Hello everyone! Sorry for the long break - I had a slow start on this chapter because I've been drowning in coursework yet again (3 exams next week, lawl). But I have at least one major development done with this chapter - how Kenshi aided Hanzo in overcoming Scorpion - yayy! :D

Anyhow, you will find this chapter to be extremely heavy on the philosophy. I did not deliberately delineate some concepts, primarily because (1) some of these are highly, highly subjective, and open to interpretation; (2) the chapter was simply getting way too long; and finally (3) I highly doubt Kenshi or Scorpion would sit around discussing these concepts in great detail over a cup of tea. It just seemed OOC to me. Nevertheless, I took inspiration from some Hegel (the master-slave dialectic), and tried to mesh it with the translations of South Asian Sufi poetry/songs I've read and heard (If you want to know more, you can google the translation 'Bulleya' by the subcontinent Sufi saint, Bulleh Shah - parts of which directly inspired this).

I've taken great liberties with the dialogue, and have used whatever snippets of information that were available in the MKX comics (which weren't that many, to begin with - only the first and tenth issues cover this in any substantial way) to make sense of this. But the point of all this rambling is - if you feel anything just feels off, or you feel could be done better, do let me know via reviews or PMs :)

As always, my round of thank-yous :)

BrutusSilentium: Thanks again! I'm glad you liked it, hope you enjoy this one too :)

The Dragon's Kuniochi: Thanks so much for the review! I'm glad you liked it - and don't worry, we'll see some (hopefully) meaningful Kenshi-Takeda interactions before he finally drops him off at the Shirai Ryu. Hope you like this update too! :)

iceangelmkx: I'm sure we would be, and I will definitely get in touch with you soon! :) Also, the similarity in dialogue was deliberate (to make Kenshi suffer later bwahah :P) Your reviews mean a lot to me; thanks for reading, as always!

RoseScytheElysium: I'm so happy to hear from you! :) Glad to see you're enjoying the updates, hope you enjoy this too! :)

Bring Me the cake: First of all, let me just say your username is literally the story of my life xD (cake-a-holic here! :P) Seeing how I've (unconsciously) taken more of a chronological approach to this, you might have to wait for a little while before we get to the older Takeda. But I will most definitely write at length about him, so I hope you look forward to that. Thanks for reading! :)

Additional thanks to Fic131, The Dragon's Kuniochi, Fantasysword92375, PurpleFlowerBerry, Poe's Daughter and Bring Me the Cake for favouriting and following this story. I truly appreciate you guys taking out time to read this - thanks again! :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one.

Additional Note: This chapter is very heavy on flashbacks, some of which are not separated from the 'present' time text. To make things a bit clearer, I've written all flashbacks in italics, and all normal fonted text takes place in the present day :)

The Takahashi Family Saga

Of Love and Loss

IV

Unknown Location

Near Mount Godwin-Austen,

Sino-Pakistan border, Western Himalayas.

March, 1999

Hanzo folded his arms behind his back, as he stood from the balcony of his quarters, overlooking the young survivors he had taken under his wing. The Shirai Ryu was ordained to be reborn, under his questionable auspices, in this secluded region in the world. The location had particularly pleased the grandmaster – the majestic grace of the deep conifers meshed beautifully with sheer deadliness of the killer mountain peaks that surrounded it; reflecting the core of the order of the Shirai Ryu.

As if replying to Hanzo's musings, a cold mountain breeze ruffled the endless sea of dark green coniferous leaves, the towering trees dancing in its wake, embracing the bitter-coldness of the gust. Hanzo nodded to the winds, yet turned his gaze towards the towering, ice-capped mountains. The cold was welcome to his face, the captivating mountain scenery eased the fire within him, even if for a bit.

That fire.

It had been years since Hanzo had drowned himself in Scorpion's flames; as much as he tried, the demon still continued in its vile ways, whispering seductively of revenge to his labouring soul, begging him to forsake this clan, to satisfy his bloodlust. The same bloodlust, that had crept into his thoughts and become more sacred to him than anything he had ever known – until a certain stranger had revealed to him it's true nature, beseeching the wraith to throw it off like one would a mantle, for that was what it was in its entirety – a refuge for the ignorant slave.

Every day was a day of struggle for Hanzo. Yet he had embraced this struggle, knowing that the mere act of him trying to subdue Scorpion was in itself, a bid to salvage, perhaps even reclaim some of his humanity.

'... you are neither of fire, nor are you borne out of air, nor the wind, nor the thunder. These are not your burdens...'

The wind picked up, its sound bringing back the whispering memories of a night long, long ago – to that moment where Hanzo had found himself on his knees, his blade ready to take his own life. They had been near the Tibetan plateau, near the dead woods; Kenshi had been making his way toward the SF portal situated in the region during that time, probably for one of his Outworld missions. Had it not been for the enlightened swordsman initiating the conversation, the deed would have been done long ago.

It had taken him a while before he recalled where he had seen Kenshi before, let alone knowing his name. His impairment was perhaps his only identifying feature – Scorpion remembered fighting him in Earthrealm once, during Shinnok's invasion – a useless memory, not even worth the effort to recall it. The complete opposite of that single, unremarkable night in the deadly woods, however; where Scorpion had been defeated, his alias invalidated.

Hanzo had, inadvertently, ended up owing the swordsman a favour which he had no way of repaying.

'Ahh… the conceited wraith.'

'Leave me be, sightless one.'

'Name's Takahashi Kenshi, Hanzo.'

'Hanzo is dead. And I don't care much for names.'

'Pity, you should. And especially so; given how you continue to defraud a man named Hanzo of his true nature. Even at this moment, as you kneel, to take your own life…'

Names.

Hanzo shook his head as Kenshi's words came back to him. The swordsman had been right – Scorpion was an entity that had taken over Hanzo. Scorpion had been the manifestations of anger, rage, fury and tragedy – whilst Hanzo Hasashi had encompassed that, yet so much more. It was these very names that provided legitimacy to one's existence; providing the impetus for growth and development. All that Scorpion had borne was fury and bloodshed, fueled by Quan Chi's false promises – all but destroying Hanzo in the process.

It was a conscious effort, taxing on the soul, his entire existence being relegated to that of a balancing weight – wavering in between the demon's whisperings, and the need to push on, to carve out and make an existence that was not centered on Hanzo's self. Yet there had been no way of saying it better than how Kenshi had said it. It was a line that was barely discernable, where Hanzo's anguish ended and Scorpion's avarice began. And Scorpion had ruled over Hanzo's existence unfettered for far too long.

'What use is a blind man than to mull over mere names? Be gone, Takahashi!'

'This is Special Forces territory – rendering you the trespasser. But I will humour you – care to share what purpose your suicide would serve?'

'Did you not hear me, Takahashi?'

'Redemption? Penance? Or the ever elusive illusion of 'freedom'? Pray tell, Hasashi, which of these do you seek? Or do you prefer Scorpion, since there is barely any difference in between the two presently.'

The swordsman had stood with a muscle rippling in his tight jaw; arms crossed, the tails of his blindfold fluttering serenely behind his rigid form. His tone rang incessantly Hanzo's ears; coy, condescending, even scolding, but not particularly cold.

'Why do you speak in riddles, swordsman?'

'This is no riddle. Scorpion uses vengeance to aggrandize himself – the chaos, blood and terror that follow in its wake merely exemplify his own might over all those he deems have wronged him. But you, Hanzo…'

'You dare label the injustice against my family as mere self-aggrandizement?!'

'I dare challenge you to prove to me that Scorpion is not guilty of manifesting itself at Hanzo's expense.'

'I just told you, Hanzo is dead! Hanzo died the night the Lin Kuei massacred the Shirai Ryu! While Scorpion remains a withered, burning husk I left behind in the Netherrealm… As for me - I am torn; stuck in this maddening perpetual limbo where I cannot see, nor name myself – yet have the blood of countless people on my hands who did me no harm! What else but death can atone for the damage that fell by my hand?'

On the damned night when he'd lost it all, he had prayed to the fire to not burn his clan, his family – but it had not heeded him. Instead, it had manifested its destructive force in his being – transforming him into a wraith, worthy only of unquestioning service. It had burned his family, then it had burned him – and now, if he did not stop himself, it would erase him from existence entirely.

Kenshi had shaken his head almost sadly.

'If it's still about you; if your actions, your justifications and your needs are still at the centre of all this, of all your existence - then you remain Scorpion despite being restored to humanity, Hanzo.'

'Do not spite me, Kenshi!'

'You permitted the murdering wraith to defile the name, clan and family of Hanzo Hasashi – all under the guise of justice and retribution. You, your soul burned with hellfire, only because you could not face yourself.'

Scorpion had paused. He had not understood the words, nor did he wish to reply to them. But they were strangely compelling – inviting in critical thoughts and insights, from his conscience, a voice that Scorpion thought he had silenced long ago.

Hanzo's voice.

'No, Hanzo. Your rage, the hellfire you command, the flames that burn your heart are not your sum total. You dedicated your life worshiping your shame, your failure and your suffering to the extent that you've forgotten what it once stood for, what it once encapsulated. And because the flames rendered you strong in your pain and torment, you let them consume you, corrupt you in all your capacities; incinerating the embers of what was once a noble Shirai Ryu warrior.'

'I cannot revive Hanzo, Takahashi Kenshi. As much as I try, he-'

'You are Hanzo; you think you've suppressed him, but he lives and breathes inside of you. You just do not acknowledge him. You cannot recognise him…'

'What do you mean?'

The swordsman then became quiet, his forehead creasing with concentration. A heavy silence had hung in between the two, frustrating Hanzo as he pursued further: 'Why are you telling me all this? What's your intention?'

Kenshi nodded to himself, before speaking slowly. 'It's a strange, yet striking dialectic, Hanzo – a lesson I learnt at a cost that I have no means of ever redeeming…' With that, he raised his neck so that he faced the dark sky – the gentle snow falling onto his face, colouring his black hair with specks of white, as he inhaled deeply.

Hanzo had gotten the message – he was talking about his blindness, but he had remained confused. Unlike him, Kenshi was a man at peace. He did not have to suffer the torment of seeing his lineage burn, the silent screams of his family as they were frozen solid in a sheet of ice – their fragile faces contorted into permanent masks of horror; of being used as a pawn in a devilish game where blood flowed by his hand, of who – Scorpion never wondered, nor cared. The seething, raging monster crawling right underneath his skin…

How can this blinded warrior possibly talk about recognition when he himself was a holistic being, without any conflicting personas that threatened to ravage through all semblances of humanity?

'You're wrong, Hanzo. I have my troubles too. Having a multitude of ancient people talking in your head can't be all that good for one's mental health.' The swordsman tapped two fingers to his temple, smiling a lop-sided grin at his own self-deprecating humour. 'I do concur though, the Takahashi lineage had its share of thinkers – they impart wisdom which I most definitely could not have attained all by myself.'

'I doubt the aim of this conversation is to celebrate philosophy, Kenshi. I am certainly not amused.'

'You shouldn't be, it's not about you anyway. That is the point.'

The swordsman had tilted his head, the blindfolded gaze fixed eerily on him, mouth downturned in a sudden solemn frown.

'As I said, it's a conflictual idea at its core, but it applies to us; to warriors like you and I. Hanzo, our agency is fundamentally flawed, and constitutes the basis of our fall; it blinds us to the plight of others whilst exemplifying one's sufferings as the only grievances in existence. Our goals, our ambitions, our righteousness and our honour possesses us – and eventually, defeats us.'

'I spoke of recognition, a few moments ago. The question is certainly logical - how can you really recognise yourself in this vicious cycle of unending self-love and self-defeat?' Kenshi paused briefly, before continuing: 'I won't give a definitive answer, because I don't have one. But I have realised thus far, that eliminating the self is the first step. Self-negation. Deny yourself the pleasure of being wronged, of being guilty, of being the victim. Deprive the fire of its fuel, and it will cease to burn...'

'There is no reprieve from this curse, Kenshi. You clearly do not understand-'

'There's always a choice, Hanzo. Disallow the self to revel in its desires, and its darkness. And maybe… you too, could find the strength to forgive the vessel that carries you. To bury your pain, your shame, your loss. And in time, reclaim, rebuild what was once taken wrongly from you. You may have told yourself that you are beyond that, but that is where the self betrays you. Because it wallows and feeds off of the strength of your rage, annihilating you in the process.'

The blade had slipped from Hanzo's grip, falling in a nondescript thud on the snowy ground. And for the first time in many, many years the notorious Scorpion simply could not will himself to beckon the hellfire flames to destroy the man before him. From that time up to now, the grandmaster of the Shirai Ryu had not recalled those flames.

The swordsman had then crouched next to Hanzo's kneeling form, placing both hands on his shoulders, as the latter continued to stare at the ground underneath him. Kenshi's voice was soft, comforting – faintly reminding Hanzo of Kana's warmth, in the corner of his mind. Yet at the same time, it was unwavering and firm in its convictions – reflecting the aura of the warrior he undoubtedly was.

It had been long, indeed, since Hanzo had been the subject to such unwarranted, unsolicited kindness, in any form. He was not quite sure he deserved it.

'You said you cannot name yourself, yes? It does not matter. For you are neither of fire, nor are you borne out of air, nor the wind, nor the thunder. These are not your burdens to carry, Hanzo - you are but a man. Once you learn to live with your fallibility, you will find it easier to battle the demon Scorpion that resides in you. And this struggle, Hanzo, will define you - and possibly even free you…'

The wind picked up, letting out a howl that mirrored the internal turmoil of the broken spectre; yet it was the only sound breaking the silence of those tense moments. Hanzo was too entranced by the swordsman's words to think of a rebuttal.

'The decision to undertake this effort, however, is yours alone to make, irrespective of how you see yourself...' The swordsman's grip on Hanzo's shoulders tightened reassuringly, before he finally stood up.

'I will take my leave now, Hanzo. Choose wisely…' And after a long moment, Kenshi turned on his heels, and walked away.

Several long moments of deafening silence passed. Until Hanzo gave up, and cried out, desperation lacing his tone: 'It's not as easy as you make it sound, swordsman!'

Kenshi had paused in his tracks, but did not turn back. 'It never is, my friend. It never is...'

A decision had thus been duly made. Hanzo had stared at the receding figure of the swordsman, as the dark woods swallowed up his silhouette – without as much as a single glance back. The snow had continued to fall unperturbed, the chill in the wind had gotten worse – and in the depths of the night, many a predator prowled in the woods, hunting for prey.

Nature continued to take its course, as it had done for countless millennia, and would continue to do so. In the early hours of dawn, as the sun's rays broke in through the darkness of the dead woods, Hanzo's mind too cleared, as he found a strange, familiar new strength to subdue the creeping call of Scorpion. He had, instead, fantasized for the first time in an eternity, about the Shirai Ryu. In his mind, he had dared to defy the dark towers of rage by building a pristine temple, as the one of his clan in its midst. The idea had slowly, but surely began to chip away at the black – as Hanzo envisioned himself, layering brick by brick to rebuild the Shirai Ryu. By the time the sun had risen well over the horizon, he could see before his very eyes, the reincarnation of the Shirai Ryu – the absolution of his past.

He would deny himself, he would reduce himself to a conduit; his trainees and students would take the centre-stage in his life. Maybe they could share in on his suffering, maybe he could share in on theirs. It was possible. Hope might have been a misleading delusion to him once, but once the dawn broke after the night of icy stillness, Hanzo would not allow his one glimmer of chance of clemency slip away from his hands. Not again.

It was possible that the swordsman's insight was wrong, but his words haunted Hanzo, and he could not muster any justification, rationale or complaint to counter them, no matter how hard he tried.

'No.'

His struggle against the hell-fire would define him. He had deemed himself to be one with the fire, a false premonition had become his modus operandi. But now, he would fight against it. The slave would challenge the master, the man Hanzo Hasashi would counter Scorpion in all his manifestations. He may fall, he may falter, but he would not be defeated. It will be ordained - the slave will overcome the master, for the nature of the master was all the more clear to him – Scorpion and his hellfire only had mastery over Hanzo, because the latter lent them control over himself. Who, or what Hanzo was now – it did not matter. It did not matter if he had no name, his struggle would be his recognition; it would be his identity.

Eventually, the swordsman's prophecy fulfilled itself.

"Grandmaster Hasashi!"

Scorpion snapped out of his thoughts, as he felt the words echo in the vastness of the vale. He directed his gaze downwards to his dojo, and saw Forrest Fox bow deeply at him. Hanzo nodded his reply, folded his hands behind his back and walked towards him.

Semantics, categorisations and titles never concerned Hanzo. He was, and will remain Grandmaster Hasashi Hanzo of the newest incarnation of the Shirai Ryu, protectors of the Earthrealm.

He had found the path that could, if he maintained his control, serve as his means of salvation.

Outskirts of Bangkok,

March 1999.

The dead of the night had passed, and with it, Kenshi hoped, the danger that had plagued his family, and claimed the life of his child's mother.

They were in a special convoy, en-route to an SF base right outside of Bangkok. The Red Dragon had not been tailing them as of yet. The task ahead was simpler now; lay low as they made their way back to Japan. Kenshi had not thought about the details – what would become of the child, how he would continue his line of work with the SF, what schooling or training would he require, or how he would break the news of his mother's death to him...

The child clutched his order's sash and the holster-strap for his katana's sheath in a surprisingly strong grip – yet he slept deeply, perhaps even peacefully in Kenshi's arms, his forehead nestled snugly against the crook of Kenshi's neck and collarbone – as naturally as if he had done so thousands of times.

Kenshi realised the significance, the gravity of this simple act. His son had been cautious, and the swordsman had, more for the sake of his own defense, shadowed his mind throughout, witnessing the gut-wrenchingly innocent reaction of the boy; his confusion, his wariness his fascination, and the starkly clear lack of trust. But ultimately, he had heeded his mother's words, taken a blind leap of faith and trusted in this stranger of a father, one who now felt he would veritably die if the child were to ever be removed from his bosom.

The swordsman, thus had, perhaps an even tighter grip on young Takeda, as he recalled the conversation from a few hours ago.

'I…How did you…'

'My name - is Takahashi Kenshi, little one. What is yours?'

Kenshi had known his name. Kenshi had whispered his, and his mother's name to a point of trance when he was running to their rescue. But he needed to hear it from him, to gauge the boy's reaction.

'T-Takahashi Takeda…'

Kenshi smiled at his son. A tear spilled from his eye, staining the side of his blindfold instead of rolling down his face. The swordsman felt himself quivering inside.

'D-did your mother tell you about me, son?'

'Maybe…' Takeda bit his lip. The boy definitely had some of Suchin's mannerisms, and alertness. A good trait. 'Why-have … Khun-K-Kenshi, why have you… will you stay-?' The boy's voice broke.

As did Kenshi's veneer of composure.

In a single, smooth movement, he took the boy into his arms, wordlessly. Takeda became rigid for a second, but quickly gave in to the swordsman's embrace. He merely put his head onto his father's shoulder, his breath tickling his ear lightly, while his hands clutched his collar. Takeda tried to suppress his sobs, but the sounds indelibly engraved themselves Kenshi's mind. Before he could clamp down on it, a shaky, breathless gasp escaped his own throat, but Kenshi's grip grew tighter as he turned his head to place a small kiss on his son's temple...

Kenshi had registered the wetness of his blindfold in some corner of his mind, where a few hot tears had escaped his eyes as he held his son for the first time. He had noted the insults and abuses that ran in his son's mind, as the boy recalled the incessant bullying instances; his absent father had rendering him a cruel plaything in school. But for the blind swordsman, in that moment – it was as if all had ceased to exist… His awry nerves, his nightmares, the murder, his failure, his debilitating exhaustion – the entire universe had evaporated into misty nothingness. All that remained were him and his son – bound irrevocably, permanently by the ties of blood.

'I can't even - My world just exploded in technicolour, Ken! There's no other way to describe it!'

As the vehicle rocked back and forth, Kenshi recalled with a wry smile how Johnny recounted the birth of his daughter, just as the swordsman had duly called to congratulate the couple. The actor was right, there was no other way of framing such an event. This little boy, now sleeping on his shoulder, with the strong jaw, straight nose and his mother's full mouth…

What good had the lone, rugged swordsman possibly ever done in all his life, to deserve something as beautiful and precious as this?

"Kenshi-san. Major Blade is on the line," said Sergeant Pierre, as he handed a wireless comm link to the swordsman. Snapping out from his thoughts, Kenshi mentally prepared himself, and nodded to dismiss the SF soldier.

"Takahashi Kenshi here, Major Blade."

"Kenshi! Report on your and your son's status."

"He's fine, only tired – currently sleeping on my shoulder like a young babe." Kenshi deliberately evaded talking about himself at that point in time. He found such military protocol to be particularly evasive and inherently ineffectual, and thereby had no regard for it. Thankfully enough, his peers at the SF understood his disdain for such rigid codes of conduct, and tolerated his waywardness.

"That's a relief. Now tell me in detail what happened."

"It was… I was too late to save Suchin.. Gun-shot wound in the chest," the swordsman muttered gravely; intensely aware of the sleeping child, as he simultaneously read him telepathically to assure he was not listening in. "Three Red Dragon members – all she had was an old blade I'd lent her God-knows-when…"

Kenshi felt his fatherly sentiments of moments ago, give way to a crippling sense of rage that shook him to his core. He could not get the stench of death out of his mind, as it mixed in with Suchin's scent. In his mind's eye, all he saw were blood and flames; he found himself at a brink, staring in the face of a deep, black abyss.

'Not now, Kenshi. Pull yourself back. For Takeda's sake.'

"It was a bloody mess; she'd killed those bastards by herself, before one of them shot her."

"I'm truly sorry for your loss, Kenshi," Sonya sounded genuinely aggrieved. But the futility of the effort to appear civil merely annoyed the hardened swordsman, but he still appreciated her concern.

"You and I both know such lip-service neither accomplishes, nor means a thing to me, Sonya. No need to bother with the niceties," he sighed tiredly.

"I hear you, soldier," the Major knew soldiers and warriors alike dealt with loss by taking up a utilitarian approach. It was a common defense mechanism – get the job done, wallow in your grief and self-loathing later. But Sonya was still concerned for her ally. "What is your plan now?"

"I'm returning to Japan. Clear my mind a little. And then I'll think about what should be done."

"What about the boy?"

"What about him?" Kenshi asked, taken aback by the question.

"I can tell you firsthand that family can compromise with your work-"

"The boy stays with me. End of discussion, Major Blade," growled Kenshi, angrily.

Sonya inhaled sharply, but did not offer a reply to his words.

"You know I asked with his safety in mind. I understand if now's not a good time. Regardless, the SF will escort you. Do contact me again when you reach Japan safely. Over and out."

Kenshi nodded his reply, and disconnected the comm link.

Indeed. That much was clear to him. He was not giving up his son. Not now, not again.

Woah! That was one dense read (Kudos for making through this! :) ). So now that you've read it all, if you feel any confusions, or if you think I need to expand on something a bit more, given the complexities of Scorpion as a character and the concepts Kenshi's trying to highlight, then please let me know asap. As always, thanks for reading - please review and let me know what you think of this. Enjoy! :)