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sasorikigai · 5 years

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Major Arcana Ask Meme || @movieactorcage || accepting

XVI. The Tower — What does your muse consider to be the worst thing that ever happened to them?

The thoughts of Harumi and Satoshi’s death bloom from his mind; the concept of Hasashi family that was once pure and beautiful, but they were mutilated and became diseased cells that would try to kill me as they continue to replicate and fill his brain with vicious visions. They metastasize, fill his body and with every drop of his blood, fills him with dangerous thoughts. The world he precariously resided on was made of dynamite sticks and a fuse for lips; for the wretched series of events had lit, burning all the innocence of love and passion - anything other than desperation and destruction - and before he ever got the chance to burn with them, the dark strand of magic traveled and penetrated into his heart.

How gloriously he blew up, the biggest bang the universe has ever seen, through a fiery baptism, a declaration of martyrdom, a rebirth and a eulogy to Hanzo Hasashi’s repressed carnage and diabolical temper, alongside the perished humanity and goodness of his heart. With no lack of logical continuity, his molten fury and vengeance towards the universe that had wronged him courses through him more like a relentless wave without break - the persistent, perpetual nature of tsunami roaring, consuming, engulfing everything in its wake - as he would continue to struggle and burn himself away beneath the merciless scald of the Netherrealm’s fire.

This particular fire is never pristine and halcyon in that it isn’t intimate; it scorches his skin and melts his flesh, down the hardened muscles and sinews, leaving him in gleaming white of skull and skeletal boundaries, devouring all the layers that separated his soul from his body, until all that would be left were his ashes and his fragmented conscience, and they would be buried beneath the flawed aspect of his misguided vengeance - towards Bi-Han, towards Kuai Liang, towards the Lin Kuei, towards the innocents that hadn’t been complicit in his own, his family and the Shirai Ryu’s massacre and extinction - as Scorpion staggered from the wicked bonfire he had become. That everything had slowly stripped all life from him and all his love and empathy and soul had been smoked out until there was nothing flammable left to sacrifice.

He had coughed up grime and blood before the fire he had ignited years ago finally claimed him whole, as the nonchalant world looked on, thinking maybe he would also be part of the flames forever. The tendrils of his hellfire scattered his ashes in all the places where he used to feel most alone, in the fire and brimstone of his mind as a dark, lifeless mark of his continuance left imprints upon the intangible sand of the time whirling by. With all of his dark and squinty-eyed broodiness, Scorpion would bound his steps towards the atmosphere full of shades of gray, riddled with scorched haunting visualization of charred remain, where once-blossomed love rapidly wilted away. There is solemn sadness in the fact that he could stumble upon his own faded existence and swipe it away as if he was never there in the first place.

He may be the most powerful wraith in the realm, in the whole world, as the vindictive vicissitudes of his hellfire become the manifestation of tangibility, of his crumbling and bleeding heart, detonating against the acridness of the air and jagged formation of the Netherrealm’s landscape. While from darkness, light may arise if he’d been left alone all too soon; in a stark and cold mourning in the deepest reverie, as he drowned and intoxicated further, he would be bombarded with such onslaught of guilt, remorse and deprecating fault of his capricious rashness and impulsiveness of his past’s actions as Raiden’s guiding light pervade through and saturated his heart.

Even then, Quan Chi’s decapitation would yet again, sever the chains of his humanity, as the abysmal depth of his hate and vengeance got better of him, as he would cause something irreversible and unparalleled; worsening the state of the mandate of his permanent scars. For all life, Hanzo had been besieged, as he would live with his despair and desperation, as his aimlessly drifting heart sought to be encompassed by the weight of the darkness and his own wrongdoings. He would forever hold the fire within the expanding ribs as he embodies the Sun; the pristine liquid gold that would make him a pioneer of the better future, the better prospect of the Earthrealm as he would atone for his sins.

The broken glass of his heart becoming priceless diamond beneath the unbearable toil and burdensome Atlas, heavy against his broad, sinewy shoulders. Yet, he would never fall beneath his own torturous anguish and angst as he’d watch his self glow aflame; like white light, into the white night, as Harumi and Satoshi as his life source, setting into silent, black clouds as Hanzo Hasashi chooses to walk upon the broken hourglass of his stretching time.

The ghostly decay of once-flamboyant and fervent specter resurgent yet again with a human heart and power of the scattering explosion of the stars, alighting the entire universe. Every recollection of his experience serves as his undying obsession, never ceasing his determined steps, as if he had been afflicted by some incurable, terminal disease. Through the breaking of his own self, Hanzo will turn himself into the bright light of the celestial beings, as he would allow himself to plunge into the depths of his raw, visceral emotions and power, utilizing his fire like riptides under his skin and through his veins to strike down any incarnates of evil, with the crystal clarity of his purified hellfire.

Hanzo would forever squeeze the hurt out of his inaccessible tenderness that used to be his heart and manifest himself to be the perfect description of imperfection. Even when he permeates with the wildspread lake of such stunning red, with ravaging sting of venom coursing through his veins as impure black and unnatural blue, reflecting his inner demons as residual flames wrap themselves around the still-ongoing fervor of his being, in his inevitable death, in splintering, then rejoining. For this has been the entirety of Hanzo’s life, to be decomposed under the explicit pain more than flesh and blood can stand. Beneath his insidious hunger to live and leave legacy, the Grandmaster of the Shirai Ryu would live beneath the ever-blinding splendor of sunlight, basking over the whistling leaves of the Fire Gardens, even when his corporeality remains scattered like the ash and dust of the funeral pyre.

#✗ obsessive cathartic (headcanon)#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ seeking reconciliation with his own humanity (iii)#movieactorcage

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