#in his first scene with Rainbow‚ the first time convict at the centre of the film‚ Lang tries to ingratiate himself with a loan of

[mariocki]

Alfred Burke as antagonistic convict (and self-styled tobacco 'baron') Lang in 1962's The Pot Carriers

[possiblyimbiassed]

Carl = Charlie = Victor?

The appearance of Victor Trevor in TFP as a little pirate friend from Sherlock’s childhood, who got trapped in a well where he drowned, is intriguing to say the least; it doesn’t seem to connect with anything else we had seen in the show, except for the dog Redbeard. But Victor is not a new element for Sherlockians over the world, and I think this meta by @sagestreet gives an excellent explanation of how Victor fits into the show on a meta level. But what about the textual and subtextual levels? I imagine this has been brought up before, but something just seemed to click into place, so I’ll just throw my thoughts on it out here anyway. There are some pieces of the puzzle that stands out to me, so let’s try to put them together into something - more or less - coherent. 

So, for a start: what exactly do we know about Victor Trevor from ACD canon (The Gloria Scott, GLOR)? I’ve highlighted certain facts that caught my attention in this recollection (Sidney Paget’s illustrations are all found here):

Well, basically this:

The story about Victor Trevor was Sherlock Holmes’ first case ever.

Sherlock got to know Victor when they were both at college.

They became friends (Sherlock’s only friend) because Victor’s dog bit Sherlock so he ended up in a sick bed where Victor spent a lot of time with him.

Victor came from a rich family, and Sherlock spent a summer with Victor and his father (Trevor senior; a “squire”) at their large, old-fashioned house with high chimneys.

In what is described as his ‘first case’, Sherlock deduced (parts of) and eventually learned what had happened to Victor’s father, involving a ship with convicts (Trevor senior among them), a mutiny, explosions, killings, shipwreck and Trevor senior ending up hiding under false name for the rest of his life.

Hudson, a surviving criminal from the event, showed up at the mansion, getting drunk and blackmailing Victor’s father with the threat of exposure, which would forever sully his and his family’s name.

Victor’s father's real name was James Armitage, the initials of which Sherlock discovered from his secret tattoo. He got suspicious of Sherlock, who could deduce his criminal past, which led to Sherlock leaving the place.

Victor showed Sherlock a message with a skip code that had meant imminent danger to Trevor senior. It’s a threat of exposure, the fear from which he never recovered; it gave him a stroke that lead to his death.

The skip code read, after deciphering: “The game is up. Hudson has told all. Fly for your life.”

After his father’s death, Victor ended up “heart-broken” in a tea plantation in India. Sherlock and Victor never seemed to have met again after that.

This is Sherlock, many years later, telling John about the message Victor had him decipher: 

“Yet the fact remains that the reader, who was a fine, robust old man, was knocked clean down by it as if it had been the butt end of a pistol.”

“You arouse my curiosity,” said I. 

Now, this does not bear the slightest similarity to what we learn about Victor in TFP, does it? But what if his story is indeed included in BBC Sherlock, but not (just) in TFP; what if the story about Victor is scattered all over the episodes in the show? And what if this scattered story about Victor is meant to give us clues about the emotional trauma in Sherlock’s past that made him shut down his feelings? Under the cut, let’s take a closer look at some elements of the episodes from this perspective, to see if this idea would make any sense:

ASiP 

This is only the first episode of the show, but I think some traces of Victor might be found already here. James Phillimore, 18, who seemed to have some problems with internalised homophobia (judging by how he refused to share an umbrella with his friend in the heavy rain), was found dead near a sports centre, seemingly having committed suicide with a poison. But Sherlock’s investigation makes it clear that Phillimore is one of the victims of serial-killer cabbie Jeff Hope. Phillimore was a student at Roland Kerr’s College for Further Education, an old building with Victorian design (see my recent meta + additions for a more in-depth analysis of the significance of this college). 

In canon James Phillimore figures as an unsolved problem in The Problem of Thor Bridge (THOR):

“A problem without a solution may interest the student, but can hardly fail to annoy the casual reader. Among these unfinished tales is that of Mr. James Phillimore, who, stepping back into his own house to get his umbrella, was never more seen in this world.”

(The main plot of THOR, however, is a triangle drama where one of the involved parts commits suicide but tries to arrange it so their rival is accused of murder.) Roland Kerr’s college is also where Jeff Hope takes Sherlock to talk to him and make him kill himself at the end of ASiP, and where (supposedly) John shoots Hope. The college is also represented as Sherlock’s Mind Palace in HLV, where he finds comfort and strength to survive a gunshot  by mentally summoning his childhood’s dog Redbeard.

TGG 

Several people have pointed out, about this last episode of S1, that Moriarty’s five “Greenwich pips” transmitted by a pink telephone (=heart metaphor) in TGG represent the five series in BBC Sherlock. Moriarty’s ‘great game’ with pips in it begins with an explosion close to 221B. 

The case of Carl Powers is what comes from the first pip, but it also ties into the fifth and final pip. In the first pip we learn that the death of Carl Powers was Sherlock’s first case, an he has saved a press clip of the boy from this case:

In TFP, however, we’re told that The Musgrave Ritual was his first case. None of them is canon consistent, however, since ACD told us that Holmes first case was The Gloria Scott. According to Sherlock’s discoveries in TGG, Carl was a young swimming athlete who was poisoned by Jim Moriarty, which lead to him drowning in the pool. The official version from the police, however, was that Carl died in the water due to some sort of ‘fit’. The case of the fifth pip takes place at the swimming pool where Carl died.  

Strangely enough, Sherlock makes an appointment with Jim exactly there, and this pool is also where Jim tosses the valuable memory stick that Sherlock has recovered. The Carl Powers case was never solved, though, and the Bruce Partington memory stick was never recovered. Which means, that if the fifth pip is foreshadowing S5, the Carl Powers case might come up again in S5.

THoB

This whole episode of S2 is about a guy, Henry Knight, who is haunted by  a childhood trauma in which he lost his father. Sherlock seems particularly engaged in this ‘cold case’ with modern times consequences. For the first time we see him shaking with fear after having (supposedly) sighted the same monstrous ‘hound’ that has affected Henry since he was a boy. 

But it turns out that “there never was any monster”; Henry’s father was killed by his own friend. (Please read @sagestreet‘s brilliant ‘Follow the dogs’ meta series for subtextual explanations of how the ‘hound’ mythology represents homophobia, and many other very interesting ideas). Another important fact that we learn in this episode, is that Sherlock considers John his only friend.

TRF 

In one of Sherlock’s cases in the last episode of S2, he and John visit a boarding school, from which two children have been kidnapped. Sherlock’s sudden rant against Miss MacKenzie is a little bit weird, though, isn’t it? 

Moriarty has poisoned the children by luring them to eat toxic chocolate. In this episode Sherlock and John are very much exposed and speculated about in the media. Suddenly Sherlock is accused of the kidnapping and Moriarty blackmails Sherlock by threatening John, which (supposedly) leads to Sherlock killing himself (but he actually disappears by faking his suicide).

TEH 

in the first episode of S3, when Sherlock comes back from the dead, he immediately deduces that John’s fiancee ‘Mary’ has a secret tattoo and is a liar: 

Later, in HLV, it turns out she has been hiding under a false name and lied about her criminal past and has many deaths on her conscience as an assassin. Sherlock also observes that ‘Mary’ can recognise a skip code; in fact there’s a skip code sent as a warning about an imminent danger to John. 

Sherlock deciphers it, and the resulting message is “Save John Watson”, which leads him to where John is trapped in a bonfire. 

HLV

At the end of the last episode of S3, John is threatened by the ruthless blackmailer and media magnate CAM, who flicks John’s face in front of Sherlock and threatens them both with exposure in his news paper. 

I’ve written about this in The Threat of Exposure and other metas about media’s role in BBC Sherlock (X, X).

TST 

In the first episode of S4, young Charlie Welsborough is found dead in his own car outside his rich (and Thatcher-loving) parents’ mansion, when his car is hit by another car and explodes. 

Rather than (as is his MO in S1 and S2) investigating the crime scene to find out what really happened, Sherlock quickly concludes merely from police data that Charlie had made himself invisible by disguising as a car seat. 

According to Sherlock, instead of surprising his father by coming out of the car, as he (supposedly) had planned, Charlie died instantly from some sort of ‘seizure’, and sat there dead until the car exploded a week later. (Added to this case is also the smashing of a Thatcher bust, which later in TST leads to Sherlock discovering a valuable memory stick). 

What bothers me however, apart from the fact that Sherlock’s explanation is quite illogical, is the subtextual implications: a) Charlie is queer-coded, 

(the rainbow is just one of the clues) and b) dying inside one’s own car like that is suspiciously similar to a common suicide method. The idea that Charlie (supposedly) died from a “seizure” ties him closely to Carl Powers - his namesake in Sherlock’s first case, who according to the police died from a “fit” in the water. And Sherlock was reminded of Carl’s case directly after an explosion in TGG. Only this time it’s Sherlock who jumps to conclusions about a ‘seizure’, rather than the police. Which makes me believe that this event represents something entirely different inside Sherlock’s Memory Palace/Mind Theatre. Something dwelling in Sherlock’s subconscious, possibly involving a young (boy)friend ‘coming out’ to a conservative, homophobic father in the Thatcher era. And a possible suicide (or at least disappearance?) by said (boy)friend. Victor Trevor travelled to India in canon, while Charlie Welsborough was traveling in Tibet before he died. (Sounds a bit similar to Sherlock traveling in Tibet/Himalaya during the canon hiatus/MHR doesn’t it?).

TFP

In this last episode of S4, theres an explosion at 221B Baker Street, caused by a ‘patience grenade’: 

Sherlock and John suddenly appear on a ship as pirates:

They take over the boat and force their way onto Sherrinford Island where Eurus is imprisoned. This is also the only episode where Victor Trevor is mentioned, but he’s not a young man; he’s supposed to be a kid from Sherlock’s childhood - his best (and only) friend. Victor is very much presented as a John mirror; short blond hair, checked shirt and trapped in a well. 

Sherlock and Victor were playing pirates outside Sherlock’s childhood home, the mansion Musgrave Hall, which apparently had high chimneys. 

Sherlock was called ‘Yellowbeard’ and Victor ‘Redbeard’. In TFP we also see John and Sherlock hijacking a fishing boat and telling the captain that they’re pirates. In spite of both Sherlock’s dog Redbeard and Victor figuring in early snippets of Sherlock’s dreams in S4, Sister Sentiment Eurus later tells him that they never had a dog; 

Sherlock was not allowed to have one, since their father was ‘allergic’. We also learn that Eurus (Sherlock’s supposedly forgotten sister) killed Victor by trapping him in a well, because she was jealous that her brother Sherlock had a friend and she was not included in their games. Nothing more is explained about Victor, however (and I feel sure this storyline isn’t over yet). 

Victor never came out of the well; he drowned there, but at the end of TFP John seems to be trapped in the same well as Victor, and discovers his bones in it. In the last minute, with a raising water level, Sherlock saves John from the well by solving a puzzle and thereby finding and embracing Eurus.

Conclusion

So, I do believe that we have most of the ingredients of canon’s story about Victor Trevor and the ship The Gloria Scott scattered over the whole show: colleges and boarding schools; a dog; two best friends who were separated; a young man who might have committed suicide, a homophobic father; a mansion; a secret tattoo; a skip code with an important message; someone seemingly innocent with a criminal past; a ship with pirates (= mutinous criminals); dangerous explosions; blackmail and threats of exposure; a trip to Asia. And the back story is merged with the show’s present. What all this might mean for the next series, we can only speculate, but I do think that we have a pattern here. 

Thanks to everyone who has had the patience to read all this. :) Tagging some people who might be interested: @sarahthecoat @tjlcisthenewsexy @ebaeschnbliah @fellshish @gosherlocked @loveismyrevolution @sagestreet @sherlockshadow @darlingtonsubstitution @devoursjohnlock @tendergingergirl @kateis-cakeis @csi-baker-street-babes @88thparallel @timilina @dieseldrakilis @sherlock-overflow-error @elldotsee

[hulksmashin-bannerpackin]

Cursed

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Summary: Reader thinks she is cursed when every man who has ever showed interest in her dies. Loki has actually been killing all potential suitors behind the scenes but his plan backfires when he finally tries to court her and she stays away.

Word Count: 1818

First time writing Loki! I really enjoyed writing for Loki! I’ve got a sequel in mind containing smut, if people express enough interest I’ll try to write it! Tell me what you think ^^

Enjoy!

Y/N grew up within the palace walls, her mother being one of Queen Frigga’s favoured lady in waiting giving Y/N all the opportunities she could ever need to have advantage in life. She spent most of her formative years with the young princes Thor and Loki, playing with them, learning with them, she became close friends with both however she was particularly close with Loki.

They both shared a love of illusions and sorcery and while she did learn in the ways of the blade she preferred to spend her time learning magic with Loki under the tutelage of the beautiful and strong Queen herself. While Thor found bonds with Lady Sif and the Warriors Three, Loki and Y/N grew ever closer.

Y/N thought she had the perfect life but then it all started…

When Y/N was a youngling at the learning hall and she began to discover the wonders of the opposite sex. She had a budding crush on a young boy named Braig. He was enthusiastic and joyous and he was kind to her. They started speaking more and more and soon they began spending time together. Y/N never forgot Braig, he was her first kiss after all. One day however Braig had been bitten by a venomous snake. He was found dead within the forrest, guarded by the lush greenery.

Of course Y/N was saddened and she had mourned but at the time she was able to forget for the most part and move on. It wasn’t until she was older, til she matured both in body and mind. She had become a lady. A beautiful lady. She began to gain the attention of her peers. It was then Y/N realised that she was cursed.

For every man that ever showed her interest seemed to be destined to perish over the next thousand or so years of her life. Varmir crushed by an avalanche of boulders, Trandere didn’t survive the trials of the warrior, Haggard lost his life in a brawl after consuming much too much mead and Aevar, Eskil, Galm, Ottar, Wybjorn and Frode had all lost their lives across different battles for Asgard in different realms.

Y/N had laid weeping in her chambers. Loki sat on the edge of her bed with a reserved expression as as he patted her back.

“I’m cursed Loki!” Y/N wailed into her pillow, when she was calm enough to speak.

“Don’t be ridiculous darling, you are not cursed.” Loki said calmly.

“What other possible explanation could there be?!” Y/N sobbed. This was it! This was the last time she would allow herself to fall in love! She had found someone she thought she would be able to safely feel for. A bakers son. A man who had no intentions of following the warriors path. Surely this time her curse wouldn’t effect this man? She was wrong. He had disappeared, seemingly without a trace. This proved that it was her, that somehow she was cursed to be alone without love.

“I think you’re being a little bit over emotional.” Loki ran his hand through her soft (coloured) tresses. “Besides none of those men deserved you.”

“That doesn’t mean they deserve to die Loki!” She sat up, wiping her eyes with the palm of her hand. “Loki, thank you for being there for me but I think I just want to be alone right now.”

“Very well, I hope you’ll join me in the library later tonight.” Loki smiled at her as he stood. Y/N nodded as she gave him a week smile in return. “I will, thank you for understanding.”

Loki’s footsteps echoed down the empty hallway as a dark smile splayed across his face. None of those vulgar whelps deserved the perfection that was Y/N. He couldn’t allow them to taint her or bring her down to a level below her. Loki had loved her the second he met her. He knew of course he didn’t deserve her yet either. Loki had many plans to become great. A great Sorcerer, a great man, a great King. He was determined to become worthy of her and until then he had to make sure he kept the competition scarce.

Loki didn’t mean for it to come so far, he swore it started out innocently! He just couldn’t stand the pit of jealousy welling inside of him whenever someone tried to approach her. The only arm that would suit being around her was his and that’s how it was going to stay.

As the years passed Loki’s hard work seemed to have paid off, Y/N had spurned the advances of all whom came across her. Y/N focused on her studies and by Loki’s side they became great warriors with powerful magic and an ever growing connection between them.

—————————————

Y/N noticed, one day how distressed Loki had seemed to be. She looked for him high and low that day deciding to finally search not in Loki’s favourite place which was the palaces library but in her own favourite hide away. Whenever Y/N was distraught she would go deep into the royal gardens maze, in the centre. There she found Loki brooding away, sitting on one of the benches.

“Loki?” Y/N softly called as she approached him cautiously. He didn’t look up at her or acknowledge her presence. “Loki?” She tried again, sounding more assertive. She sat beside him and placed a hand on his.

He violently pulled away from her as if he had touched fire and that was all Y/N could take anymore.

“For goodness sake Loki talk to me! I will not be ignored!” There was a serious tone in her voice that demanded to be listened too.

Loki looked at her and Y/N’s heart almost broke when she saw his expression. “Loki?” Her voice softened. “What’s the matter…?” She reached out and held his face in her hands, grip firm when she felt the slight tug oh him trying to escape her grasp.

Loki took a deep breath and held his hand over one of her own, leaning his face against it.

“I should of known that I was different, that l, that l didn’t belong. I should have been smart enough to realise. Oh Y/N… The God of lies turned out to truly be the biggest lie of them all…” Loki’s voice was broken, he knew that she was the only one he could show his true feelings too, and it was all the more precious coming from one who wore a mask of so many faces.

“Loki, whatever has happened will be okay. We can get through it together.” Y/N turned to console him but Loki only let out a dry laugh. He waved his hands and in a whirl Y/N’s eyes widened as the Casket Of Ancient Winters appeared before her floating in the air.

“Loki!” Y/N said harshly as she stood. “This is no prank! You cannot steal from Odin’s treasure vault!” Y/N was growing more worried by the second. What kind of trouble had her dear friend gotten into?

Loki simply looked at her, his hands hovered on each side of the Casket before he slowly gripped it. Y/N gasped and she backed away in fright as Loki’s skin and eyes began to change. “L-Loki? What is this?”

Loki looked at her with a sad sort of acceptance. Like he knew he would be shunned. “It turns out this relic wasn’t the only thing my ‘father’ had taken that day.” He spat, the word father was venomous.

A weight came down onto Y/N’s shoulders as different emotions raked through her.  Surely somewhere, someone may find this attractive, but to an Asgardian, to someone who grew up to hate Frost Giants and find their race vile and offensive, to say the least it was hard for Y/N to look at. She knew however this was a key moment. What she did now would take a lasting effect forever.

“Oh my dear Loki.” She took careful steps forward and approached him. Her hands twitched by her sides as she raised them and placed them once more on Loki’s cheeks. She felt a chill run down her spine at how his touch was now icy but she ignored it.

“You are still Loki. The past or future cannot change who you are. I will stand with you always.” Y/N smiled at him, trying to convey that her sentiment was genuine. The Casket disappeared and Loki’s pale skin and beautiful eyes returned.

Loki looked into her eyes, searching desperately for the truth in her words. Finally Loki let go of his long held restraint, taking Y/N into his arms Loki crashes his lips against hers in a rapturous kiss. Shock overcame Y/N but that quickly faded as she returned the kiss dazzled and beguiled by the sudden action.

When Y/N realised what was happening she pulled away despite the butterflies in her stomach and the tingling on her lips. “Loki what are you…?” She was so shocked she couldn’t even finish her sentence.

“Y/N I’ve held feelings for you for a very long time, I just, I never felt like I was worth your affection.” Loki confessed, his hands still clenching her shoulders almost painfully tight.

“Loki… I-I can’t…” Tears welled in Y/N’s eyes as she stepped away from him.

“Because of what I am?” Loki asked, if she were to reject him, well at least he would of the memory of that kiss.

“No. No Loki no… Because of my curse. I couldn’t do that to you…”

Loki froze, his blood ran cold. Did that mean she would return his feelings? And not only that she would accept him for what he truly was?

“Y/N you do not have a curse.” Loki stated with conviction.

“I do Loki, I’m not going to risk you.”

Loki swallowed, he finally had the chance to be with her but she refused him because of his own doing. He couldn’t very well tell her he had sabotaged her all these years.

“Really Y/N I’m far more powerful then any silly curse could comprehend. I-“

“Loki no… l can’t.”

Loki’s face hardened. He felt like a dagger had been twisted into his heart. He had never felt more alone. He stepped back and disappeared leaving Y/N to sink to her knees and cry.

—————————————-

Y/N sat on the edge of the shattered rainbow bridge staring into the empty abyss. She felt broken and her stomach churned painfully. She wanted to cry but after all this time Y/N felt like her tears had all gone. Loki was… dead… She felt like throwing herself off the bridge as well just so see could be with him but she knew that Loki wouldn’t want that.

This was all her fault and no amount of consoling could tell her otherwise. Loki had feelings for her and he was punished for that with her curse…

The End

Taglist: @insanityismysanity12345 @greenangrysnowflake @kitchensink-to-me @zadyalyss @becaamm @theweirdlunatic @itsjackothy @bluebird-burning-gold @surfin-the-sun @ncville @My-crazy-hectic-life @daft-not-punk @fangirlbitch02 @gabriels-trix @ivy-16-18 @theblackqueen-ofmyheart

[meeedeee]

Shin Godzilla: Disasters, Tropes & Cultural Memory RSS FEED OF POST WRITTEN BY FOZMEADOWS

Warning: spoilers for Shin Godzilla.

I’ve been wanting to see Shin Godzilla since it came out last year, and now that it’s available on iTunes, I’ve finally had the chance. Aside from the obvious draw inherent to any Godzilla movie, I’d been keen to see a new Japanese interpretation of an originally Japanese concept, given the fact that every other recent take has been American. As I loaded up the film, I acknowledged the irony in watching a disaster flick as a break from dealing with real-world disasters, but even so, I didn’t expect the film itself to be quite so bitingly apropos.

While Shin Godzilla pokes some fun at the foibles of Japanese bureaucracy, it also reads as an unsubtle fuck you to American disaster films in general and their Godzilla films in particular. From the opening scenes where the creature appears, the contrast with American tropes is pronounced. In so many natural disaster films – 2012, The Day After Tomorrow, Deep Impact, Armageddon, San Andreas – the Western narrative style centres by default on a small, usually ragtag band of outsiders collaborating to survive and, on occasion, figure things out, all while being thwarted by or acting beyond the government. There’s frequently a capitalist element where rich survivors try to edge out the poor, sequestering themselves in their own elite shelters: chaos and looting are depicted up close, as are their consequences. While you’ll occasionally see a helpful local authority figure, like a random policeman, trying to do good (however misguidedly), it’s always at a remove from any higher, more coordinated relief effort, and particularly in more SFFnal films, a belligerent army command is shown to pose nearly as much of a threat as the danger itself.

To an extent, this latter trope appears in Shin Godzilla, but to a much more moderated effect. When Japanese command initially tries to use force, the strike is aborted because of a handful of civilians in range of the blast, and even when a new attempt is made, there’s still an emphasis on chain of command, on minimising collateral damage and keeping the public safe. At the same time, there’s almost no on-the-ground civilian elements to the story: we see the public in flashes, their online commentary and mass evacuations, a few glimpses of individual suffering, but otherwise, the story stays with the people in charge of managing the disaster. Yes, the team brought together to work out a solution – which is ultimately scientific rather than military – are described as “pains-in-the-bureaucracy,” but they’re never in the position of having to hammer, bloody-fisted, on the doors of power in order to rate an audience. Rather, their assemblage is expedited and authorised the minute the established experts are proven inadequate.

When the Japanese troops mobilise to attack, we view them largely at a distance: as a group being addressed and following orders, not as individuals liable to jump the chain of command on a whim. As such, the contrast with American films is stark: there’s no hotshot awesome commander and his crack marine team to save the day, no sneering at the red tape that gets in the way of shooting stuff, no casual acceptance of casualties as a necessary evil, no yahooing about how the Big Bad is going to get its ass kicked, no casual discussion of nuking from the army. There’s just a lot of people working tirelessly in difficult conditions to save as many people as possible – and, once America and the UN sign a resolution to drop a nuclear bomb on Godzilla, and therefore Tokyo, if the Japanese can’t defeat it within a set timeframe, a bleak and furious terror at their country once more being subject to the evils of radiation.

In real life, Japan is a nation with extensive and well-practised disaster protocols; America is not. In real life, Japan has a wrenchingly personal history with nuclear warfare; America, despite being the cause of that history, does not.

Perhaps my take on Shin Godzilla would be different if I’d managed to watch it last year, but in the immediate wake of Hurricane Harvey, with Hurricane Irma already wreaking unprecedented damage in the Caribbean, and huge tracts of Washington, Portland and Las Angeles now on fire, I find myself unable to detach my viewing from the current political context. Because what the film hit home to me – what I couldn’t help but notice by comparison – is the deep American conviction that, when disaster strikes, the people are on their own. The rich will be prioritised, local services will be overwhelmed, and even when there’s ample scientific evidence to support an imminent threat, the political right will try to suppress it as dangerous, partisan nonsense.

In The Day After Tomorrow, which came out in 2004, an early plea to announce what’s happening and evacuate those in danger is summarily waved off by the Vice President, who’s more concerned about what might happen to the economy, and who thinks the scientists are being unnecessarily alarmist. This week, in the real America of 2017, Republican Rush Limbaugh told reporters that the threat of Hurricane Irma, now the largest storm ever recorded over the Atlantic Ocean, was being exaggerated by the “corrupted and politicised” media so that they and other businesses could profit from the “panic”.

In my latest Foz Rants piece for the Geek Girl Riot podcast, which I recorded weeks ago, I talk about how we’re so acclimated to certain political threats and plotlines appearing in blockbuster movies that, when they start to happen in real life, we’re conditioned to think of them as being fictional first, which leads us to view the truth as hyperbolic. Now that I’ve watched Shin Godzilla, which flash-cuts to a famous black-and-white photo of the aftermath of Hiroshima when the spectre of a nuclear strike is raised, I’m more convinced than ever of the vital, two-way link between narrative on the one hand and our collective cultural, historical consciousness on the other. I can’t imagine any Japanese equivalent to the moment in Independence Day when cheering American soldiers nuke the alien ship over Las Angeles, the consequences never discussed again despite the strike’s failure, because the pain of that legacy is too fully, too personally understood to be taken lightly.

At a cultural level, Japan is a nation that knows how to prepare for and respond to natural disasters. Right now, a frightening number of Americans – and an even more frightening number of American politicians – are still convinced that climate change is a hoax, that scientists are biased, and that only God is responsible for the weather. How can a nation prepare for a threat it won’t admit exists? How can it rebuild from the aftermath if it doubts there’ll be a next time?

Watching Shin Godzilla, I was most strongly reminded, not of any of the recent American versions, but The Martian. While the science in Shin Godzilla is clearly more handwavium than hard, it’s nonetheless a film in which scientific collaboration, teamwork and international cooperation save the day. The last, despite a denouement that pits Japan against an internationally imposed deadline, is of particular importance, as global networking still takes place across scientific and diplomatic back-channels. It’s a rare American disaster movie that acknowledges the existence or utility of other countries, especially non-Western ones, beyond shots of collapsing monuments, and even then, it’s usually in the context of the US naturally taking the global lead once they figure out a plan. The fact that the US routinely receives international aid in the wake of its own disasters is seemingly little-known in the country itself; that Texas’s Secretary of State recently appeared to turn down Canadian aid in the wake of Harvey, while now being called a misunderstanding, is nonetheless suggestive of confusion over this point.

As a film, Shin Godzilla isn’t without its weaknesses: the monster design is a clear homage to the original Japanese films, which means it occasionally looks more stop-motion comical than is ideal; there’s a bit too much cutting dramatically between office scenes at times; and the few sections of English-language dialogue are hilariously awkward in the mouths of American actors, because the word-choice and use of idiom remains purely Japanese. Even so, these are ultimately small complaints: there’s a dry, understated sense of humour evident throughout, even during some of the heavier moments, and while it’s not an action film in the American sense, I still found it both engaging and satisfying.

But above all, at this point in time – as I spend each morning worriedly checking the safety of various friends endangered by hurricane and flood and fire; as my mother calls to worry about the lack of rain as our own useless government dithers on climate science – what I found most refreshing was a film in which the authorities, despite their faults and foibles, were assumed and proven competent, even in the throes of crisis, and in which scientists were trusted rather than dismissed. Earlier this year, in response to an article we both read, my mother bought me a newly-released collection of the works of children’s poet Misuzu Kaneko, whose poem “Are You An Echo?” was used to buoy the Japanese public in the aftermath of the 2011 tsunami . Watching Shin Godzilla, it came back to me, and so I feel moved to end with it here.

May we all build better futures; may we all write better stories.

Are You An Echo?

If I say, “Let’s play?” you say, “Let’s play!”

If I say, “Stupid!” you say, “Stupid!”

If I say, “I don’t want to play anymore,” you say, “I don’t want to play anymore.”

And then, after a while, becoming lonely

I say, “Sorry.” You say, “Sorry.”

Are you just an echo? No, you are everyone.

      from shattersnipe: malcontent & rainbows http://ift.tt/2wJXCVQ via IFTTT

[zombieheroine]

My blood, my soul, my brother [Overwatch, shimadacest, M][5/5]

part 1  part 2  part 3  part 4

This work on Ao3

Warnings: underage sex, sibling incest, suicide mention Total word-count: 20 640

A/N: It’s finally finished! I feel so pure now that I got this off my chest. Thank you for all my readers, likers, rebloggers, kudos-givers and those who left comments. Feedback and discussion is still very much welcome!

*

If Genji had been a menace when he was little, he grew up to be an absolute nightmare. Fifteen-year-old Genji was tall and lanky and always in a bad mood, always starting trouble and apparently just dying to get on everyone's nerves, and as an anarchistic piece of trash 'everyone' truly meant everyone: Civilians, yakuza, clans under Shimada-gumi's command, everyone in Shimada-gumi, friends and foes alike, and especially his own flesh and blood. 

Genji had gone and dyed his hair, and that had only been the beginning. Green hair was followed with multiple piercings in both of his ears, gold-chain on his neck, drinking and clubbing sometimes several nights in a row and flaunting his katana everywhere he went. Father was going grey early and vented almost daily to Hanzo about his sad excuse of a second son who acted like a common chimpira, only worse. The arcade was bright like the light of day even in the middle of the night, the games blinking and flashing and making noise, the vending machines faintly glowing and the neon commercials adding to the migraine-inducing visual attack. Hanzo knew he wasn't supposed to be there before he even stepped inside, that this world resisted his kind so strongly he wouldn't have been surprised even if an invisible force field had appeared to stop him from stepping into the sea of rainbow colours and 8bit-tunes. He stood out of the crowd despite his average hight. His traditional clothing, expensive-looking warrior's hakama, haori on his shoulders, a bow on his back and the tail of a dragon peeking from under the folds of his shirt and kimono left no room for doubt what kind of a man he was. He spotted the biggest, noisiest group of the arcade and headed there. Smiles vanished and people gave him way when they spotted him, and without any difficulties Hanzo got in the middle of the group where stood Genji, a bright pink plastic gun in hand and breaking high-scores on a game. He was wearing a white suit with an obnoxiously bright red and green Hawaii-shirt, pointed Italian leather shoes, and his gold-chain and earrings sparkling and jingling as he moved while playing, surrounded by flashy, cheap and curious girls who were attracted to danger. Girls with bottle-blonde hair, undercuts, leather jackets, tight dresses, sharp eye-liner, neon colours and glittering bows in their hair, one of which – perhaps Genji's favourite or just a lucky one – was holding Genji's suit jacket. It took a glare from Hanzo to get the girls to take a step back. Hanzo stopped right next to his brother, who pointedly ignored him even though his grin was long gone just like everyone else's. “We are going home, right now,” Hanzo declared. Genji's character in the game ran out of healthbars and dropped dead. Genji made a frustrated sound and glanced at Hanzo. “Well hello there, Party Police. Did you bring your 'no fun allowed' sign with you or did you leave it by the door?” he asked, voice dripping mockery. “Right. Now,” Hanzo repeated coldly. Genji whined and moaned dramatically, but turned to grab his jacket and flash a smile to the girls, who all watched the scene with curious expression, half scared and half fascinated. He picked up his katana that was leaning against the game console, lifted it on his shoulder and gestured at Hanzo to lead the way. Hanzo spun around and marched out of the arcade with Genji on his tail. Genji had wandered so far that they took the train back. Hanzo paid the ticket for the both of them and lead them to the platform, Genji following him as if pulled by an invisible rope. It was so late there were few people still out, and once they boarded the train they got a whole bench for themselves. The train yanked into movement and so they were headed back home. “Your behavior brings shame to our family,” Hanzo quietly said after a moment of silence. Genji clicked his tongue. “No shit. Also, get this: I don't give a fuck.” “You lower yourself,” Hanzo said like he hadn't heard anything. “With yourself, you lower our family name and everything it stands for.” Genji huffed. “Because our name stands for such great things,” he muttered. “You are a professional ninja with the best training there is, a Shimada warrior. You should act like one,” Hanzo said, a bit more stern. From the clenching of his jaw Genji could tell Hanzo was angry and barely controlling it. “You accepted the knowledge and the katana, yet show no respect to them or the path you walk. Shame on you, brother.” “As if anyone ever asked me what I want,” Genji hissed under his breath and glancing around. There were civilians on the same car, but no one was looking at them and all kept a safe distance, as if they didn't exist or belong to their world – and right they were. Genji felt bitterness rise in his throat. “Quit acting like a selfish brat! you are a Shimada, you belong to this family. Your self-centred rebellion will accomplish nothing but shame for us all,” Hanzo said through gritting teeth. Genji rolled his eyes and squeezed his katana with both hands. “Well excuse me for wanting to go out sometimes! Unlike you, I still have a soul and a sense of humor.” “Those people are not your friends, Genji!” Hanzo snapped. “Those are outsiders, civilians who want to get a good look at a real yakuza, or foolish girls after your money. Their respect isn't real!” “Oh I don't have to pay for my company,” Genji spat with a snarl, “and so what if they are? What the fuck do I care? Like you have any friends, even pretended ones, brother!” Hanzo glared at him and raised his chin up. “Unlike you, I don't waste my time with games and booze and drugs.” “You know why we don't have any friends?!” Genji snarled quietly, leaning closer to Hanzo. “Because we are god-damned Shimadas! Our name is like a fucking curse!” Hanzo looked like he was barely holding himself back from slapping Genji. It wouldn't be the first time. Genji turned his cheek, welcoming the blow. “I would have company more often if you didn't run off to heavens know where,” Hanzo said, the icy tone back in his voice. “We have each other. We are a family.” “I hate this family,” Genji hissed and watched with glee how pain of rejection flashed in Hanzo's eyes. Genji knew that Hanzo didn't have anyone but the family; Who would be mad enough to get near the Shimada-gumi's heir, the frightening young man with emotionless eyes, frozen demeanor and a startlingly long list of successful jobs for his age. Shimada-gumi's new generation of perfect warriors, a merciless hit-man at eighteen. Genji was ranked with his brother no matter what he did, and year by year it had started to dawn to him what it truly meant. If in his childhood the adults living and working in Shimada Castle had felt distant like a different world behind a thin curtain while the brothers played in the world of their own, the Shimada family had now come into perfect focus and the rest of the world had faded behind the curtain. Not only civilians, but other yakuza-clans as well; no one wanted to get too close to Shimada-gumi. They climbed over the castle's gate and sneaked through the gardens. Their argument was on a break while they passed the guards and thus avoided Father's and uncles' watchful eyes, but as soon as they got safely inside and were on the way to their own rooms, they picked up right where they left off. One might think a little break would clear the air, but Genji was fuming even more than before. “You act so cool and proper all the time, brother, like you didn't feel anything,” Genji murmured almost like to himself but fully aware that Hanzo heard him. “I have accepted the burden of dragons,” Hanzo said, icy and trembling with rage. “The same duty awaits you, and you would do well to grow up and bear it like a man.” “Again with the dragon-story!” Genji said and laughed with mockery. “You cherry-pick that one! Father's story is about balance, not you calling all the shots and me just falling in line!” “It's about duty and unity within a family!” Hanzo shouted. “Yet you choose to run around, looking like a common street thug instead of a warrior! I have no need for a brother like you!” Genji's heart thundered and tears stung in his eyes. The insult cut deep, and he tried to hastily cover it even though Hanzo's sharp eye caught his pain. Genji bit his lip and squeezed his hands into fists. “Fine!” he yelled back and stomped his foot. “Fine, toss me aside! Like you needed anyone! If you don't want me around then I'll do you a favor and keep my distance! You go ahead and play a noble dragon all by yourself, Onii-sama!” Genji saw Hanzo flinch and, for a second, look uncertain. Genji felt a spark of cruel joy and stormed off to his own room with that little victory. Genji didn't calm down even after slamming the door behind him and throwing himself on his futon. He kicked the floor for a few times, running the events of the evening and the argument over in his head, congratulating himself on his own wit and little comebacks he had thrown at his brother. Stupid Hanzo and his stupid honor and stupid family code and convictions. Genji told himself he didn't care about honor, at least not about Hanzo's brand of it. Genji cared about being nice and charming to girls, leading a pack of his own from clubs to arcades and bars and karaoke, and getting as many girls and why not boys too fall in love with him while he was at it. He had all the money he needed from the family business after all – business he ran with Hanzo, for the large part, and Hanzo's share of the spoils too. Hanzo never wanted much of the money, it was unfit for a warrior, he said. Genji felt the first sting of remorse when he thought about their work. Father and his lieutenants ran the boring finances and trade side, but as the younger ones in the line Hanzo and Genji got the exciting hits and capturing gigs, extracting intel and collecting payments and high-end protection money. Hanzo was always by Genji's side there, always watching his back and trusting his own life with Genji. Anger bled out of Genji and he started to feel a bit silly about his earlier outburst. Hanzo was right: none of his party gang would even look him in the eye during the day. They were all at least a bit afraid of Genji anyway. None of them knew about his life. Only Hanzo did. He was there in the morning and gave him a glass of water when he was hung-over. The futon was cold and lonely, and his own room was strange to him after all the nights spent elsewhere. He thought of the pain on Hanzo's face earlier, and now that the anger was gone a strong need to go over and comfort his brother hit him so hard his chest hurt. He got up and sneaked outside. When Genji slipped in Hanzo's room through the door on the garden's side, he was surprised: He had expected Hanzo to be in the middle of his evening routine and tending to his weapons or combing his stupidly long hair, but instead he was still fully dressed and anxious-looking, just about to step outside into the corridor when Genji entered. “Genji,” he whispered, his voice overwhelming with pure relief. His eyes were wide when they locked gazes, and with the pained relief and remorse on his face Hanzo looked as young as he truly was. “I was just... About to...” He gestured vaguely towards the corridor and Genji's room.

Genji closed the door after himself. He glanced at Hanzo's katana and the precious Stormbow both carelessly discarded on the floor by the door, then back at his brother. He gave a weak smile and half a shrug. “Don't leave me, okay?” Hanzo opened and closed his mouth and slowly shook his head. “Don't you leave me either then,” he muttered. He turned to quickly flick the light off, then focused on Genji in the dark, stepping closer. They met in the middle, and despite having grown taller Genji let Hanzo cradle his head in his hands like when he had been ten and bring it against his shoulder. Genji reached to pull Hanzo's ribbon loose and let it fall on the floor. He turned his head, pushed his face against Hanzo's neck and inhaled the scent of his hair, closing his eyes and letting his thoughts drift. He focused on the feeling of his brother's fingers combing through his hair despite all the hairspray he had put in it, and even gently fondling the offensive piercings in his ears. Hanzo petted his neck and back, caressing him soft and kind before pulling him tighter against him, and Genji gladly surrendered, humming contently in the crook of his brother's neck, thinking nothing. Hanzo guided them towards his futon and lay them down on it, side by side. Genji might have been taller but here he felt suddenly childish, starving for attention. He didn't care about his tough image put openly pouted when Hanzo pushed him away from his arms so he could start peeling off his clothes. “Don't make that face at me,” Hanzo said at Genji's pout, but smiled while he scolded. Genji hurried to fight with the knots of Hanzo's belt and the strings holding his archer's attire together, cursing traditional clothes and their complexity while Hanzo unbuttoned his shirt with ease. Everything came off, hurried and practiced, and they escaped the cold air under the covers. Genji crawled in Hanzo's lap and wrapped his arms around his neck. He pushed his fingers in his long hair and felt around the muscles in his back, where his fingertips found the tail of the dragon and followed the line of the scar down the arm. Hanzo's fingers had already found the dancing green dragon on Genji's back, and was tracing its scales and mane as well. Inspecting the beasts branded into their skin was like a ritual for them, like they somehow expected the other to vanish over-night, breaking their cycle. Getting a tattoo had been a long, painful process. Genji had panted and cursed his way through it, and Hanzo had been there with him every time, calming him with words and reminding him of the virtue of patience, that the pain had a reward. In private Hanzo had tended to the sore dragon and falling cherry blossom petals around it, washing and greasing the places Genji couldn't reach. In private, they both tended to the wounds of the other, some skin-deep, some running deeper. Genji found it easier to think about every ache and bruise as a tattoo, that eventually they would all have a reward in store, something greater than just blood stains in his sheets and shame, something like a fitting end for a good story. When Hanzo took a hold of his hips and guided him on his back, Genji followed the lead. He kept his eyes closed even though the dark hid everything already, trusting only his touch to guide him. He felt a gentle, atoning kiss on his cheek, then another in the corner of his mouth. Genji turned his head and kissed back, small and chaste little pecks to say he was sorry, he was here, he felt the distance as ache in his spirit too. It was a short, wordless conversation, and then it ended. Hanzo knew that Genji wanted to hold on to him and hide in the crook of his neck, and he let him do just that. The kissing part ended, Genji took a steady hold with his arms around the other's neck, and they moved on. Hanzo fumbled around under the covers, spread Genji's legs and settled between them, and there they could start winding around each other again. Genji didn't like kissing Hanzo much. He kissed pretty girls, he kissed his lovers, but somehow those kinds of gestures didn't belong here with them. Hanzo seemed to prefer petting and holding and being held as well, and so that was the way of things. They pressed together and just felt each other up for a long while, like they usually did. They clutched at each other and rocked back and forth gently, like rocking each other to sleep, aimless and tender, the darkness hiding them and providing an illusion of timelessness. Arousal was achieved with some concentrated effort, and soon gentle and aimless turned into strong rhythm with intention. Hands rubbed and pressed, guided with hands where just hips failed. Genji whined with frustration, and Hanzo shushed him. They stopped, Genji was pulled in a better position, and their graceless fumbling movements resumed. Genji wanted to hold Hanzo closer and smell his hair. He wanted to be as small as he felt so he could fit completely in his lap and stay there, fall asleep there and be safe, safe and loved. He didn't care about the need burning in the bottom of his stomach, winding him tight and begging for release, but he did care that it was Hanzo who was there with him, tending to that flame and caring for him. The only downside to the whole affair was the mess afterwards. Hanzo had tissues stored under his futon, and he pulled a few out to clean them both off so they could continue comfortably. Genji would have preferred to take a shower or at least change the sheet because no matter how mindful they tried to be, there was always at least the tiniest semen stain somewhere, just waiting to turn cold and nasty. But sometimes the secrecy meant uncomfortable things, and besides Genji didn't believe Hanzo would let go of him if he tried to leave, nor that he himself actually had the strength of spirit needed to pull himself out of his brother's arms. * They were silent again, and once again unable to look each other in the eye. Hanzo felt his face burning and knew he was bright red all over, and yet his hands felt cold. This had to be the peak of embarrassment. Genji cleared his throat. “So, anyway, that's... That's how it was for me. It was actually kind of a breakthrough for me to realize how different our thing was from my flings. It helped me with the shame,” he said, rubbing the side of his nose as if that could hide how red his cheeks and ears were. “How... How was it for you?” Hanzo closed his eyes and prayed for a miracle to save him from here. For the first time since they had started the conversation he really longed to throw himself out of the window and fall six stories to the rocks just so he wouldn't have to talk about sex with his brother. For some bizarre reason talking about sex was more embarrassing than having it. “I... I don't really... Know. Um,” he said with a slight stammer. “I suppose the same in a way that it wasn't about the... the release.” Genji laughed out-loud at his choice of words, but his voice trembled too. Hanzo internally struggled with his embarrassment to find the right words and force them out. “Nor was it about the pleasure. I just... I don't know. I wasn't thinking. It just was how we were and I didn't question it!” “Why?” Genji asked. “You could have just... Stopped.” “So could have you,” Hanzo said, a bit defensive. “I didn't want to,” Genji countered. “Why didn't you?” Hanzo thought for a minute, forcing himself to visit the memory and focus on it, forcing himself to really see what it was. “Comfort, I think,” he finally said, pressing his cold fingers against his burning cheek hoping it would ease the blush. Thinking about his younger self was painful, realizing all the feelings he had convinced himself didn't exist and how futile lying to himself had been. “I was so... Professional and dutiful, all the time. Nothing cracked, ever, I was strong and proud and did everything right. But no one complimented me or expressed any kind of – ” he paused and searched for the right word. “ – admiration, or anything akin to it. No one cared about me. I wanted someone to take care of me too.” Hanzo swallowed and moved on to scratch and pick on his cuticles. He felt like a turtle on its back, vulnerable belly-side exposed. Genji combed both of his hands through his hair. “Fuck,” he said, “this is so fucked up. If someone had picked us up more as babies, do you think we would have been alright?” Hanzo pulled a string of skin off his finger and watched it start to bleed. “I don't think it's that simple. There were other factors.” “It was just us then, wasn't it?” Genji asked, and Hanzo flinched at the bitterness in his voice. Hanzo sighed and gave a shrug. “It happened. It happened and that's it.” Genji nodded reflexively. “Fuck,” he muttered again under his breath.   Hanzo focused on his fingernails and how much skin he could scratch off from there, and felt a small twinkle of satisfaction every time he saw blood. “Can I ask you a question?” he asked before he could bite his tongue. “It's something that's been bothering me, but it's rather personal.” Even with his eyes on his hands Hanzo almost felt Genji's unimpressed look. “Ani-san, we are beyond personal at this point. Go ahead,” Genji huffed. Hanzo nodded. Cleared his throat. Picked on the cuticle of his index finger with compulsive need to make it bleed. “Did our inappropriate affair leave permanent marks on you?” Genji tilted his head. “Like, scars?” Hanzo shook his head. “No, not physical ones. Did it affect your... tastes?” Genji turned the question around, probably tried to understand it, and then a light went off. “Are you asking me about my kinks?” “What? No!” Hanzo hastily snapped. “I'm asking about your preferences! I know you had girlfriends then but – “ “You're asking if you made me gay,” Genji asked with his head tilted and eyes narrowed. Hanzo felt stupid and his face burned even more, but he nodded anyway. “Oh, Hanzo...” Genji sighed, suddenly sweet if a tad pitying “You didn't make me into anything, okay? Although... Well, I did have a lot of partners between the ages of fourteen and twenty-three. I think I was trying to work out the stuff we did, just very badly. I was in my mid-twenties when I figured that I'm straight. That was kind of a relief for me, actually. I don't like men like that, and figuring that out tipped me off that our thing wasn't just on me or some... weird perversion or anything like that.” Judging by the relaxed line of his shoulders and the neutral expression on his face Genji seemed to be at peace about that part about his life and definitely happy about his identity, and the smile he gave Hanzo was trying to offer reassurance. Despite that Hanzo was still anxious, his heart thudding in his chest and words forming in his throat yet not wanting to come out of his mouth. He was relieved, but there was another layer to his worry at play. The silence made Genji's smile falter a bit, and suddenly understanding lit up in his eyes. “And what about you?” he asked even though he obviously had an idea what the answer was going to be. Hanzo struggled to find the words and reach a consensus between truthful, appropriate and something he could actually force himself to say. “I like men, actually,” he managed to finally force out while staring over Genji's head. “I... prefer them, I think. Not exclusively, but... Strongly.” “That's fine,” Genji hurried to say. “It's totally fine with me. And everyone else, I assure you.” He paused, but then wasn't apparently able to help himself because he blurted out: “Have you been with a guy?” Hanzo felt a strong need to groan and cover his eyes, but was simultaneously oddly relieved by seeing this mischievous, rude side of his brother – the side he was most familiar with. “No, I have not,” he replied awkwardly. “I've had encounters with a few women, but never a... I've never had a real relationship.” There were remains of glee in Genji's eyes though his comment was bleak: “Yeah, me neither.” The sun was starting to set outside. The clouds were orange and pink before they sank in the darkening horizon. The warmth had suddenly disappeared and a cool evening was settling over Gibraltar. Seagulls had turned quiet. “Can I ask one more thing, Genji?” Hanzo asked, his eyes staring outside into the approaching night. “Yes.” “You attacked the family after you were saved and turned into a cyborg, correct?” Genji huffed. “I thought you'd figured that out. I wondered why you haven't scolded me about it already.” Hanzo turned back to look at his brother. “I want to know why you did it.” Genji turned serious, and something cold gleamed in the bottom of his dark eyes. His jaw clenched briefly. “Back then, I felt nothing but hate and resentment. I blamed everyone about everything. You shattered my world when you turned against me, and I hated our family and the clan for stealing my life from me before I was even born.” He paused as if to dare Hanzo to interrupt him, deny it or defend the family name. When he said nothing of sorts, Genji continued: “My original plan was to turn that hate against Shimada-gumi, become a rogue dragon and destroy it all, and after the empire was dealt with, I'd kill myself.” Genji met Hanzo's gaze, steely and determined. Hanzo didn't look surprised, just simply nodded as a sign of understanding. Genji shrugged at the things of past, then curiously commented: “I always wondered why you didn't put up a better fight, though. We were constantly over-prepared and practically trampled over some of your operations.” Hanzo took a deep breath, held it and let it out. “Turning against you was the honorable thing to do, but no matter how many rituals it was dressed up in, it was the worst thing I have ever done in my life. It broke something deep in me. I haven't been able to touch a katana since that day. I was not the man I was before.” “Neither one of us were,” Genji said quietly. After a moment of hesitation he added: “I thought you'd kill yourself when the clan fell.” “I thought about it,” Hanzo said. “It would have been fitting. But I... Decided I needed to carry the burden of killing you, and on top of that letting our bloodline and its legacy turn to ash. Death would have been too easy.” The air was heavy with something, perhaps the presence of death that they had both called upon, and they both shivered. Genji stood up to close the windows. When he sat back down, Hanzo was staring at the table with a frown. “We really ended it,” Hanzo said. “Ended it all.” “What?” Genji asked. “The Shimada clan. There are no more heirs. We are the last ones, and we've abandoned the family, and they have disowned us. We have no cousins. We have ended the Shimada bloodline,” Hanzo whispered, almost terrified to utter a truth so heavy. “More than seven hundred years of tradition, finished.” Genji nodded but didn't say anything. No matter how angry and bitter he had been, no matter how much he had wanted the clan to fall, it had been the only family he had known, and now it was gone forever. “It's not worth mourning over,” Genji stubbornly claimed. “Consider what we were: A bunch of assassins. Murderers and criminals. What's that worth?” Hanzo chuckled with a bitter smile. “Nothing, brother, but it was our family regardless. Our parents, our uncles and aunties, our home.” He leaned his chin on his palm and closed his eyes for a moment. “I miss it, from time to time. Mother's cooking and setting the table, spring days in the gardens, running on top of the walls early in the morning while uncles yelled at us.” “Yeah,” Genji agreed with a heavy sigh. “When I spent time in Nepal with the monks, I woke up early in the morning just like we did at home, and sometimes for a second I didn't know where I was. For a moment there I thought I'd soon be eating rice and fried fish for breakfast with you and start the morning training. When I realized where and when I was, I felt so lonely I could cry.” Hanzo's gaze flickered across Genji's face, studying him carefully. “I'm sorry you went through that. It would have been kinder if you hadn't looked back.” Genji pressed his palms against his eyes and rubbed harshly. “Yeah, I know,” he admitted. He changed his sitting position, pulled his knees against his chest and rested his cheek on top of them. “For the longest time I wasn't sure if I even wanted you back in my life, you know.” “It took you ten years to decide, so I assumed that was the case. Why you decided what you did, I don't know,” Hanzo replied. He looked exhausted, like he didn't have the energy to be hurt by Genji's harsh truths. Genji tried to offer something akin to a smile, but the expression felt forced and so he let it fall. “The truth is, I missed you. Knowing you're alive somewhere bothered me more and more every day. If you were dead I could have moved on, but just being apart felt awfully lot like hiding.” “Ties of blood can't be severed,” Hanzo supplied the younger, who nodded in return. “And so I sought you out. And I... wanted answers. My fear kept we away too, and I decided to defeat it. And today I finally spoke up about this, so here we are,” Genji said, left hand rubbing at his eyes and the wrinkles between them. Sky was dark outside. The brothers sat in silence, heads drooping and shoulders tense, staring at the table top and occasionally glancing at each other. There was a sense of finality lingering between them, but no closure. Hanzo sighed and cracked his neck. “How are you feeling?” he asked with a meek voice. Genji gave a weak shrug with his face leaning on his knees. “Exhausted. You?” “Hollow,” Hanzo replied. Genji huffed and flashed a tense little smile. “What now?” Hanzo asked. “I doubt this is the only conversation like this, if we intend to fix anything.” “Not fix,” Genji corrected, “heal. And you're right, this isn't nearly enough. We'll have to do this again, reflect, process, and stuff like that. Personally I hope that in the future...” he hesitated, like he was afraid of jinxing his own wish, “I wish I could spend time alone with you without it feeling so tense.” Hanzo looked bothered by the wish, like it was a particularly uncomfortable challenge set up to torment him, but he nodded anyway. He considered his own situation and said: “For the time being I'd like my quarters remain a good distance away from yours, and we'll sleep apart. The farther our situation is from the one we had at home, the better. I don't wish to repeat the same mistakes.” “Yeah, sure, if that's comfortable for you,” Genji agreed right away. “You could give the people here a chance, though. You might make some friends. It doesn't have to be just me and you anymore.” Hanzo huffed at the suggestion and crossed his arms. “Only if you'll do the same. Try and make new friends, real ones.” “It's a deal, then.” They were running out of things to say, and to ease the awkwardness and the heavy, drained atmosphere in the room, Genji started to clean up the table. Not that there was much to clean up, but he took Hanzo's mug from his side of the table, his own from his side and put them next to the cold tea pot. The minimal tableware didn't look any more orderly when put together, and Genji found himself to be too weary to get up from the floor and get a tray, so they remained there. Hanzo didn't move a muscle to help him, just followed the younger with his gaze without a comment, even when Genji obviously gave up midway through the clean up and slumped back down. At some point Hanzo's posture had started to fall apart too, and now he had his elbow propped on the table and his cheek resting against his knuckles. “We really have to do this again, don't we?” Hanzo asked, sounding old. Genji sighed and nodded. “Healing takes time. And besides, what other choice do we have?” Hanzo clicked his tongue. “We could always just die,” he suggested, not completely as a jest. “But since we are alive, we should keep moving forward. Even if it turns out to be for nothing.” Genji stared back at Hanzo with an unreadable look in his eyes. “Always forward. Maybe we haven't ruined everything yet,” he said. They shared a silent understanding. The moment passed. Outside the night had fallen. Hanzo was very much aware that he couldn't stay there in his brother's room, not with their emotions rubbed raw like skin against asphalt, and not with the decision they had just agreed upon about maintaining distance for the sake healing for now. No matter how drained and hollow he felt, he had to leave. So Hanzo straightened his back, pulled his legs under himself properly once more and bowed his thanks. “I'm sorry to have bothered you. Thank you for the tea, brother.” Genji didn't bother with his posture, but bowed his head too. “No need to be sorry. You are welcome, Ani-san.” Hanzo pushed himself up to his aching feet, turned around and walked to the door that had shut them in the room even though it was unlocked. He pushed it open, stepped over the doorstep and walked away, looking forward to getting some sleep.