Chapter Text
At the break of dawn you load a barrel, empty shells clinking melodically against the tile floor. Heads turn to, then turn away; they don't dare to look— for there's warm, tranquilizing honey in your minesweeping gaze, and a toxic type of regal in the way you walk like royalty— for you're the subject of so many hushed whispers upon cautious lips. There are some admiring, some fearful, all judgmental.
At night, you're a proper maiden. And much to your dismay, you dream of everything.
“Hey, doll-face! Eyes over here, give us a lovely smile for the camera!”
You want to scowl instead, just for him.
The public eye is an interesting sphere of influence for the Taira-Shimada power play to inhabit, unlike any business transaction ever seen. It’s garish and it does anything but get to the point. It’s a world full of fake half-smiles and roundabout deflections as questions answer other questions; and at the naïve age of fourteen it’s difficult to dissect and understand. But the young are resilient, and you are adaptable.
“Pay him no mind. Keep your head down.”
You survive just fine, but you always wonder why your parents didn’t just leave you home. You have no say in the way your father offers little beyond his enigmatic statements. You have no interest in their constant questions about his future as a famous, almost faceless investor, about your mother’s collaboration for a modern yukata line.
“You cannot allow them to see your face, do you hear me? Keep. Your. Head. Down.”
Your father has been on your case about actually listening to everything for the longest time, but they’re empty words that mean nothing because of repetition; words that paint prosperous pictures about the future blossom of infrastructure under Taira and Shimada contributions, of successful collaboration with the mayor, of the famous dinner you’re about to have on New Year’s Eve to celebrate the passing of their plans. You know to recognize the PR move, using the date as a symbol for progress to come. But everything else rushes by in bits and pieces and you don’t pay attention.
“Because the second they see your face, they have something against you.”
The adults make small talk with equally small smiles, chopsticks hovering over their meals. Hanzo and Genji know not to speak too, only listen. The three of you politely pick off extravagant portions of fatty tuna and cuts of kobe beef. You always finish before your parents at times like these. And while waiting, the three of you had always made a game out of communication through mouthed words, sneaky signals, and the occasional muffled snickers for when adults start to catch on. There are only two players now.
You glance to the side and meet the gaze of one Genji Shimada. He is fifteen and counting, winning boyish smile and all. His black hair is sticking out on all sides like an explosion; their poor maid, Haruka, probably gave up on taming it. It clashes humorously with his formal attire.
You stick out a bit of your tongue at him through your teeth. The motion does not go unnoticed, and Genji’s celebrity smile shifts into more of a taunting smirk.
He elbows Hanzo Shimada, greeting his brother with a raised, suggestive brow. Hanzo glances over with the same dark amber eyes before snorting, revealing little. He’s so stoic now, compared to his sibling. You suppose that’s the price of being heir, of being firstborn— a burden the both of you share. His posture is much more like yours but even straighter— if that's even possible— and while he has a much more serious aura, where his brother is approachable he is regal.
Hanzo’s current image is of an intimidating elegance you don’t really want to shatter (because it seems like he’s actually listening to the way both your fathers string sentences together), but you’re so, so bored. Rope him into the game, you think, and maybe you will succeed this time. You wink at him. It’s a teasing gesture that Genji has been constantly pushing you to do for nearly half a decade. Hanzo simply sighs and rolls his eyes, but even as he looks elsewhere you can’t mistake the disgruntled smirk he's failing to fight down. Genji is left snickering quietly as your attention flits back towards the confused expression on your mother's visage. You look at her with a smile so smug you half want to punch yourself in the face.
✂ - - - - - - - - -
When you return home you return to the sound of loud, shameless laughing coming from the common area balcony, the one that overlooks the city. It’s nowhere near the stroke of midnight, and the fathers are already getting drunk. It’s a wonder how these men are the same as the personas they present, with crinkling crow’s feet and prominent dimples adorning the smiles that the public never sees. It’s a wonder how one of them is even your own father, as he smiles freely in a way you never see. But you’re thankful for the noise in place of the usual pristine silence. It makes things lively, and most importantly, it keeps parental attention off you. You giggle while imagining how disastrous the situation is going to be when it’s finally time for the grown men to shuffle away from the commons in a babbling stupor. Makes for low-risk, high-reward pranking targets.
“What do you think?” you offer, raising a brow at Genji. He purses his lips.
“I… would not know,” he admits. “For once, at least. What a surprise, ha?” He grins.
“That you know nothing?” you say, smiling wider. “Please, no. Not at all.”
“Kuso. That stings, [First].”
“What, are you offended?” You smile even more, a cheeky grin to rival his. “I am just being a good girl. I was taught to tell the truth.”
“And I was taught that if one does not have nice words to say, they should not say anything at all,” he retorts. “I suppose the both of us are always rule-breakers, then, aren’t we?”
“Aw, how dare you. I am not a liar.” You are most definitely a liar.
“Yes, yes,” Genji sighs, but he does not fight his unrelenting smile as he rolls his eyes. “You are an absolute angel, [First], a saint, really. You are always a saint. In any case—” he nods towards the fathers— “I hate to say it, but I think this time we may be out of material.”
“No supplies?” You mentally took inventory of some of the random objects throughout your home. “Hmm, maybe we are. I think by the time we are set up, they will be sober. And more likely to punish us.”
“And we already got them believing they were pregnant— again.”
“We already convinced them we were adopted…”
“Ha, that was great,” Genji snorts. His smile is wide and charming with his boyish dimples, and both your eyes light up at the shared memory. “Although I do not know if I should be hurt about the jokes of returning us.”
You laugh. “Harmless, I am sure. Do not overthink it.” You always overthink it. “Oh, but maybe we could—”
“No, I do not think so. It is somewhat risky. What if—”
“But that is so lame. I think—”
“You think mine is lame? That one is the oldest trick in the book! We cannot—”
“Genji, please,” you sigh. “Your tricks are faltering. What do you even do in your free time anymore?”
He shrugs. “Training. Target practice.”
“Target practice?” you echo, raising a brow. Your expression brightens a bit in interest. “You never told me Shimada Castle has a shooting range.”
“A shooting range?” Genji’s countenance shifts a bit in confusion. “We do not. What do you mean by a shooting range?”
“Wha— wait— do not tell me,” you breathe, smile wider than ever. Finally, you have some ammunition over the younger Shimada. “You have never heard of a shooting range before?”
“I have,” he chimes indignantly. “Just was not sure what you meant.”
“It means exactly what it means. Does that mean you have never shot a gun before?”
Genji falls silent. His expression is noticeably pouty.
“You have never shot a gun before? The Genji Shimada—” You repeat, more incredulously this time.
“Yes, yes, shush. Now quiet down about it, would you?” He huffs. “It is not like Hanzo has either.”
Of course he hasn’t. You sigh and rest your head in a hand, half laughing, half contemplating how downright stupid the Shimadas can be sometimes, for a clan of assassins and all. All this intensive ninja training and their sons don’t even know how to shoot a gun? Sure, they are noisy (maybe a bit too noisy for your liking), but you had always been under the impression that of the two families, the Shimadas are the more modern ones who keep up with the times. Shurikens might be slightly outdated; although there is an advantage in a weapon that can be recovered, not reloaded, in a weapon that is not easy to use to an untrained enemy. Your clan has been training you in both.
“I can change that.” you chime, mischievous smirk evident on your features. You really hope Hanzo flinches at the kick-back.
“[First],” Genji groans, because he knows that smirk all too well. It’s usually a warning sign for ideas-that-seemed-really-good-at-the-time-but-maybe-not-great-in-hindsight situations or the next moment you two get yourselves figuratively beheaded. But at least they have been fun, so he just sighs in defeat at the sight of your hopeful, shimmering eyes. “…Yes, yes…”
…Hanzo, however, does not have as compliant of a reaction.
“Come on, brother,” Genji taunts. “Don't tell me that you are scared.”
You glare at Genji and attempt to cut in before Hanzo can bristle at the challenge.
“Please?” you whine, visibly pouty. His features soften, tinted by curiosity. Your instincts with him are still sharp, you note, for you had made a point of appealing to the side of him that desires to master everything.
Hanzo parts his lips to speak, but at that very moment something decides to shatter, and you mutter Genji’s signature swear to whatever form of fate is listening. The older brother snorts at that. You spend so much more time around males your age, it’s a wonder you’re not cruder.
“Do not be mistaken, [First], I appreciate the offer,” he half-says, half-sighs. Loud cursing over a broken sake bottle can be heard from the commons. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and his voice starts to edge more towards a growl. “But I sense that I will be the one who must assume responsibility when these two finally find it upon themselves to sober up.”
He offers a short, sheepish chuckle. “Whether I want to or not. Maybe next time.”
“But this is one of the few times you are not busy.”
“Perhaps, but—”
“Hanzo, I hardly see you anymore.”
His tone is slightly exasperated. “I apologize, but somebody has to make sure they do not fall off the balcony, [First]. Next time, I promise.”
You relent and sigh, then shoot back a nod and a reassuring smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Genji doesn’t speak. Because although he’s disappointed that he can’t watch Hanzo be a piece of work towards a piece of work, he knows he’s right. He knows how their father gets when drunk. He knows how your father gets when drunk. Actually, you all know. You all know a little too well. But that doesn’t stop you from being a little bitter as you turn away.
You're so bitter that even when you lead Genji down to the mini-warehouse by the range, you barely notice how empty it is. There's a plexiglass case you've become accustomed to unlocking, because it holds the final prototype of a rifle you had helped design. You know the notches of its endless locks intimately; but even after you graze your fingers over it and a surface that protects nothing, you forget what you're here for. The lack of a rifle goes unnoticed.
You’re still too busy fixating on the killed opportunity of it being just like old times— before Hanzo had forgotten how to smile.