Chapter Text
Genji dreams.
He lies on some hard surface. Something holds his wrists and ankles down, although he does little more than weakly try to rattle his bindings. Somehow, he already knows there is no escaping.
The details are hazy – he is not entirely sure how old he is or what room he is in or what he is meant to be doing. But the person he dreams about is crystal clear.
Hanzo lectures him. Hanzo always lectures him.
“You are not playing politics like a Shimada should. You should have focused your efforts on Hitomi, taken her to dinner, and convinced her to pressure her father. You are not courting death like a Shimada should. You should have thrown the challenge at Daizou instead of trying to talk it out like a coward. You are not bringing honour to the clan like a Shimada should. You should have talked like I do, and walked like I do, and killed like I do.”
The lights are blinding. He closes his eyes.
Hanzo cuts into him, his sword slicing easily through skin and tissue. It is a dream, and Genji allows himself to be dissected, sliced open and scrutinized for defects. Hanzo never stops talking. The list of ways Genji has disappointed him and the clan are endless.
Genji is warm under the lights. He can feel his blood pooling around him. He imagines that soon, Hanzo will chide him for ruining his perfectly white shirt. It is obviously dishonourable for Genji to bleed. When has a son of Sojiro ever been anything but flawless?
He should fight back. He knows he should. His older brother’s approval is at stake.
Genji has always desperately wanted Hanzo to love him and respect him and cherish him. Genji has always only wanted to stand by Hanzo’s side as a brother and an equal.
But Genji is tired, and he keeps his eyes closed, and he lets himself be torn apart.
Genji wakes.
The pain seeps in slowly, as if his body reluctant to relinquish sleep. It seems to ignite one nerve at a time, slowly, slowly, until every inch of his being feels like it is on fire and he is engulfed.
The pain does not stop. Genji tries to move, to run, but he is shackled and blinded. The world is diminished only to the pain he feels radiating through every fibre of his body.
Genji screams.
Genji lives.
He opens his eyes excruciatingly slowly and squints through the haze. He is dimly aware that he must be under every painkiller known to man, and he marvels at how merely moving his eyelids can still hurt. His entire body feels tense, like it is humming with the mere effort of keeping itself together.
“Genji,” a foreign voice says softly. He tries to turn his head but finds he cannot. Even if pain did not cripple the thought of movement, he can feel straps and structures holding him in place, forcing him to stare up at a white ceiling.
A young woman leans forward into his field of view. She smiles despite the bags under her eyes. “Hello, Genji. I am so happy to see you are awake. How are you feeling?”
He manages some sort of grunt. His muscles do not seem to be under his control.
She gives a gentle chuckle and leans back, tapping something into a machine. Genji hears a series of beeps and a machine beside him seems to adjust, letting out a brief hiss of air before the woman returns to his field of vision.
“My name is Dr. Angela Ziegler,” she says, “and I am in charge of your recovery. Welcome to Watchpoint: Nanjing, Genji. You are under the protection of Overwatch now.”