
interested in her lack of fear – they said that a fearless soldier is the best
type of soldier.
Still, there was something strangely odd about this woman: I had no reason to
believe she had forgotten her husband, far from that, but she would never talk
about him. It was like his memory could not affect her at all. To be completely
clear: I wasn’t worried about the feeling of guilt that wasn’t there, I was
worried she might have been repressing something ulterior. Gerard’s death had
not affected her (Amelie was inside the nightmare, and Widowmaker could not
feel anything at all) and I began to wonder whether this fact was now shaping
up the perception she had of herself: she had killed her husband but she
couldn't feel anything - not distress, not pity, not regret - perhaps this lack
of emotions was making her question who she was now because she should have
felt something. Every time she would try to stare at her own reflection in the
mirror she would end up having a hard time, but did that mean that she could
not recognize this cold and distant woman that she was now? Or was she able to
recognize her but could not offer anything but complete indifference towards
herself?
When I asked her about her thoughts on the death of Overwatch agent Gerard
Lacroix, Amelie said that she “did what had to be done,” her answer led me to
think that this colder woman was capable of a wider logic, perhaps this woman
had already realized that Gerard was going to die, one way or another. This
unfeeling statement could have been perceived as the first attempt at
developing a sense of loyalty towards Talon, but I still had my reservations on
the matter.
During one of our sessions, she told me that she was getting “some sort of
thrill” each time she would take a life. When I questioned her about this (even
when I knew it was impossible for her to ever experience something like
thrillor excitementagain) she said it made her feel as if she was still
searching for something. This inconclusive quest can refer to the missing loved
one that she won’t be able to find because she can no longer feel.
In the following months, I began to notice that she would no longer stare at
her own image in the mirror. Shame and repulsion are emotions - something she
was not supposed to be experiencing at all - so I decided to delve a little
deeper: I had read in her file that Amelie had met her husband in a nightclub
(she was one of the dancers) and, taking into account the fact that she was a
ballerina, I could only assume that her body, as a constitutive element for her
foundation, had always been a rather important agent in the construction of her
ego.
For a woman that cannot feel, vanity becomes an empty social construction. When
vanity ceases to exist, shame appears on the horizon, trying to emulate the
guidance of a moral compass. Shame is a societal fence, a moral inhibitor. In a
way, shame is even worse than decency. I ordered her to take off her clothes
and lay down on the cot. About fifty agents walked in and followed my
instructions (to walk around the cot and observe her in silence) but she did
not seem to mind. I even ordered some of the agents to lean closer, to inspect
her (to try to make her feel uncomfortable) and even to touch her - but she
didn’t care. This woman is completely indolent. This woman still uses her body
as a tool (a modified tool) while the rest of her skills rely on a constantly-
evolving education. Everything about her can be perfected. Everything can be
learned.
She says she wants a name. Says she wants a story for herself. Talon baptizes
her: “Widowmaker” – an ode to irony – but I cannot give her a story. She still
is surplus, she still exceeds her own art.
I ordered the agents to leave us alone after a while.
It was not shame was she was experiencing, it wasn’t repulsion either. It was
something else entirely. I asked her how she was feeling, she smiled darkly at
me (as if I could not see the irony of asking her how she was feeling) and said
she was alright.
One day, as I tried to approach the situation from a different angle, I ordered
her to masturbate and she said:
“I don’t feel the desire to do so.”
That was a good answer, even better than what I had in mind. Physical pleasure
is not an emotion so this woman can still feel it, experience it, and even
search for it – actively. But her answer was not conveying the simple dimension
of pure physicality. She did not want to touch herself, she did not want to
experience pleasure. In an emotionless reality, the pleasures of the skin
(neuronal electric impulses) are the only resemblance to an actualthrill. She
was rejecting it – even when she had previously admitted that the same so-
called feeling was there every time she would take a life.
She would accept this satisfaction (the approximation to an actual emotion)
while murdering someone but she would not accept any form of satisfaction for
the sake of her own, individual pleasure.
Several weeks after that I found her touching herself when I walked into her
room. The second she saw me standing there, she stopped – at first, I thought
she had stopped masturbating because I was there, watching her, (perhaps a part
of her was now addressing me as a real authority and not just as a reward or
perhaps she was expecting some sort of approval from me) but then she resumed
the task, and then she stopped again. She repeated these actions multiple times
until I realized what she was doing: she was placing herself on the verge of
pleasure, but never close enough to finally experience it. She had created her
own system of penalties – her own pause and reset. When I connected the dots
(her inability to look at herself in the mirror, her despondence towards
physical satisfaction) I understood that she disliked the one she had become. I
was still her only reward, only now she was the referee deciding her own
punishments. This system of penalizations she had procured for herself was,
undoubtedly, her last association to a moral semblance.
She couldn’t stand the woman in the mirror because she couldn’t stand the woman
she was now. She was blue, she was cold, she was unable to feel, she was a
killer – she could no longer recognize the victim in her. Even her new name was
an unwanted contradiction: a woman in love that had murdered her own husband.
The worst part was the fact that she would forever be the one who had killed
Gerard Lacroix. Even free from the conditioning, even free from all possible
brainwashing techniques and even free from the lock in her head, keeping the
order at bay, she would always be the one killing Gerard. This other woman was
fictitious, it was a deviation from the one she was before – but this other
woman was not real, this other woman was still Amelie Lacroix.
Technically speaking, Widowmaker doesn’t exist. Widowmaker is Amelie Lacroix.
She has become a description without a substance. She’s just a shape with no
real content inside. We have made her hollow, we have completely emptied her –
now she’s like a glass: I always drink from this glass, but I don’t always fill
it up with the same beverage.
Talon has become her reference – she follows them around and works with them
(for them) but she cannot experience any sort of loyalty for them or the cause
the organization represents. They are a simple source of company to her, they
are the ones who hold the leash around her neck – the ones keeping the monster
at bay, the ones who provide her with a false, albeit safe, sense of humanity.
Talon decided to remove her reproductive organs shortly after that – they said
sex was only a distraction, even when I had assured them she didn’t have the
slightest interest in her own sexuality, not even as a form of release, not
even as a form of social interaction. Once she recovered from surgery I decided
to add another prize to our system of rewards and penalties: once a week, I
would allow her to dance for half an hour. The skill was still there, it was
practically a sin to let it go to waste plus perhaps she could find some
comfort in the activity, removing myself from the spotlight – I could not be
her only source of comfort, her only reward. Not only it was too dangerous for
me but also, I knew I wouldn’t be there forever, I needed to give her something
else, something that was hers and hers alone, a reward that could always endure
the test of time, a reward that could always outlive me.
The concept of “construct” plays a big role in this environment. She is Talon’s
construct.
This construct made by Talon (Widowmaker) is a woman that’s deadly but
sophisticated, a hallmark of artificial perfection, a mockery of finesse gone
wrong. She incarnates now the very notion of abhorrence as beauty, of
unoriginality that doesn’t quite meet that what could be considered kitsch –
she’s a signature trademark of science and progress, a new poetic – she’s pure
Dadaism. Talon’s Dadaism. 
The fact that she still perceives me as her favorite reward manifests the idea
of love itself as a construct – the order lingers there, in the back of her
mind, the roles overlap but she is not supposed to feel love, no matter if the
feeling is real or not. She can’t feel love, but she has already placed me
there, in the center of her so-called affection. Her love is a construct too,
her love is a holistic construct – it’s a cycle of transfixed roles that does
not convey any real feelings or emotions because she does not need real
feelings anymore. What we have built here is an artificial emotion: we have
created empathic approximations.
The fact that she thinks of me as the one she loves (the one she must
eliminate) does not mean that I have failed. Far from it. She cannot feel, but
she loves me - she thinks she loves me. I have become the surplus in this brand
new art. I have exceeded my own art. I have created the illusion of love.
Now, as I write these final lines and embrace my destiny as a man-manifesto, I
understand this was the only way for this story to end. The husband had
replaced the father, the professional has now replaced the husband. I look at
those distant golden eyes of hers as she moves closer to me with such a false
sense of intimacy it makes me tremble. I marvel at my creation. I am in love
with the idea of her. She is watching me as I write these final lines, her
hands on my desk – I am ready, for I have exceeded my own art.
I regret nothing.
She looks beautiful tonight, I’ll make sure to tell her th
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