SHIMADA
While he often brushes praise off, he can’t help but feel satisfied hearing it from Jack Morrison’s mouth. Though invisible to anyone but himself, the slightest smile squints his eyes; less genuine, more just happy he got a hit in, enough to leave an impression.
It would be the same reaction he’d have for Jack, too. The man is rather unassuming; you don’t think of much when someone is said to have impeccable aim, as opposed to inhuman speed or strength.
He lifts the sword still, stance as ready as it had been a second ago. He wants to ask: was that me or the cybernetics?
Though instead, he’s quiet in favor of darting to the side, sheathing his sword in a split second, fast enough for his hands to reach up and grapple against the metal beam, pulling himself up the wall with startling ease.
His enhancements are internal. Imprints on his chest, down his biceps, on his thighs, embedded lines leaving a trail hardly perceivable to the naked eye. He wasn’t being treated for the disease and disability Genji was. His life wasn’t on the line. He signed up for this. He watched as the others’ bodies rejected the treatments, hunched over toilets while Jack was out being awarded medals and getting promotions.
He isn’t all just good aim.
Jack might not be able to climb like he can — it’s easy to picture a young boy climbing cherry blossoms of Hanamura, but not like this.
❛ Let’s see how useful everything they pumped into me is. ❜ He drops the rifle and peels fabric away from his back, tossing his jacket ( safely ) aside and readying his stance. Less grace than a ninja —— more that of a soldier.
