ANGELA.

GENJI.

GENJI.

Arms folded, he leans back in his chair, eyes on his brother as if he were enthralled. The brows slightly furrowed & weighing down show he has questions, to say the least.

He knows he should not be surprised.

GENJI.

Idling hands grow tense & he prepares another arrow, the shaft sliding against its rest to sate the bow’s --- his own hunger. Even without his whole focus, the targets are easily found; muscle memory takes over, the result of daily practice here. The exercise becomes monotonous & its usefulness wears thin --- even the moving bots can only follow the path programmed into their system, predictable, more fitting of a beginner than a master.

But still, he lines up another shot. Now he simply needs a distraction. At least they can provide that.

He’d passed through Tibet more than once in his travels, seen the white, towering mountains that guard the border. Odd to think how close they might have been at one point or another --- closer then Hanzo thinks possible.

One thought leads to another, sharper, a thorn in his head. Potent enough for him to lower the bow & pause the mechanical movement to turn & stare, drink in all of the metal form that still moves fluidly as flesh ever did.

The words won’t come & he fears they’ll be bitter, enough to upset the calm they’ve kept against the odds --- it takes little to break a pond’s still surface. He lets the silence carry, takes another moment to reconsider, but he has to ask.

               ❝ ...How did you come to know about my visits to Hanamura? ❞

Another pause, stagnant as ever.

               ❝ Why wait to confront me? Why wait to REVEAL yourself until after the blows were struck? ❞

Summer means heavy, thick air, awfully humid & it makes every breath more tangible. He’s uncomfortable, alert & bored of staring at the ceiling he’s getting used to. At least summer also means that even at the obscene hour of 4 AM, there’s light. Dingy & blue, like fog as dense as the heat, but enough to stop him from feeling like he can’t yet get out of bed. He hasn’t figured out what it is, what shakes him back into consciousness & won’t let him slip back into much-needed sleep; maybe an old routine engraved in his psyche or a feeling that says there is something that must be done, that he is not doing enough. A feeling that says run ( they want to see you dead --- you are not safe ).

4 hours is enough. It’s an improvement.

It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve shared such early hours together, but he doesn’t disturb Jesse in case he is still sleeping. Shirt & sweats first, then he stares himself down in the mirror while he pulls back his hair. He looks rough in the dark --- he’s painfully awake but his eyes feel sore, dry, like they’re bursting from his sockets. Now he looks his age & older, the grooves in his face filled with shadows, deepened by fatigue.

He likes the quiet, the almost unsettling atmosphere of an empty base in the hours between night & morning. Not that Overwatch bustles with life anymore, now that it’s a shell of what it was. He’s alone with his thoughts while the kettle hisses in the kitchen & it blurs into nothing, white noise until it clicks.

He goes back for his running shoes & he leaves the second cup of coffee on the bedside table ( meticulously placed on a clean coaster ) for Jesse. He’s out until his throat is raw & his legs are burning, same as yesterday, every morning, every evening. Pain, his efforts taking physical form in muscle put to work. His resilience, his brilliance still thrives as it always has, dedication that can never be matched  --- the sensation is his own euphoria.

He feels alive.