where revolution bleeds into the sky 。

He stands on the precipice —

 

— On the edge of a carefully, masterfully, crafted blade - a katana - 

 

— On the edge of the law - skirting between worlds - carefree and the criminal -

 

— with the tip of an arrow aimed at his neck -

 

“You will never amount to anything - “

 

— Between life and death - bleeding into white, dyeing snowflakes a macabre crimson, as the barren canopy above inches ever closer, black claw-like tendrils fading into the all-consuming icy, blurry darkness -

 

He falls —

 

“Genji.”

 

Flickers in lime-green electronics - almost imperceptible - as Genji turns to see Zenyatta at the doorway of his room (the plates that make up the juncture of his neck and jaw slide along each other seamlessly and silently - the peak of man’s evolution perhaps, when man has the tools and knowledge to determine its own next step as a species - ) 

 

The light reflecting off the monastery’s blanket of snow cover gives an almost harsh shine to the omnic monk’s metallic sheen - Genji’s own nodes stay a muted emerald in the shadows of his simple room - 

 

“Master.” Tilts his head slightly in deference with his greeting (he has come to accept the garbled robotic undertone that echoes between them as his own.)

 

“Are you all right, my student?”

 

Maybe one day, he too could possess the same kind wisdom and sincere calm when he speaks.

 

His true face - that of a battered, scarred and fatigued man - is hidden behind a visor and a helmet though - (if the world only knows him by a facade, which of them is really true?) - perhaps out of what is still a very human habit, Genji shifts and glances away from Zenyatta - to the blade that rests atop a small cabinet across from him - before he replies, “I am, Master.”

 

For now.