Of Murderers and Saviors

1: His Brother

Stop.

Start.

Stop.

Start. 

His cybernetic heart palpitates, albeit he was sure that the valkyrie told him that there was no way he could hear it beat. Coils of artery-fibers laced the appendage after all - along with at least one hundred lines of morse code - how could he even remotely feel a hearty beat? He wasn't human - no, not even the slightest in his mind - he was a perverted form of justice, just some lump of near-catatonic flesh that happened to cross paths with an angel stuck in a medical valkyries body and a few perplexed foot soldiers. His body was meant to be some sort of vessel that had been revived in sole purpose to carry out that organization's bidding, their beck and call never falling deaf on his mechanically-engineered ears. 

That is all he was.

A metallic vessel.

A body held together by steeled strings, like some sort of mechanical ventriloquist dummy. 

But how - he asked himself in this very moment, his brain overheating with ecstatic thought at a new truth revealed before him - how could this mistake of a man, this robotic abomination, behold his brother before his own eyes? 

Genji could not even find the words, his thoughts falling on deaf ears and a muted tongue. He wanted to go embrace his brother, his kin, with open arms - however, something he knew too well restricted him, causing his unwavering familial urge to reconnect with his brother to be halted right in his tracks. He could feel the ire boiling inside of his metallic veins increase the heat-related friction of his cords; despite wanting to enthrall his brother and entertain his actions, he could not. Genji was stuck in his own mental predicament as of late - and that was coming to terms with his partially man-flesh and the hex of a robotic shell he was cast into. 

'Brother, why must you toil with my mind so?' He thought sardonically, using his cutlass-like hands to grip onto his sword, teeming with a lime-green energy. The cyborg could feel his anger start to reach a plateau, and turn into a more controlled flatline of rage - he knew he must take his teacher's lessons in creating a sort of reservoir for his righteous frustration, lest he lash out in public and out himself. Taking in a deep breath, Genji relaxed his tense muscles before attempting to look at his brother with clearer vision and a more practical mind. 

There before him, wandering through the bustling nighttime market streets of Hanamura, was Hanzo - the very kin Genji was speaking of. In order to attempt to shield himself from the all too fickle and nosy eyes of the congested hordes of people and vendors, he donned a ragged, but simple, lavender cloak. His hairstyle changed as well, his black-and-grey peppered hair being done in a messy half-down, half-up way; two well-crafted sticks, each bearing the kanji equivalent of "courage" and "honor" in carmine on them, were snuggly placed in his hair. Wisps of hair framed his boxy face, his strikingly hollow jawline being home to a well-kept but pointy beard. Between peaks of the cloak, it was easy to see his mercenary armor underneath, the same cerulean, draconic tattoo being present on his right pectoral muscle. His sandstone-colored eyes were as narrow as remembered, albeit bearing more age-related winkles underneath them. Two furrowed, arched, and smoky-charchoal eyebrows were nuzzled comfortably on his face, a small cloud-shaped bruised curling around the arch of the left eyebrow. His countenance bore the same neutral expression; however, a new sort of simmering regret and self-wrath hinted at his minutely down-turned lips. 

'Hm, he seems to be feeling the own wrath of his actions. Is he even the Hanzo I used to remember, or am I looking at the shell of a warrior?' Genji pondered to himself, reaching a gauntlet of a hand to his mechanically-replaced, pointed chin. He couldn't believe it himself - his brother, a once formidable and proud warrior, had resorted to wandering aimlessly across nighttime vendor shops in the urbanized Hanamura, emptily picking at a rotted squash that a sweaty seller was shouting all sorts of praise for. Hanzo hardly needed the cloak that was suited to be his disguise; he seemed so ordinary now that he could have wandered the streets without anyone giving a second thought to whom he was. He was but another epitome of Icarus, a once mighty marksman who fell from grace due to antagonizing the sun.