A/N:
Aahhh, all I have to say is this is kind of blocky, so my apologies.
Content warnings: mild suggestive themes/sexual references, allusions to past traumatic experiences (mild blood/gore, violent altercations, explosions, non-graphic limb loss), alcohol consumption and abuse, suicidal ideation (drowning), self-destructive behavior/unhealthy coping mechanisms, catastrophic thinking, and workplace harassment/bullying, attempted assault/injury. Message or review if you would like anything else to be added.
Once again, OCs and references can be found at the END of the act. Thanks if you've continued reading, and hope you enjoy Act II!
-Reddie
They carry on as professionals.
Veronika halfway reverts to her former treatment of Coppélia: remaining distanced like before, no longer as touchy-feely with Coppélia outside of classes or rehearsals. But something that changes is the way Veronika talks to her in casual conversation… which is to say, they do not talk at all. Coppélia stands under the heavy, dull weight of silence instead of hellos or goodbyes, compliments and praise which she now starves for, something Giselle cannot quite sate even in comfort. She found fellowship in the illusion, and now the curtains have closed. Nothing wounds her more than the death of her hope for something so simple: friendship. Now she can't even have a rivalry, which at this point sounds more like a privilege compared to the bleak solitude of the quiet.
But, she understands. Whether Veronika hides behind her hatred or silence, Coppélia knows the truth from habitual scans, the swings and spikes of a racing pulse. It is the one thing that remains consistent: that fear does not ever leave Veronika's system when they are next to each other. And heaven only knows what kind of gruesome tragedy an omnic must've brought upon her and her loved ones. She thinks of ruined homes and crushed children in wrecks, parents and mentors who never returned home. Of course Coppélia understands and doesn't blame her, or anyone, who so disdains omnics the way they do. The problem, Coppélia is coming to recognize, is that no one understands her, and it aches to think that no one ever will. How could any human relate to a monster?
Then, when she least expects it, Hanzo offers solace in a strange way.
Once again, she is the last in the studio, not planning to linger too long with the premiere on the horizon. Hanzo has long since finished his basic French vocabulary booklet and moved on to practicing on an app in his phone, swiping through flashcards to test his memory. When he places it aside to speak to her, she expects him to suggest wrapping up.
Instead: "Giselle said your privacy is important," Hanzo starts tentatively, "so you are free not to answer me if this sounds intrusive. But I am curious."
His expression registers to her as something hesitant, perhaps timid, and she cannot help but wonder what he's thinking of her. She resists the urge to check the rate of his pulse.
"What do you want to know, Hanzo?"
"About your name. Coppélia." He looks at her in the studio mirror, straight in the eyes, "I am aware many omnics rename themselves to fit their interests and aspirations. I have also watched your rehearsal of this ballet enough times to know that the title is the name of the automaton made by Dr. Coppelius. Yet she has no active role in the story. No voice. Never takes so much as a step. And you name yourself after her. Why did you choose it so?"
A flutter stirs inside Coppélia as he asks, because she remembers.
She remembers brewing chamomile before the hijack seized her, the lapse of fifteen seconds becoming a matter of life and death. She remembered coming to when she rebooted, only to see her once-beloved master in pieces all over the room, as if he had been just another one of his many targets. She remembers running away from authorities with other omnic survivors of the Crisis, holing up in an abandoned radio station for shelter, whiling her hours away by going through record upon record of Tchaikovsky. She remembers how they all gathered together to listen to intercepted broadcasts of Mondatta Tekhartha, and the following pilgrimage to Nepal. She remembers how every one of her renegade friends found a home and purpose in the Shambali's village, but she was now a lost soul in a shell, stuck with songs in her head, far away from home. She remembered watching Coppélia for the first time on a livestream, her heart cracking open by the end of the second act, because there in Dr. Coppelius's arms laid an automaton who never got the chance to live, to choose her life. And then she remembered hearing the "Waltz of the Hours" in the third act, and how it felt like a familiar embrace finally setting her free.
She remembers why she chose to dance in the first place.
"I wanted to change what the name meant." Coppélia confesses, before correcting the verb tense, "I want other omnics to hear the name and believe they can be more than what they were made for."
There is a long pause before Hanzo responds, looking away from the mirror but not at Coppélia as he gives a little half-smile towards the ground. She realizes he is looking at the toes of her custom-built feet, which must look worn from pointe work since she hasn't repainted them in two months. She could easily remove them for a day, switch them out for her normal feet to save them from wear, but she never does. She worked so hard for these feet and she wants it to show.
"Noble," he affirms, with something that might look like a nod.
That single word embeds itself into her memory like a droplet on the surface of a pond. Coppélia spins at the center, Veronika's hands supporting her at the waist, gentle and strong, before lifting the omnic dancer into the air. Applause reverberates through the air as their grand pas de deux ends.
Noble… Coppélia repeats to herself in her head as she is set down, taking Veronika's hand before they bow before the audience together. She sees a faceplate somewhere in the fourth row as she rises, before Veronika tugs her along offstage. The hand that disappears altogether in the backstage light is replaced by a gentle touch from someone else, which Coppélia immediately turns to.
"Ah, Coppélia!" Giselle greets the omnic with a hug, slipping hands up to rest on metal shoulders. "Brilliant! Excellent work! I'm so proud of you!" There's a glow in the older woman's smile that causes something like a swell of pride, or perhaps a gentler emotion. The word "noble" resounds once again, meaning changed by a look of inspiration in Giselle's eyes. Coppélia is humbled, to be reminded that someone has believed in her all along.
Before the young dancer can give her thanks, Veronika quips, "Hold your praise. The performance is far from over." As she reaches past Coppélia to grab a bottle of water, she points a finger at the center of the other dancer's faceplate, "Focus." Coppélia withholds comment, posing no response. She is only slightly glad Veronika has at least begun a return to the usual sardonic remarks. A flutter of applause rings through again for the end of Xiuying's solo part. Someone calls Veronika back onstage.
On that note, Veronika knocks back a gulp of her drink in a way that makes Giselle cringe for whatever reason. Concerned, Coppélia reaches to comfort her director, only to be cut off by Frauke.
"Giselle. A quick word with you?"
"Right away, Frauke," Giselle replies. The omnic becomes cognizant of the hands around her waist only once Giselle lets go to attend to the matter. Coppélia moves her gaze away to focus on the stage, where Veronika prances in circles, nearing the end of her solo. It will be Swanhilda's turn soon.
"What," Frauke, leaning in close with narrowed eyes, reprimands in French, "was the meaning of that?"
"Of what?" The director rejoins unthinkingly. She backs away a moment too late, Frauke's eyes already wide at the smell of wine.
The theatre manager gasps, voice rising, "You drank today?"
"Hush, shh…" Giselle warns, "Keep your voice down." The request is nearly a wrong move, from the way Frauke's face scrunches like she is about to explode. Far too fortunately, the only sound she lets out is an exhale, lined with an indistinct German curse. Abruptly, the applause cues Coppélia onto the stage. Giselle's eyes follow the young dancer, wistful. Frauke's brows knit together. Recollections of past dance classes gather, with a young beaming Giselle as her classmate, staring off from the bar at a pale thin girl swirling at the center of the room.
"So that's why you keep the omnic."
Giselle snaps out of her reverie, frozen.
Vehemently, she assembles her lie, shaking her head, "I have no idea what you're talking about." She cannot help the humiliated flush on her face as she tears her eyes away from Coppélia. But it's too late. Frauke is connecting the dots. Coppélia has golden eyes, the same gentle croon in her metallic voice.
"Oh god, you live with her too," Frauke places her hand against her forehead, sighing. "This can't be healthy…"
"It's not what you think," Giselle insists hopelessly, trying to stifle her rising volume.
"You can't stay sober like this!"
Defenses spill out, "I am the director of this company. I have a responsibility to these dancers. I'm just doing what I can to protect—"
"Giselle," Frauke seems to be pleading, her voice breaking. "She isn't Amélie."
The director goes quiet, face scrunched. Her heart crumbles inside at the sound of the name, one she wishes she could just forget after so many years. Beyond the curtains, the audience swells with applause once more, muffling the choked noise that barely escapes her. Frauke reaches for her, causing Giselle to retreat backwards by a step. A surge of tears leaks out over her cheeks, which she hastily wipes away.
She replies, voice tight, "I know, Frauke."
The final number begins with a blare. All the dancers flutter onto the stage, coursing in circles around Veronika, with Coppélia held high in her arms. Symphonies flourish in accompaniment, and before they know it, the performance is over. Audience members roar in adoration, whistles lining a thunder of clapping hands. Veronika and Coppélia join hands with the rest of the cast, and take a last bow for the evening.
The curtains close, but the show goes on. Various performers receive bouquets from lingering fans as the rest of the crowd shuffles out. Giselle spectates fondly all the while, watching Coppélia sign an autograph for an omnic fan in a crisp suit. Hanzo emerges from the shadows to stand at the dancer's side. Frauke has not left Giselle's.
"I'm sorry for using her name," Frauke says, tinged in remorse. Giselle makes a soft sound, an acknowledgement that Frauke has known long enough as pardon. She continues, testing, "You may not want to hear this. But perhaps you should consider taking a break, if you won't fire Coppélia."
"We'll be going on tour soon," Giselle responds. "I can't leave now. As I said. I have a responsibility to these dancers."
"But—"
"I will find a way to deal with it. I promise."
Frauke closes her eyes, exhaling, "Alright. I trust you."
Two months have passed since Hanzo was hired, so he is thankful that the company is finally on the move.
Autumn trickles in, slow but dreamlike. Early morning frost forms on the windows of the hired bus bringing them to Hamburg, where they would be performing Coppélia a few more times. Still, the dancers were far from thinking of the repeat as a break. After the showings ended in Annecy, the company already went on to host auditions for their next production, Firebird. A stray image of Xiuying prances through his head, weathered pointe shoes glinting under the lights of the stage. Hanzo fiddles with the company's name monogrammed onto the pocket of his uniform shirt: Lacroix Spotlight Ballet. It's something for Hanzo to cogitate on the ride there, since Giselle seems occupied balancing a checkbook. He means to ask her if there is any significance to the name.
However, as they reach the hotel, Coppélia is the one to engage him in conversation, outpouring various fun facts about the city. As he helps her carry her luggage up to her room, he learns more than he ever wished to about omnic sex work on the Reeperbahn. And just as he drops his things off at his room, Veronika is there to drag him to a table dance club. He spends less time fending her off than he does monitoring her alcohol intake, given Giselle's stance on drinking from the night he was caught in her kitchen. He is convinced the director might possibly kill him if he lets one of the leads get too wasted to perform. Veronika loses only enough edge to embarrass him, getting up on the tables trying to one-up an exotic dancer, an omnic with body plates accentuated by glowing neon lines. On the way out, he learns her name is D!scoTECH when he declines the invitation to a private performance. During the next day's showing of Coppélia, he wonders briefly if that was actually her name, before the company gathers together to move again. Only then does Veronika thank him for keeping her in check. Basic human decency, he calls it, but when Coppélia catches wind of it, she calls it noble. He does not respond, nor give himself much credit for the act.
They fly down to Alicante in Spain, where they immediately begin tireless daily rehearsals of Firebird, on set at the Santa Bárbara Castle. Given only the last few days of the second week in Spain to perform Firebird, the company makes the most of their limited practice time. With her energy, Myrtle stakes her claim to the role of the titular character, with Rico emerging as the leading prince of the ballet. While the tiny dancer does not actively rub her role in Coppélia's face, Myrtle does not hesitate to boast around anyone. Even Hanzo gets an earful, much to his irritation, so he evades her during the lunch break to wander about the castle. He finds amusement in the metal sculpture of an archer leaning over a parapet and then later spots Coppélia standing atop a jutting bartizan, taking in the view of the city. He joins her, climbing to stand at her side. She briefly shares facts on the history of battles that occurred at the castle, but stops as soon as she notices he isn't listening.
The ocean has caught his eye, and he briefly thinks of how easy it would be to drown there with no one around to see. Disgusted by the idea of dying outside conflict, he derails the thought by leaving his perch, inviting Coppélia down with him when he notices other visitors staring. She hesitates, before returning with him to the set. There, they find Rico and Giselle conversing in French. Hanzo comprehends just enough to know they are talking about Myrtle and a leg she broke months ago. Rico insists that his partner can manage just fine, to which Giselle concedes, too preoccupied by a headache. The audience outnumbers the seats by the final performance, leaving Myrtle in happy tears by the end of the show. Coppélia congratulates her on how far she's come. Hanzo listens on, a twinkle of something stirring in him when Myrtle is overjoyed enough to thank her for the praise.
In Casablanca, they breeze through the airport to snag a ride to the studio of Aaliyah, one of Giselle's former classmates. Aaliyah runs her mouth a mile a minute warbling in French with Giselle between Firebird rehearsals and auditions for the upcoming Giselle production. She puts extra stars in Myrtle's beaming eyes and makes surprisingly easy conversation with the quieter, older dancers Xiuying and Eduard. Exchanges between the three of them turn from French into Arabic, the language of their shared religion. Eduard confides in the two, mourns having so long been disconnected from his faith. The ride to the studio passing by the Hassan II Mosque, breathtaking and brilliant against the red earth, is a reminder of years of prayer left behind in pursuit of ballet mastery. Aaliyah consoles him by taking him there to pray alongside her. Xiuying joins, and speaks well of the experience when Giselle asks about it a day later.
Meanwhile, Coppélia shows Hanzo pictures she took of the mosque's exterior over several rides, pouring out commentary once again, relaying the overwhelming number of artists who toiled half a decade away to make a masterpiece of the sacred monument. Aaliyah chimes in to say her piece, how artists were not the only ones who made sacrifices so that the mosque could come to stand. The poor of Casablanca paid the price with the destruction of their homes, only to receive no recompense, and it is something she encourages them to remember when they see the impoverished in the streets. After the premiere of Firebird in the local theatre, Hanzo watches Eduard give alms to a young woman and her father with a missing arm. Performances pass by. When Aaliyah nudges them off to a local men's hammam the evening before they leave, Hanzo sees the poor father once again, buying soap from the front desk. They end up alone together in the warm room after the steam bath. Hanzo is lost in thought, the etiquette of the hammam so similar and so different from long-forgotten visits to the onsen. He does not expect the old man to offer to scrub his back, nor does he expect the favor to be done so roughly. Aaliyah's words ring in his ears as he is compelled to reciprocate, mirroring the thoroughness by which the old man had used to cleanse him. As the company leaves the city the next morning, he turns the moment over in his mind, the blessing from the smiling old man. He keeps the memory to himself, stores it away next to the sounds of Jesse's whistling and Jiyeong's laughter.
It is a too shortly-lived respite before the hell awaiting him in Numbani, where they would again be performing Coppélia while starting rehearsals of Giselle. Although Lacroix Spotlight is not exactly world-renowned, it becomes apparent that Coppélia has certainly made enough of a name for herself to attract a swarm of omnic fans to them at the airport. All the attention forces Hanzo to the forefront, placing him amidst the dozens of reaching metal hands extended towards the omnic dancer. He does his best to suppress his nausea and lingering discomfort as they ride to the hotel, but Coppélia sees right through him. After he throws up in his room and has a sip from his canteen to wash the taste from his mouth, she stops by to give him a paper bag of care items: wrapped café saltines, a stress ball, and a bottle of water. Hanzo notices the careful way she conceals her hands from him, and the fact that she tells him to refrain from drinking alcohol offsets him greatly. The thought that she must know more about him than she lets on leaves him sleepless, try as he might to push the idea away. While she carries on as if she is unaware, her nonchalant behavior still does little to ease him.
He confronts her in private, the evening before the premiere, and she does not shy away. She tells him a little about her scanning capabilities, but withholds the background search she'd run when they first met. With her own unsavory upbringing, Coppélia would rather have him volunteer his own confirmations than pry his past out of him. She reassures him that she only runs scans out of concern, and that she will stop if he requests. Hanzo waves her off. He doesn't quite know how to feel about it, still has his doubts about her, but trusts her enough not to abuse her powers.
Unfortunately, his ordeal does not end there. Work forces him again and again back into the thicket of omnics crowing for Coppélia's attention every time he steps outside the safety of the hotel to escort her out. Enduring the tightness in his throat every day drains him and a considerable portion of his canteen, despite Giselle's commands clattering in his skull every evening he imbibes himself to sound sleep.
To add to it, even in the privacy of rehearsal and classes, tensions run high. Since their arrival in Numbani, Veronika has carried on in obvious bitter spirits. She was neither selected for a role in the main cast nor as an understudy for any of them. So one day, she practically drops Coppélia over the edge of the stage during a refresher rehearsal of their final pas de deux. Hanzo does not miss a beat thankfully, arriving barely in the nick of time to catch the omnic. Coppélia jolts out of his arms just as sharply, bowing as if penitent. Something about the apology stings him. This is his job. She should be thanking him.
Later that night, just when he thinks he can drown himself back to sleep, Giselle is livid, shouting down a weepy crocodile-teared Veronika in the room next his. He lies awake, endures it. When he can hardly stand up the night of the premiere, Giselle cuts him a break. Veronika has been swapped for her understudy, and Numbani is safe enough for Coppélia to go without a bodyguard, she reassures him. Regardless, he wallows in misery that evening, feeling like an irredeemable failure.
Significant remnants of the feeling linger in the plane ride to Nepal, and Coppélia notices, recommending vitamins to boost his immune system against physical ailment, which can worsen depressive episodes. Hanzo hotly contests the word "depressive", eliciting only a small amused sound from her as the plane lands. He'd be more offended if he found the energy for it, especially given how chipper she remains in the face of his gloom. A bus takes them up to the Shambali village, where the company would be performing Firebird the first week and then Coppélia for the last. Hanzo takes a deep breath in preparation of seeing more metal hands. Giselle's meets his shoulder, a small supporting pat, something to show she understands so much yet so little all at once. The cloying memory of Jesse's sad tender eyes grips him, and lets him go.
Coppélia greets a group of the locals like long-lost family, and they welcome her just as warmly. She runs up to embrace a golden-chinned monk with a wise white face plate, and fondly calls him Teacher Mondatta as she briefly introduces him to the company. Mondatta shows the company around and familiarizes them with their rehearsal space in the village forest amphitheater, before splitting off with his former pupil. Hanzo is left to trail quietly behind them as they exchange stories and questions in Russian, walking a path through the melting forest snow. He vaguely comprehends them, picking up bits dumped on him from Veronika's impromptu lessons. When he recognizes the term for "younger brother" out of Coppélia, he tunes out.
He still encounters the displeasure of learning who this brother is. The name "Zenyatta" rings disagreeably on Mondatta's voice after the last showing of Coppélia, calling him away from a gruff-looking human tourist. The smaller omnic merely nods in his brother's direction, holds up two fingers in a "V", before ignoring Mondatta and walking away with the stranger. Hanzo's guts twist up as he turns away from the sight. Somehow, it was like watching a bad puppet show of him and Genji.
In Lijiang, there are no scheduled performances, only visiting students who would be dropping in to watch. Sightseeing is foregone in favor of rigorous preparations for the premiere of Giselle. The dancers all dedicate their energy to it, taking on the director's attitude of making up for lost time. Having been so preoccupied, Hanzo had not caught too much of the story behind the ballet until now, with the director narrating the plot out loud to each group.
Hanzo finally pays attention to the story of a fragile girl named Giselle, watches her heart break fatally by her lover Albrecht's infidelity. She is reborn by the Wilis, vengeful ghosts of women once hurt by careless lovers. They seek to grant Giselle justice by dancing Albrecht to death. But when Giselle comes face to face with her living once-lover, weeping tears of shame over her grave, she spares and ultimately forgives him. That conclusion sits behind Hanzo's sternum like a stone. Despite the knowledge that he is required to attend the next rehearsal, he tries to drink the story away.
The director catches him again, but instead of reprimand, she silently sits down beside him and holds her hand out, commanding the canteen to her grasp. Confiscation, he thinks, but then she knocks back a generous gulp of the contents, and shoves it back into his hands. Punishment, he corrects himself internally, although he is not so sure from the way she looks at him, like she's guilty. In a moment of blurred judgement, he confesses that the story upset him. She asks why. Hanzo closes his eyes and says Albrecht did not deserve forgiveness. Apologies do not bring back the dead. If he was truly sorry, if she really meant something to him, he would've never betrayed her in the first place. He would have let her live… or otherwise given his life to make it even. A beat of silence trickles. Giselle looks at her prosthetic, tells Hanzo that no one undoes their mistakes, but dying certainly would not have rectified the damage either. He nods. He tells her he wants to believe that someday. Giselle laughs, a soft sound that meets the ears as something sad rather than cruel. When he takes another sip, she makes no move to stop him.
In Laguna Beach, they film dress rehearsals of Giselle, which the director explains is for the purpose of padding their thinning funds. Another one of Giselle's old colleagues, a multi-talented costume designer and set painter named Dominga, hosts the space where the company congregates for rehearsals.
Dominga's art studio, a chaotic array of vibrant splatters and supplies, provides itself as an unexpected source of ease. The space is whimsical, exuding the feeling of a child's playroom, and the dancers bring it to life. The company looks right at home on any stage, but when they record the final act in full costume, the experience is something else entirely from past performances. Something else that stands out to Hanzo is how, between breaks, Dominga shows frequent interest in the condition of Coppélia's feet. Through this, he comes to discover Dominga was responsible for designing and installing them.
Dominga's skill too shines through in the work done on the set and costumes. By the third act, the darkened room truly becomes a forest graveyard, made ethereal by hand-painted glowing trees. Dressed in costumes sewn from special fabric, the dancers glow ghostly. Additionally, projectors follow various performers to create an illusion of otherworldly smoke. Hanzo catches himself mesmerized by the trails of light evanescing behind the long gossamer skirts, vaguely reminded of the feeling of watching his spirit dragons swirl away.
In his memory, they tear through Genji, blazing him alive. He thinks of Genji's ghost, wonders if he is at peace or still roaming restless by Hanzo's folly. The latter image sends a soft stab of guilt through his chest. He does not pretend he is a noble man for having left the clan, or even for returning each year to pay his respects to the brother he struck down. It isn't as if he does these things for Genji's sake. But Giselle's response also held its own truth. Nothing will undo death. But if he gives up, seeks his end instead, it will not correct what he had done. He has to carry the weight forward as best as he can, otherwise his life as it stands now is meaningless. Just before Giselle calls cut, Hanzo wanders off, somewhat lightheaded. The streetlights shine down on him, but solace waits for him in the dark.
"Well," A low, gravelly voice swells from the shadows, "didn't think I would find you here." Hanzo's blood runs cold in recognition of the voice. Who does it belong to again? He breathes, assuming the worst. He may not be armed with the storm bow left back in his hotel room, and he would've been a bit out of practice otherwise, but he caught enough private practice with Giselle on off-hours to stay sharp in hand-to-hand combat.
"Identify yourself," he commands, holding his ground and preparing to fight.
The adversary sighs, beleaguered, "Do I really have to?"
A hooded figure in black takes a step forward from the shadows. The white mask lifting to look at Hanzo is as good an indicator as any: a recognizable renegade mercenary, unpledged to anyone, but a worthy makeshift ally for the two jobs they'd worked together.
"Reaper."
"Miss me, Shimada?" Hanzo suppresses a smile, turning his head away. He wishes he weren't so happy that an incarnation of death made for one consistent thing in his life thus far.
"What do you want this time?"
"I just wanted to let you know," Reaper extends his hand out to Hanzo, "the offer's still open."
"Hmph. My answer remains the same." Hanzo rebuffs, smirking, "Permanent partnerships are out of the question." Reaper lets his hand fall to his side. Wisps of ghastly black follow the motion. Dominga certainly got it right, Hanzo thinks with a shudder. He knows Reaper's story, but not the specifics.
With a small chuckle, Reaper shrugs, "Alright then. That's strike three. Don't say I never warned you. We'll have you one way or another." Hanzo already has plenty of enemies. At this point, it matters little to him if he makes one more, though he doubts the threat that Reaper would truly turn on him.
"Will that be all?"
"Oh, I'm not through with you just yet. In fact, I have a small favor to ask of you. It's the least you can do." Reaper steps closer, looming just above Hanzo. If Hanzo is intimidated, it doesn't show.
"I am listening."
"I'd like to know if you're willing to run a job for me." Reaper crosses his arms, "Name your price. I'll even pay you in full ahead of time, if you want."
Silence billows briefly between them. Hanzo is inclined to part ways here, since leaving to take the job posed a risk to his current position. But surprisingly enough, the first factor weighing on his mind is how Giselle said they were running short. At first glance, it appears as a reckless idea. But if he went ahead and couldn't return, he could at least take comfort knowing he was able to keep the company safe from his pursuers. And if he could come back to them…
Before he could get ahead of himself, he replies, "Give me the details first."
In New York City, Coppélia is interviewed on a talk show. Regardless of what she said about funding, Giselle gets her bodyguard fitted for a crisp suit to wear when he escorts Coppélia there. On the cab ride up to the recording studio, Hanzo admires the fabric of his own blazer, quietly content. Luxuries such as these have been an aspect of his day-to-day life sorely missed. Coppélia has never seen a man look so fond and so sad at the same time.
Hesitant, she asks, "Hanzo, are you alright?"
It catches him off guard. He didn't know an omnic could sound so… worried. Even having worked with Coppélia so long, some things about her still surprise him. For the smallest moments, she has him thinking of her as a person. Whether he agrees with the sentiment or not feels unimportant at those times.
"I am fine," he answers with a small twist of the head.
Thoughts of a home long-abandoned quickly dissipate. He preoccupies himself with other, more important things. How convenient, he thinks, that the company chose this city as a venue. Hanzo's target waits in a hotel less than half an hour away by subway, not too far from the dinner party they would be attending after the interview.
"Oh, I thought your work as Swanhilda was absolutely phenomenal," The show host crows. "You and Veronika make for a powerful pair onstage."
"Thank you. And I'm sure Veronika in the audience appreciates the compliment too."
"I'm sure she does. Now, obviously, you are the only omnic dancer in your company. No doubt, you excelled playing a role originally made for a human dancer. But, when you were performing—and be honest—how did you feel about humans being dressed up as automatons? What was your opinion on their performance? Would you have preferred to work with other omnics instead?"
"Well, I do bear in mind that the casting was not exactly something we could help. Trust me, when I say that, if our director had any problems with recruiting omnics in the first place, I wouldn't be here. But as you're aware, socially, there's been a lot of backlash against omnic artists. Because of that, many interested in the arts often find themselves discouraged from pursuing such careers. Not to mention, our lack of equal rights in various places around the world put a lot of us in poverty, which means even those willing to go into ballet cannot really afford to make the proper investments in classes and remodeling their feet. Hopefully, at some point, that will change, and I hope I get to see the day where I'm working with other omnics. But for now, with all that being said, I laud the human dancers who played those roles. I also have to add that the hard-light costume designer in Numbani did an excellent job putting the plating together, and keeping every piece coordinated with the movement of the dancers. They all put a lot of work into the production, so I'm very pleased with what they've done."
"She's a natural," Giselle croons from her seat in the audience, folding her hands together. Hanzo sitting next to her withholds comment, unsure of whether or not she was talking to him or herself.
"Well said. Another thing I'm interested in hearing about is Lacroix Spotlight's upcoming production of Giselle here in New York. What can you tell us? Are you excited?"
"I'm certainly excited! However, I'm going to have to keep what I already know under tight wraps, so you'll just have to see for yourself at our premiere."
"Well there you have it, folks. If you're interested in seeing the show, go to Lacroix Spotlight's website listed here onscreen to get your tickets in advance. Thank you for being with us tonight, Ms. Coppélia."
"It was a pleasure being here," Coppélia nods, with an air of finality, a fitting note, something that resonates with her bodyguard for different reasons.
As the audience applauds, Hanzo checks the time: two hours until departure. He looks up and takes in her bow like it will be the last time he ever sees it. Even with all the unwanted memories gained over his travels, who knows if this humble instance will be a moment he wishes he didn't forget?
The company dines like royalty that evening, toasting to praises of their hard work thus far, and hopes of putting on another remarkable performance. Giselle even raises a glass to Coppélia, who bashfully did not attend the dinner, given her inability to consume food.
Over steak and fine wine, Hanzo mulls over the minutes ticking away, ignoring the familiar soreness of not truly being able to say goodbye. The dancers cause a pleasant distracting din, reminding him of his place as a witness. The role causes him little distress. Something about forcing himself to remain impersonal bestows comforting sadness, reminds him that he is in exile. When the time comes, he will make his pilgrimage back to honor the reason of his first departure, unfettered by other obligations. Then he will move on again, rolling forward in the rhythm he'd doomed himself to. He can't bring himself to hate it anymore now that it's just become routine. Everything is as it should be, he thinks to himself sullenly.
So lost in his own thoughts, he doesn't notice Giselle drowning until they have to head back to the hotel.
The nearest substation is too far to walk, too much of a strain on the legs before a performance, so the dancers cram themselves into taxis bound back to the hotel for some necessary rest. Only Hanzo and Giselle are left behind by the time most everyone is gone. As a subordinate, he waits quietly for Giselle to give their destination to the driver.
Instead, she states the address of Hanzo's target location. His blood runs cold.
As the streetlights flicker by over Giselle's eyes, his pulse jumps in tandem with the seconds flitting away.
"Ms. Sauveterre," he begins quietly, "shouldn't we be heading back to the hotel?" An indistinguishable glance is her only response. Not a word of answer is uttered. Hanzo swallows.
The longer she says nothing, the more reason he has to suspect that she knows about his meeting with Reaper, about the deal, possibly about him and where he came from and all the horrible things he did leading up to this point. Half of him remembers to breathe, to carry on normally through the fear, think rationally.
But before he can make his decision to strike or flee, they reach the destination: a fancy bar. As they step out together, at last, words spill from the director's sealed lips. She wobbles, tilts her head blearily towards heaven, murmurs a soft apology in French, mixing in his name, Frauke's name, and the name of a woman he's never heard her speak about before.
"Amélie?" Hanzo echoes back, regretting once Giselle tears her gaze away from the skyline to turn back to him. He has never seen any superior of his look so wounded by three syllables.
Warning but tired, she waves and sighs in English, "Don't… repeat her name."
The reminder on his phone buzzes silent in the pocket of his trousers, signaling the possible end of this chapter in his life. Whether he likes it or not, this is how it could go: unanswered, unspoken, unknown, like so many other stories he'd never see through. Steeling himself, he pushes aside the wonder. Giselle perhaps is going to fire him now, if she knows what he's up to. But she doesn't matter anymore. Her life, her stories, her company and all their experiences may very well be a strange dream to him by the time this is over. And he feels no right to press for her story if he can't give her an honest one of his own.
The instinct to flee first presents itself, but for whatever reason, he doesn't leave. With the mildest string of obligation to keep him tethered, he escorts her to a tucked away seat in a booth, before excusing himself to the restroom. There, he makes his call to check in with Reaper.
Reaper responds with various pictures of the target, directions on how to lure them out into the open away from witnesses. Hanzo has played honeypot, and at a bar it seems like the safest tactic, but he has never preferred sleeping with strangers. He's thinking he'll need a drink with Giselle too if he's going to get through what's to come, so he returns to his seat to check on her.
The sight of someone else meets him instead: broad frame, hair slicked back, a wide-brimmed brown hat next to his half-empty glass, the telltale glimmer of a prosthetic left hand under the bar lights, burnt cigarette filter pinched between two silver fingers. Hanzo's throat goes tight. He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again. The man remains. His skin prickles with anxiety, but his heart swells with hope. Maybe the world can be that small.
If that's the case, what is he supposed to do?
One instinctive step towards closing the gap makes a difference: wrong face shape, wrong eye color, wrong person. Jesse is long gone. Of course he is. Hanzo left him behind months ago, for the betrayal.
"Sweetheart, trust me. I ain't a fan of breakin' promises."
He pushes the thought away, lets it float by. This is exile, he has to remind himself. Until he can pay the price of his life for Genji's, he shall give up his home. No place, and no person, who sheltered him can ever remain a constant if he can help it.
From the way he drags himself back to the booth, Giselle can't help but let out a "tsk". His shoulders stiffen at the sound, and the way her eyes harden as she glances between him and her current glass. At last, she settles on scolding him.
"You work too hard, Hanzo." There she goes, dredging up reflections of a past long gone. He apologizes as if he is talking to Jiyeong again: a low murmur, concealing profound shame. She hums.
He dismisses, glancing at her three empty glasses, "I have sleep problems."
"And that's why I give you breaks."
"I deserve no such pity," he replies, a faint aching laugh lining his voice. "I can do better than this."
Silence seats itself between them. It shows on her face: whatever she had been expecting him to say, that certainly hadn't been it. He can't help but feel wrong from the way she scrunches up her face. The wine glass tilts back, contents gone. An expression of anguish and remorse crosses her features when she looks down at it.
In this light, she does not look like his superior. Face to face, she is a mess of a person, who looks like she understands what it's like to get back up too many times, to continually feel like fighting back isn't something worth doing anymore.
Then, she says, "So could I." Her palm slides down to her mouth, covering her jaw. "I promised Frauke. And I failed her. I failed you too." His heart lurches, and she worsens it, "Why can't I do this one thing right?" From her mouth, that feels wrong too.
Hanzo shifts in his seat, sitting up, "You are human, Ms. Sauveterre." Human, he recalls, was the word Jesse used again and again to comfort him. Then, it slips, "No one undoes their mistakes…"
"But dying doesn't rectify anything either," she finishes, nodding. Hand over her side, she murmurs, "I don't want to die."
They quiet, then cut each other off for the night before heading back. Without prompting, she talks about Amélie. Hanzo tries to stop her from saying something she'd regret, the way he now realizes is what she did for him so many nights ago. Traffic slowly grinds to a halt. She pauses in tandem.
The stoplight washes over her, glinting on her prosthetic: a spotlight. Her hand curls into a fist.
"I am done… burying this story."
A beat skips, then Hanzo sighs, "Tell me, then."
She says Amélie was the love of her life.
Most ballet dancers begin training young, so Amélie had been her classmate and friend for as long as she could remember. Amélie had supported her through everything, from Giselle constantly slipping up in beginning classes to being promoted to pointe work. At some point in high school, Amélie headed through a rough patch, losing several friends in the process of an in-group spat. In response, Giselle had made a pact to her that they would never part. It served as solace, and inspiration. Amélie said she owed her improvement as a dancer to Giselle's unwavering support.
Eventually, they got through their exams and auditioned all around to work for the same dance company. But when Giselle was rejected, Amélie withdrew after being accepted, out of loyalty to her friend. And little did she know that this would be how Giselle fell for her.
They set off together, searching for work until they hit their lucky note. When they were finally accepted to the same company, Giselle planned to confess her love as they celebrated over dinner in town. Amélie instead made another announcement: an engagement ring on her left hand, a man named Gerard, once a classmate of theirs in post-secondary school. And Giselle plastered on the biggest grin she could manage, congratulating her friend on the occasion. She felt terrible because she sincerely wanted to be happy for Amélie, but all she could find inside was heartbreak. So as they toasted to the engagement and their joint achievement of making it into the company, together, a reaffirmation of their promise to never part, the awful problem began that night. As Giselle drained her glass, she found the ache in her chest a little easier to tolerate.
Every professional dancer knew the importance of balanced and healthy eating, but ever since the celebration, late practice dinners after classes had always been accompanied by a glass of wine. A single glass turned from two, into three, into five, until Giselle didn't catch herself overindulging until she'd poured out a whole bottle, not even eating anymore. She told herself she would curb back, that as a dancer, she could exhibit some discipline to control herself. But regardless of each mental affirmation of last one for the night, her hand seemed to move on its own, as if in unstoppable rehearsed muscle memory. Without realizing, she gave up fighting the habit.
Everything is fine, she soothed herself, so long as I can dance, I can stay. I won't let Amélie down.
She wore her grin to class, compensated with raw, powerful movements to mask grace lost to inebriation. The perceived energy of her performance garnered praise. She kept the act up for years. But her mistakes caught up to her eventually, and at last she wobbled, stumbled at the worst possible time.
During a rehearsal, she fell off the edge of a high stage and crushed her arm. The arm would heal, the doctors told her, but her hand had been rendered unusable from extensive nerve damage. She explored options with them. Prosthetics had become so advanced that they seemed like the obvious choice. After the amputation, adjustment, and installment, she swallowed her pride and shame. She faced the fact that she had a problem, and so decided to retire, in order to focus on recovery. But that decision came at a price: to part and dissolve a long-standing promise.
As she invited Amélie for a drink to break the news to her at this very bar in New York, it turned out she would not be the only one leaving the company either.
"She told me she was retiring early too, so she could live closer to her fiancé, support him at work," Giselle states, solemnly. "That night, both of our dreams had been shattered, I believe. Of course neither of us wanted our dancing careers to end so early like that, but... leaving just felt like the right decision at the time. My only regret was that I never got the chance to say how I felt. And she said her only regret would be that she wouldn't get to retire as a ballet director like she wanted. So, a few years into my recovery, when I was feeling much better and sorely missing ballet, I decided to make her dream come true. It was the least I could do for breaking my promise to her."
Hanzo hesitates, before asking, "You never kept in touch with her?"
"I couldn't. By the time I was in a good place to contact her, she had dropped off of social media and her old number went out of service. And she never contacted me either after she left. Maybe because I didn't initiate fast enough. She always was a shy one…" Giselle gives a delicate shake of the head. "But it's for the best, I know. I can't waste time thinking back on what could've been. I have a responsibility to these dancers." She looks at him, "And to you."
He closes his eyes, nods his head, "Thank you. For everything you've done."
Traffic unclogs. Once they reach the hotel, his stomach drops in realization. He checks the time: three hours late. He got so distracted he forgot all about the target.
Once in his room, he checks in with Reaper again, considering how to go about getting to whatever destination the task may take him. But with the thought of Giselle and all her sacrifices, a sense of duty gnaws at him. It's so foolish. Like every other arrangement, he knew from the beginning this wouldn't be built to last.
But in his call to Reaper, he apologizes and promises a refund as soon as possible.
"What do you mean 'refund'? I can still give you the coordinates. I know where the target's going next."
"No." Hanzo pauses, "I'm saying I can't do this."
"Come on. I know you're not a coward, Shimada…"
"I have other obligations to attend to." Hanzo regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. Given the rejection at Laguna Beach, he knows how it must sound to Reaper.
"Ohhh. So that's how it is?"
"Tch. Do not delude yourself into thinking they have won any real loyalty from me," He defends, truthful, but it sounds too weak. He falters on an ache, for guilt of affronting Giselle like this. Shaking his head, he reasserts, "I pledge myself to no one. They are stepping stones, much like your organization is to you." Exile, he reminds himself. Reaper seems to be laughing.
"If you say so. Have fun staring at ballerinas' crotches all day then."
"Have a good evening."
Reaper hangs up with a mumbled, irritated curse. Exhaling, Hanzo casts his eyes towards the window, stares into the night the way Giselle seemed to gaze into heaven. He wonders whose face she could see, if she saw memories of Amélie floating overhead.
Hanzo sees no such face, but he imagines, nearly feels Jesse's warm embrace surround him, organic arm so mindfully tucked underneath the metal prosthetic. Images of what could have happened at the bar if the stranger really had been Jesse swarm Hanzo's head. Growing more and more heartbroken, his mind finally caves to exhaustion.
A/N:
Original characters introduced: Coppélia's former "master"(mentioned), Aaliyah, the one-armed old father and his daughter, Dominga, Jesse's lookalike.
References: A pas de deux is a duet dance in ballet. The Reeperbahn is a street in Hamburg famous for its adult establishments and pubs. A hammam is also known as a Turkish bath and similar to onsen/Japanese hot springs in that they are both utilized as public bathhouses in their regions; typically, people with tattoos in Japan are not allowed in public bathhouses, so Hanzo would have visited onsens in earlier years of his life. Laguna Beach is a city in California with a large artistic population. "Honeypot" is a term used to describe an undercover agent's tactic of seducing a target in order to get them into a vulnerable state for assassination or information extraction.
-Reddie