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Scorpion remembers what it felt like to die.
He remembers the agony of every muscle constricting, and the very moment they failed to keep moving forward. The tightness in his chest when his heart ran out of enough blood to keep beating. The ringing in his ears. The darkness. The anger.
The heat. It was so hot . Like a wildfire that raged out of control and seeped its way underneath his skin, waiting to break free, and it hurt.
Scorpion remembers what it felt like to die. That is the only reason he doesn’t assume he’s dead now.
The first thing he notices, after his brain is finally alert enough to notice anything, is the cold . He's so cold . Goosebumps prickle across his skin. His first instinct is to curl up, except even that much movement is a strain to his aching limbs.
He does not know where he is.
He knows that he feels cold. That his chest is expanding with breaths without his input. That there is a beating where his heart should be. There is pain. He knows that should not be possible. He knows that thought scares him, and that he doesn't remember the last time any of that was true.
He extends his hand out and it trembles. He can't control it. He tries to summon the fire and watches sparks flicker at his fingertips, but nothing more. Gone before he can be sure it was ever there.
His eyes are open but he cannot see anything. Only that the room he’s been left in is small, and dark, and entirely empty, save for the single candle beside his pillow that has long burned out.
He thinks there might be some sort of metaphor in that.
What finally drives him to action is the sound of footsteps on the other side of the wall. It is the first indication that any of this is real. That he is real. That there is a world outside of this dark, quiet room. He finds the door is unlocked, and does not question it, although he thinks he probably should.
He steps out into a hallway that is as dark, and quiet, and cold as the room. The floor is made of stone and it feels damp under his feet. From here, he can hear rain beating on the roof outside and the occasional crack of thunder. It means he must be somewhere in Earthrealm. It means Quan Chi did not bring him here. He can’t find it in himself to be relieved by that.
The hallway leads to a larger room. There are mats and lit lanterns encircling a statue in the center. It is a monk. sitting cross-legged, with its hands folded in silent prayer. It reminds Scorpion of the Shaolin, and shrines scattered across their temples. In a tournament that felt largely like a waste of his time, that had at least been memorable.
“I see you’re finally awake.”
Scorpion does not startle, but it is a near thing.
There is a man behind him, with long white hair, and glowing eyes to match. He does not need to ask his name, as he knows they have already met.
It has not been long since they were fighting on opposites of a war, but it feels like a lifetime ago now.
“I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t.”
“What do you care? I’m not your friend.” Scorpion finally rasps out, his voice rough from disuse.
“Caring for people is my job.” Fujin said, sounding far kinder than Scorpion would like, “Whether they want me to or not.”
The thought of that makes Scorpion irrationally angry.
He knows he must look pathetic in these linen robes that don't belong to him, and his arms wrapped around himself like it was a substitute for the warmth he couldn't bring himself.
He thinks that makes it feel even worse.
“Save your pity for someone who asked for it." Is what he finally manages, but it doesn’t ease the sting in the back of his throat.
It was all starting to make more sense. Except, it didn't really . This was Raiden's temple he was standing in. The god who reeked of false righteousness. What business did he have trying to pretend to care now?
The memory of Noob Saibot was a bitter one. A being born purely to spite him. Let no one say the sorcerer didn't have a sense of humor.
It is unfair to hate Raiden for a choice that was entirely his own. He doesn't care.
“He was trying to break the spell Quan Chi had on the revenants. “ Fujin finally cut in. “It worked…on those in the lair. He did not predict that you would be effected as well.”
He vaguely recalled what Fujin was talking about. The actor nearly succumbing to his wounds, and the sorcerer jumping on the opportunity.
“He brought you here to recover, but you're not a prisoner. You're welcome to leave when you are well enough.”
And go where?
“Do you need anything, Hanzo?”
He blinked. He looked in Fujin's eyes and saw only his own sorrow reflected in them.
When was the last time anyone called him that?
Scorpion. Spector. Demon. Hellspawn. But never Hanzo. Never his name. Hanzo Hasashi was dead, and in his place was a monster. And maybe it was better that way. it was certainly easier.
But that wasn't true now, was it. His heartbeat, and breathing, and exhaustion was proof of that. He saw his own face reflected in the polished bronze of the statue, and he could not recognize it.
He looked back at Fujin once more, his hands fidgeting together, and sighed, “I'm… cold.”
The wind god's eyes softened.
“Come. Let us warm you up.”