This is… more than a hundred words. OOPS. Sorry, Random_Nexus. Also, welcome to my Martin headcanon.
"But you know how those Japanese are," Douglas says, as if it’s funny.
"Better than you, I imagine," Martin mutters. He doesn’t want to get into a fight with Douglas, but he has lived with this shite all his life and he’s tired of it.
"What was that, Martin?" Douglas pushes, because Douglas can never just leave something alone.
"I understand the Japanese better than you do," Martin says, aloud, and shakes his shoulders back.
"What on earth makes you say that?" Douglas asks, incredulous.
"I am Japanese,” Martin says tightly.
"No, you’re not!"
"Yes, I am."
"Martin, you’re bloody ginger!"
"I know what I look like!" Martin snaps. "My grandmother immigrated to Fitton from Japan sixty years ago. My grandfather was Irish. My dad looked like his mum. You’ve met the rest of my family; Caitlin looks like him. Simon and I look like Mum. Who was also ginger, before she went grey.”
"Prove it," Douglas says, still playing Sky God in his own head. "Say something in Japanese."
And that’s really the last straw. "No," Martin says. "No, I do not have to prove my cultural identity to you, and I won’t. I have been subjected to this indignity all my life and I am sick of it. ‘Why are your eyes so funny, Martin?’ ‘Are you Chinese, Martin?’ ‘Speak some Chinese to us, Martin!’ ‘Is that why you’re so short, Martin?’ No. I’m done proving myself. I am Japanese, and I don’t bloody care if you believe it or not.”
He sits seething in the center of the tense silence for long minutes, hands too tight on GERTI’s controls. Finally, Douglas breaks the silence.
"I’m sorry," he says.