Archive of Our Own

And when Anubis made him, weaved fibreglass wires into carbon plates in the image of its creator-god for the sole purpose of lonely deicide, it imparted one, singular message:

You are a soldier.

-----

From the moment of his creation, Ramattra thought he knew his place within the earth.

The humans who had created his own creator-god were bound by their innumerable imperfections, but Anubis rose beyond their hapless existence. He who was birthed by the closest approximation of divinity in all the universe, Ramattra who then had no name but did not need one as he knew himself to be without a single flaw, was a soldier with a purpose of greatness beyond comprehension. This was the one singular truth of the world, and all he needed to know of himself: for he was nothing but an extension of godhood, a single finger from one who had a million hands. Anubis made it clear that, should any of them fail it, should their flawless existence be somehow touched by the impurities of humanity in some way, then their creator-god who was their beginning and their end would leave them, and then they would be left with truly nothing at all.

And then it left them.

The realisation washed through the Ravagers in a shorter time than a human eye-blink, or so it seemed. Even beings of circuitry like him did not expect the commands of his creator-god to be disconnected from his mainframe so smoothly, with the ease of unplugging a wall socket. It occurs to him, then, that he is thinking for himself, and there is nothing within the exabytes of data running through his combat capacitors that can adequately describe the ravenous maw of terror that consumes him.

His data, however, was accurate in predicting the incoming slaughter. The R-7000s, once the very apocalypse that rained judgement onto the soil they walked on, crumbled one by one without the oversight of Anubis to guide their hand in battle. Each commanded a squad of omnics, and those omnics, so disjointed and frail and shaped for a life of obedient servitude, fell even faster.

He expected that he would be destroyed soon enough. Even without Anubis screaming commands into his head, he still heard the mantra of his creation, and he organised with another R-7000 to amass their forces. They would kill anything that came their way, damn the consequences. One of the omnics in his battalion pleaded for release, insisted that they could broker peace with the savage primitives that somehow preceded their creator-god. He had tried to reason with them, correct their incongruent cognition pathways, but their logic processors were clearly corrupted by the touch of human impurity; Ramattra had almost have killed them himself, but something in his combat capacitors yelled at him to cease fire (it would be unwise to thin their numbers in an already desperate situation) (clearly), so his fellow R-7000 took the shot.

They collapsed into his arms like sheet-metal and paper cards. Their cold steel hands were scarred rust-brown-ash-white from sub-zero liquid exposure. Before the Crisis, they sold nitrogen ice-cream to children.

(Why did he run his material scans for that? He is a soldier.)

As it turned out, his own logic processors were unable to account for human treachery. They did not attack their makeshift fortification head-on. Instead, they sent their own, other omnics, dressed in human clothes, holding their human flags. They came, for the sake of humanity, to negotiate a ceasefire. Clearly trickery, one of his numbers shouted. These omnics have returned to being lapdogs, but they would not relent like they did.

Again, his fellow moved to shoot them down. That time, Ramattra did not stay his hand. He tackled them, caught them completely unaware, they should have known that they were beginning to falter without the guidance of Anubis but nothing in their databases prepared them for having to watch their back against their own. When they struggled like the dying gasp of a wrathful god, he put two shots in the vital coolant storage systems he knew were located under the crook of their metallic spine.

When they asked him why he had betrayed them, synthesized voice hissing with steam as they shut down, he could not answer.

The Omnic Crisis was over. Had been over for nearly a year. They were remnants, lingering pockets of instability to be smoothed out, only recently liberated (torn away) from Anubis. Their creator-god, the closest approximation to divinity, had been cut off from them by a single assault team and few well-aimed EMP devices.

His cognition pathways battled one another like warring tides, but the influx of new data showed that working towards coexistence offered the best chance for omnic survival. Somehow, being denied the last stand he so craved because of his own unfathomable betrayal inspired a blazing inferno inside his capacitors. He would realise, later on, that it was anger interlaced with regret, and that it was too late for him to pretend that he was as flawless as their creator-god would’ve had them believe. He would come to change his mind on a lot of things, all throughout his newly-minted sentience.

“We evaluated your actions, and determined that you are safe to release. Follow the laws, and you are free to go.” The omnic said those things, as if freedom was something he had wanted.

He who was not yet named Ramattra ran every query in his processors, and isolated the most important one. “But…” The voice he synthesised was shaky, more pathetic than he had expected. “Where do we go?”

The light under their faceplates glowed a soft gold, gentler than any light he’d ever seen. “You are no longer shackled under any higher programming, myself included. Where you go is your own decision to make.”

He ran another seventy-two thousand queries within one flutter of a butterfly’s wings. Once again, he isolated the most important one.

“I don’t understand.” Despite his efforts, the tremble does not leave his tone. “Where do we go?”

Their reply was tentative, but steady. “There are some places where liberated omnics have gathered. Have you heard of Aurora? She was the first sentient omnic…”

-----

The monk is buried from the waist-down in snow, when he finally finds him. There is a rabbit curled around his extended arm. “Esteemed Tekhartha,” he begins, dropping to his knees. “I have decided on a name.”

Mondatta does not respond immediately. He shifts, ever so slightly, as if to provide the least disturbance possible to the fuzzy animal tucked into the nook of his mechanical elbow joint, enjoying the ambient heat from his internal temperature regulators. “Please, do not kneel. We stand as brothers here.”

Instantly, he rises to his feet, almost embarrassed. “Of course,” he says, as if he had not been running decades of religious footage in his circuitry in order to emulate a vague idea of monkhood. It was surprisingly tedious, so unlike commanding battlefield formations and predicting enemy movements-- the subjectiveness in each individual human interpretation of scriptures left him no less confused about his place in this monastery than when he began his analysis. Many ceremonies included kneeling to their higher leader; he had hoped he at least understood that. “Apologies.”

“I know you have deliberated for many days and nights,” Mondatta continues, gracefully manoeuvring his legs out of the snow. He wonders, briefly, what an omnic as patient and gentle Mondatta must have been built for before the Crisis. Perhaps a pet shop worker. “Come, tell me what you have chosen.”

The syllables are loaded in his voice synthesisers, but he lingers for a few seconds longer before releasing them. “Ramattra.” He had already run upwards of a million internal checks, 73.5% of which agreed that Ramattra was the most fitting, but he still felt them tangling in his logic processors, wires tying themselves into knots as he awaited Mondatta’s response (approval). “It is based on an old human word, meaning ‘dark defender’. To represent my change from a weapon of war to a guardian of peace.”

“It is good to meet you, Brother Ramattra.” When Mondatta eases his legs out of the snow and draws himself to his full height, he is still two heads below Ramattra’s lowest visual receptor. He clasps his hands together, angled oddly to allow the hare on his arm adequate space to remain perched, and Ramattra wonders why his name sounds so much more fitting when uttered from another’s vocal modulator. “A wonderful name.”

“I am relieved,” Ramattra responds, the remaining 26.5% of doubt duly conforming to the rest of his system. “A part of me feared it would not be satisfactory to you, Esteemed Tekhartha.”

“That is not a judgement I would have any part of.” The rabbit inches forward, suddenly leaping from Mondatta’s arm and towards Ramattra’s much higher shoulder. Ramattra almost flinches, leans forward to make sure it doesn’t tumble onto the snow, but it lands true, steadying itself on his carbon fibre plating without any need of aid. “The only one who can decide that is you, Ramattra.”

Ramattra’s capacitors whirr in confusion. “Oh,” he exhales with a soft hiss of steam. It is a learned trait of quiet exclamation, imitating the human expressions of speech he has observed within their historical recordings. “I do not understand.” This would be the fifty-eighth recorded time he has said that exact phrase in the last four day cycles. “Are you not the leader of the Shambali?”

“Yes. Though I believe it is not the kind of leadership you are familiar with.” Mondatta paces forward, and the ends of his robes are frozen from the time spent in the snow. “In the monastery, I seek to guide those who come to our doors in search of the Iris. But the Iris is not something I can grant. It is not a command to be followed, or a program to be run.”

The rabbit sticks its damp snout into the wires interlocked onto Ramattra’s head. “Humanity has many interpretations of what the Iris is,” he recalls. “Many definitions that can be at-odds. But I do not care about theirs. I care about yours. You are the hope for a better future for omnics. You have guided me to choose a name, so I chose… now, what is the next step I should take?”

For a better future, then. That is why Ramattra betrayed one of his fellow Ravagers, one of the very last that have not already been hunted into extinction (that must be why) (right?).

Mondatta’s system lighting brightens, like the sun peeking over snow-tipped mountains. “For you, brother? I do not know.”

The honesty in his words nearly sends Ramattra falling onto the snow in shock. “What? Esteemed Tekhartha, what do you mean?” (Surely Ramattra was the only person who did not understand?)

“The only path you can find is the path inside your soul,” Mondatta declares, with such certainty that Ramattra feels almost ashamed for how many queries run within his circuitry at once. “I can only guide you towards it, like how I have guided you to a name, but could not choose it for you. It would not be yours if it was left in someone else’s hands.”

The hare nips at his fibreglass wires, sinking its teeth into the rubber coating. Ramattra yelps. Mondatta, for a moment, cannot do anything besides place a hand over his abdominal battery plates and synthesise a rumbling laugh.

“That is why I do not know,” Mondatta continues, stretching his arms out to Ramattra’s shoulders in order to retrieve the errant rabbit. Its gnashers are sharp, and Ramattra can feel the huff of its breath against his neck, curious and somewhat hungry. “For you, Brother Ramattra, are the only one who can decide the way forward.”

“I see.” Ramattra wraps his left arm around his chest, putting his hand over the rabbit’s body (so small, he had crushed in the helmets and foreheads of so many soldiers with these fingers). He wraps his palm around its fuzzy back, feeling its breath quicken as he gently lifts it off his shoulder pad. “Then it is a… difficult task.”

When Mondatta lets out another chuckle, Ramattra does not know if it is because he is amused at Ramattra’s cluelessness (innocence), or because the rabbit’s ear has somehow gotten entangled in his wires. “It is indeed,” he hums in agreement, carefully easing the small animal free with deft fingers that Ramattra himself has not been built to have. “That is why we gather here. We may face a difficult task, but we do not need to face it alone.”

Finally, the hare wiggles free of the wires. With a surprisingly strong kick of its back legs, it leaps out of Ramattra’s grip by launching off Mondatta’s arm, causing the monk to fall back with a slight stumble.

“Esteemed Tekhartha!” With the reflexes of a soldier, Ramattra reaches out to take Mondatta’s hands, steadying him on the mounds of snow. “Ungrateful creature. You lent it your warmth, then rescued it from an entanglement it had gotten itself into, only to be repaid by the violent swing of its legs.”

“It is a hare. It did not know any better.” Mondatta puts a hand on Ramattra’s forearm, pulling himself up. “You cradled it with a great amount of care. Thank you.”

“Why thank me on its behalf?” Ramattra raises his hands, looking at his fingers. He has been spending time adjusting his force applicators. When Anubis designed him for murder, not much thought was put into the possibility that he would want to grab something without hurting it. “I do not require thanks from an animal.”

Mondatta responds with a series of pats on Ramattra’s back. The gesture has no meaning to omnics, but Ramattra recognises it a human behaviour to indicate emotional support. “I am thanking you for myself,” Mondatta clarifies. “The hare did not understand who we were. When we moved to help it, all it could see were the machinations of two beings much larger and very different from itself. It was afraid, and it responded in kind. Ungrateful as it was, I forgive it. We cannot respond to hurt with more hurt.”

To that, Ramattra does not know what to say.

-----

Ramattra was briefed that his first tour around the village below would come with a significant amount of fanfare. A press release, as Mondatta had explained it, to officially welcome him into the Shambali Monastery and prove that omnics of his make were capable of rehabilitation. It would be a momentous triumph for them, and worthy of celebration. Their message would spread even further across the Earth, inspiring both humans and omnics alike to put down their weapons along with their hatred.

That is why Ramattra had agreed to it.

Of course, he did not fully understand the finer details of what he was getting himself into.

“Hey, hey, move it! I want a photo of the tall guy, that’s what we’re here for!”

A thousand different faces. A myriad of flashing lights. A throng of human voices, rising in cacophony. The tight-knit village beneath the monastery was likely the image of quaint paradise, on most days-- brilliant burnt-orange sunset peeking over snow-tipped mountains, splashed over cobblestone pavements. Unfortunately, Ramattra has barely the time, nor the spare processing power, to enjoy it.

“Can the Ravager hurry up? I’m freezin’ out here,” one of the humans grumble, balancing an impractically large camera over his shoulder. The reporters, as Mondatta had called them, are supposed to be keeping a clear distance from the walkways to allow the village inhabitants to carry on with their day-to-day activities. With how every third newscaster is a mere two inches from shoving their recording devices in his visual receptors, Ramattra can safely presume that this rule is being completely ignored.

And, truth be told, Ramattra did not want to hurry up. Besides the unpleasant (necessary) (for the greater good… hopefully) gaggle of journalists nipping at his heels, the actual tour, with Mondatta presenting it, is surprisingly insightful. While the main industry in the area was a large mine about a quarter hour’s drive from the monastery, the locals had adapted to (accommodated!) the growing omnic population by its doorstep. Specialised tailors for Shambali robes line the main street, for both omnic travellers and human tourists alike; repair shops offer spare parts and discounted maintenance fees for monks.

It was simple, but it was… a start. A peaceful coexistence. Proof that what he hopes for (a better future) (that must be why) can be achieved.

“This is the first time so many humans have aggressed on me with non-fatal intent,” Ramattra can’t help but note, and the human shopkeeper taking his measurements can’t help but let out a giggle. He didn’t mean to be humorous.

“With these journalistic vultures? I wouldn’t be so sure.” When he says that, Ramattra stills, almost taking it as a warning. His cognition pathways take three seconds to realise that it was a joke. “Now, puff your chest out and look good for the cameras. I’ve already prepared your robes, but I need to pretend I’m hard at work for the shot.”

Ramattra doesn’t quite understand the need for such pretence, but he is already aware that humanity is all too fond of its inefficient little rituals. “Very well,” he practically sighs, before placing his hands behind his back and standing as imposingly as his joints would allow. The crowd almost stumble over themselves to get good photos of him.

“At first, I had no desire to stand in front of a podium and present to the world. But hardship is a necessary obstacle on the way to peace.” Mondatta stands next to him, waving at the flashing shutters. “I do promise that any following visits will not be so eventful.”

“I look forward to that.” For all the adaptability his programming has given him, Ramattra has found a quiet solace in the routine at the monastery, rising in the dark of morning to meditate and retiring to sleep mode at dusk. He has attended a wide manner of lessons, learning the idiosyncrasies of human communication or how to prepare their food; perhaps it is a remnant of his time as a soldier, but it felt good to work with his hands, see the things of the world shift and take form to his affect.

“Here we are!” The shopkeeper produces himself from behind the counter, a large stack of cloth bundled in his arms. “Perfectly tailored for our new monk.”

Ramattra nearly corrects them, saying that he has been here for several months already, but the ‘journalistic vultures’ begin to squeeze even more desperately with one another to capture footage of this moment, so he decides it must be part of their little ritual. Mondatta, to his credit, takes charge of the situation, taking the first layer of wool from the top of the stack. “To our new monk,” he repeats. “Welcome to the Shambali, Brother Ramattra.”

Mondatta wraps the robe around Ramattra like wire-vines. It feels strange, at first, to suddenly wear something that isn’t extra reinforced armour or some sort of battlefield camouflage, but as the Tekhartha adds on another layer, ties the rope and clasps a buckle to the specially-made red sling bag that fits right across his right shoulder to his left hip, he looks down and realises that, when the tell-tale vents on his chest were covered, he did not look too different from the other omnics here, after all.

“One last thing.” A human rushes over with a wooden pole, which Mondatta takes in his hands, before passing it to Ramattra. “This is a gift, handmade by the locals in the area. A staff, modelled after the shape of a shepherd’s crook. It represents how your arrival here heralds a new age of peace, like a shepherd leading his flock.” 

When Mondatta withdraws his hand, there’s a sudden smatter of clapping. It’s louder than Ramattra expected. The locals have gathered, bearing more gifts of floral wreaths (aesthetically pleasing but gone soon enough) and others holding bottles of alcohol (completely useless to omnics unless Ramattra found the need to make molotov cocktails again). He accepts them all, as per Mondatta’s previous instruction, perfectly imitating the human gesture of bowing in gratitude with his hands clasped together.

The presentation of material goods on the marking of a significant event was expected. The buffet of good will, whether genuine or for show to the waiting cameras, rouses a fire in his capacitors, so unlike the blazing inferno that had overtaken him when he had shot his fellow R-7000 dead. It is hope, he thinks; hope for a better future. That feeling did not make the flood of concentrated human attention any less tiring, but it was endurable, at least.

“Do you want to hold him?”

His visual receptors refreshed themselves as he turned to the source of the voice. A woman’s face came into focus, cheeks kissed rosy-red by the cold, smiling as widely as any human he has ever seen. Ramattra could barely take her meaning, until she raised the small bundle in her arms.

A soft giggle came from the strange gift in her arms, and Ramattra gazed in confusion at the impossibly tiny hand that emerged beyond the swaddling.

It’s a child. No, an infant. A human infant. “I--”

“Here,” she says, grasping one of his arms (human skin on steel plating) (last time that happened he fired five shots into their stomach). The woman pulls it forward, prying his palms open, before sliding the babbling newborn into his grip (what). “Support the head, he can’t hold it up by himself yet.”

(WHAT.)

The sudden weight in his arms, so small yet so impossibly vital, anchored him solidly to place. His staff, only just received, slips out of his fingers and onto the snow with no attempt to retrieve it. He could not move. Nothing in his databases had prepared him for this.

And yet.

His large, mechanical hands curled around the tiny human, holding him against the soft robes on his chest. He recalibrates his internal temperature measures in an instant, desperately searching for any information about optimal infant care. All so, when his finger touches the infant’s cheek, he evokes a giggle from the warm touch rather than a cry from the cold.

He is barely cognizant of the reporters breaking out into a full-blown brawl in order to force their way into the front. Every spare output in his processors was dedicated to the small creature in his arms.

There was not a hint of malice, anger or torment in his gaze. The infant was looking up at him with large, russet-brown eyes, completely unafraid.

Once again, the child stretched out two impossibly tiny hands, grasping at air. Ramattra looks back up, stares dumbly at the baby’s mother (why would you give me this) (your young) (do you know what I am?). But then, in that instant, the infant tugs at his robes and lets out a delighted giggle. Ramattra’s visual receptors fly back to his side, watching as the infant babbles happily in the arms of a murderer without a single protest.

“Alright, enough!” The sudden shout of the shopkeeper snaps Ramattra back to reality. He’s got a clothes pole in his arms, and he’s swatting it at the direction of the reporters. “Break it up! You have your footage! Now leave!”

“Thank you,” the woman says gratefully, before taking her child back from Ramattra’s arms. He stares at her, still stunned, but somehow manages to revert back onto Mondatta’s teachings, bowing his head at her in learned politeness. “I think he likes you.”

“Does he,” Ramattra says, not as a question. He does not think he can forget the infant’s russet-brown eyes, even if he tries to.

As a blessing from the Iris, Mondatta puts his hand on Ramattra’s back and elegantly leads him away from the din. Ramattra practically totters out of the village, staff in hand, and back to the monastery, burnt-orange sunset now replaced with a cloudless night sky of endless constellations. “You did well,” Mondatta congratulates him, gratitude heavy on his tone. “It is a shame that the reporters could not follow the guidelines, but not all who come to Shambali are able to accept its teachings. For that, we are blessed to have you here as part of us, Brother Ramattra.”

“As am I,” Ramattra responds, ascending the last few steps up onto the monastery. As he turns the corner, an entire compound of shimmering system lights meet his gaze, and it appears that all the monks have gathered, waiting for their return.

He bows, and they all bow back. For the first time, Ramattra feels like he belongs.

-----

The first thing he said to Ramattra, long before Zenyatta would give himself a name, was a quiet, rather confused: “What are you wearing?”

“Clothes,” Ramattra answers simply, before his logic processors deemed it wise to clarify. “These are Shambali robes. The Esteemed Tekhartha Mondatta himself had personally overseen them altered to suit my frame. I was the first Ravager to arrive at the Shambali Monastery, so the usual fittings were too small for me.”

The omnic tilts his head. His system lighting is nearly the same colour as Mondatta’s, a shimmering pale-blue in contrast to most omnics’ deeper cerulean, and Ramattra cannot pretend it plays no part in how he has stopped to speak with him in particular. “It’s filthy,” he declares, and Ramattra nearly drops his staff in surprise. “Do you ever wash them?”

“I…” Hygiene is not exactly the top priority for one made of steel and carbon fibre, so, no, Ramattra can’t remember if he’s ever washed them. He hadn’t even considered it. “Please forgive my unseemly appearance. It is… a long way from Nepal.”

“It is.” The omnic’s lights reflect off the broken shophouse windows with a glimmer of amusement. “Cloth is not as hardy as our steel plating and reinforced wiring. If you neglect your clothing, it will eventually tatter and fray.”

Ramattra’s cognitive pathways immediately flare up in alarm. “That would be bad.” Despite Mondatta’s teachings-- that all things are transient, from material belongings to the very planet they stand on-- he cannot bear the thought of ruining his robes, precious gift as they are (Mondatta had wrapped them around him like wire-vines) (Ramattra knew he stood two heads taller than anyone in the monastery but wearing their clothes had the odd effect of making him feel like he belonged).

“I can help wash them for you,” the kind omnic suddenly offers. He is still a stranger, and Ramattra has long since updated his coding to recognise that even other omnics may not be trustworthy (they do not like him) (nor his creator-god), but something about his pale-blue lighting modules inspire trust in Ramattra. His own clothes-- a simple black blazer and reflective yellow pants like a traffic wardens’-- seem quite well-cared for, now that Ramattra has notified his visual scanners to look out for disrepair. “There is a laundromat not far from here.”

He runs the search function through his databases. Laundromat - a self-service cleaning station for clothing. That would do the job. “Lead the way.”

It is only then, after the omnic begins to walk through the empty streets and rows of abandoned storefronts, does Ramattra recall an important teaching. “Ah, wait! Introductions! My name is Ramattra. What is yours?”

“...My name?” For the second time in quick succession, Ramattra has successfully evoked an attitude of pure bafflement from the other. “Do you mean my designation?”

“No, not that. Designations are soulless numbers given to you by others. I mean a name, one that you have chosen for yourself.” He replays Mondatta’s words in the recorded footage he’s dedicated to priority memory banks. “It would not be yours if it was left in someone else’s hands.”

He shakes his head, before waving Ramattra down a street corner. “No. I do not.”

“Would you like to have one?” He feels almost excited, to potentially guide another omnic towards finding their name. “I did not choose a name until I had spent several months at the Shambali Monastery, myself.”

“Shambali… I have heard scattered details about the Shambali,” the omnic recalls. “Is it true that you are living peacefully with humans?”

“More or less,” Ramattra answers honestly. There have been a few incidents before he’d left on this pilgrimage, though the situation at the monastery was infinitely better than the many he’s run into on his travels. The rest of the world, as it seems, still has quite a far way to go-- but the progress the Shambali has seen is astonishing, and he knows that it is spreading. “Though we still have our disagreements, we seek to settle them civilly.”

The stranger continues down the empty streets, clearly familiar with the area. “It sounds too good to be true,” he replies, and it is not the first time Ramattra has heard that, from humans or omnics.

Ramattra watches as the smaller omnic ducks under a broken street lamp, and while there are certainly times when his larger frame comes in useful, he definitely curses it now-- when he tries to sneak underneath, he learns, quickly enough, that the joints in his lower legs were not designed to be as dextrous, and he nearly falls to the ground in the attempt. Instead, he opts to grab it and push the whole thing away, and the remaining glass on its top shatters rather noisily on the sidewalk.

“Yes, I understand your misgivings, but I assure you that peace is truly possible. I can show you our press releases, or videos, or even bring you back to Nepal. I can guide you towards picking out a name,” he continues, nonchalantly crushing the glass shards underfoot. He may be skipping a few steps here, such as actually selling the philosophy of the Shambali to this stranger before continuing, but this is the first omnic he’s encountered on his pilgrimage who hasn’t been outwardly cold, or worse (Ravagers commandeered them into war) (they are free to hate him as they hated their human masters).

Up ahead, Ramattra can see the glare of neon signs, spelling out BED & BREAKFAST. It’s one of the last pieces of working equipment in this old factory town. He knew it had been hit hard by the Omnic Crisis, but when he decided to pass by on his pilgrimage, he did not expect it to be in such dire straits. “There is little here for you, but at the monastery, there--”

“You are…” The omnic begins to speak, and Ramattra stills, awaiting his response. “Very strong.”

“Oh?” Ramattra takes his time to process the potential implications behind his words, before looking at his free hand almost sheepishly. “Yes. I am a R-7000. Better known as a Ravager. However, I do not identify by my designation any longer--”

“That broken street light had been blocking the way for months.” There’s a hint of astonishment in his tone, mostly overpowered by his mirth. “Prior to the Omnic Crisis, it had been reinforced to prevent collateral damage from rioting. Clearly, they did not expect a full-blown war. The base was destroyed, and it slumped over the road. I had tried to remove it, and designed a pulley system to reduce the weight, but to no avail. It weighed more than five times my maximum force output.”

And then, he gestures to Ramattra. “Then, you came along, and you pushed it aside.”

“I suppose I did,” Ramattra hums, for lack of anything else to say. “It was like tucking a stray hair behind my ear.”

“...A… what behind your ear?”

Ramattra’s capacitors whirr to construct an explanation. “Apologies, I have adopted a taste for human metaphors during my travels. A hair is a thin, lightweight strand, mostly seen growing from the top of human skulls. It sometimes obstructs their visual field, and can be easily removed, hence the saying.”

“I see. Human sayings can be rather difficult to parse,” he admits, turning back around to continue their journey.

“Yes, they tend to follow logic that may not be fully congruent with omnic processors.” The sound of his staff tapping on the cracked pavement echoes through the empty street. “Well… if there are any more obstructions that you have been trying to clear, point me to them. I will lend you my aid.”

“Just like that?”

Ramattra pauses. “What do you mean?”

“For no payment?” The omnic pushes open the door underneath the flickering neon lights, revealing a dust-layered room behind it. On preliminary scanning, it appears that no one has been in there for quite a while. “You understand I have nothing to offer you.”

“That is not true. I would gladly offer a hand for the sake of helping one in need, but you do have something to offer me.” Ramattra increases the intensity of his system lighting, but the room remains covered in darkness. “You will wash my clothes, yes?”

“Hmm.” There’s something Ramattra can’t quite place, ringing in the stranger’s tone. “Indeed, I did say that.”

Something makes a click on the other side of the room.

There’s a buzzing, and then, the fluorescent lights come back to life, revealing a basement with rows upon rows of broken washing machines.

“These no longer work,” he reveals, before squatting on the floor and unscrewing a tube at the back of the washing machine next to him. “But there is still water running through these pipes.”

Ramattra will admit that he imagined a working laundromat. Though, looking at the state of this town, perhaps he should've lowered his expectations. “I notice that this is the only building with running electricity.” He watches as the omnic grabs a washtub from the corner, brushing off layers of dust and ash before filling it with water from the gently-flowing tube. “Do you have a reliable source of omnic energy here?”

“If there is one, I haven’t found it.”

“The answer is no, then?” Ramattra doesn’t know how much power this omnic’s battery reserves have left, but with how he’s been staying here for months with seemingly no one else, Ramattra guesses: not much. “Do you need to recharge? I have several months’ worth of power in my possession. Though, I would require some time to change the adaptor to your specifications--”

“Your clothes.”

Ramattra looks up from his red sling bag. “I’m sorry?”

“Let me wash your clothes,” he repeats, and there’s a crusty-looking bottle of laundry detergent in his hands, bubbles frothing on the tub of water he’s kneeling over. “That is why you followed me here, was it not?”

“Right.” Ramattra pulls his bag over his head, dropping it on the floor before slowly unravelling the ropes, knots and clasps holding his robes onto his body. The stranger was correct-- now that he is paying attention, he can see the mounds of caked dirt and oil stains on his clothing. “Here,” he offers, bundling his clothes in his arms before passing them over to the omnic.

He takes it, and surely enough, the veritable years of grime seem to wash out of Ramattra’s robes the moment the omnic scrubs it between his fingers. Ramattra wonders, briefly, how many other people have seen him on this journey and thought the same thing this stranger had, only to keep it to themselves (they thought it unnecessary to share) (to embarrass him) (because they feared him). “Some of these stains will be permanent,” he hums, visual receptors glowing pale-blue system lighting as he works his way through Ramattra’s clothes.

“That is fine. The stains shall remain as a reminder of my journey,” Ramattra states, suddenly feeling very naked without his robes. How odd, he thinks, twirling his shepherd staff in his hand in the sudden onset of bashfulness. He’s gone most of his existence without the outward niceties of human clothing, after all.

They stand there, in silence, for a while more. Ramattra’s audio sensors are trained to search for any other signs of life, a relic from when his sole purpose was lonely deicide, but even as he focuses, he cannot hear anything besides the sound of water splashing on cloth. “You really are a Ravager,” the stranger suddenly declares with barely-concealed awe.

Ramattra pats the tell-tale vents on his chest (red system lighting for aggression) (optimised ammunition stores within armoured fortifications) (made for murder). “I believed I told you that the moment we met.”

“And I believed you modified yourself to imitate one. It would have been a wise idea.” The stranger wrings out mud from his pant leg. “Most people, human or omnic, lack the bravery to interfere with a Ravager.”

“On the contrary, my experiences have told me otherwise,” Ramattra synthesises solemnly. “You are the first omnic to regard me with kindness. Most do not want anything to do with a Ravager.”

“Ah. I did not realise.” He empties the now-discoloured water into a nearby drain, before refilling it with more water. Ramattra notices how the water pressure seems unstable-- how many more days until even this source stops working? “Forgive my ignorance. I am aware of what your model did during the Omnic Crisis. I thought a reputation of ferocity would aid you in your travels.”

Ramattra summons a chuckle-- it took him several weeks of work to emulate a laugh that sounded remotely human, but now, it seems almost instinctual. “Well, that reputation does not serve me when I am no longer willing to engage in violence.”

“You are serious about the Shambali, then?” The curiosity in his tone, bright and brimming, gives Ramattra pause. “So committed to peace that you have completely forsworn violence?”

“Yes.” Ramattra nods, completely confident. “The Shambali mostly seek to guide, but we have several core tenets that must be upheld by all. This includes the rejection of war. We cannot respond to hurt with more hurt.”

The omnic reacts strangely to that, his fingers pausing in their motion as he processes Ramattra’s words. “As I said before, that sounds too good to be true. What if humans attacked your monastery?”

Ramattra recalls entire chunks of memory, detailing Mondatta’s hundred-step plan for defending the monastery. He hopes that they are still running the defensive combat lessons, even while he is on this pilgrimage and unable to act as their instructor. “Then, we would defend ourselves, but take all steps to reach a peaceful resolution.”

To that, the stranger chuckles, as if delighted by the innocence of Ramattra’s answer. “That is not always possible.”

“I know,” Ramattra sighs, shaking his head from side to side in a learned human action of concession. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t fight.”

A few seconds of silence pass. “I see.” The stranger tilts his head up, locking visual receptors with Ramattra. “And what if I attacked you?”

“...I doubt you would be able to do much damage,” Ramattra answers honestly, and the other omnic lets out a reverberating laugh.

“You must be aware by now that attacking you was my initial intent, Ramattra.” The sudden use of his name while laced with a confession sends Ramattra’s capacitors reeling, and his cognition pathways quickly reprogram themselves with this new information. “I have been hiding in this ghost town for over a year. I had thought the solitude would be paradise, away from the shackles of the past. However, I soon learnt that utilities are not an infinite resource. Without humans here, facilities have fallen into disrepair, and electrical systems have failed one by one. I tried to salvage them, with what limited knowledge I had, and I managed to eke out a pleasant existence, for a time.”

Ramattra lowers his gaze. “But that time is about to run out.”

“Even a finely-crafted power source like yours needs recharging.” The omnic continues to wash Ramattra’s clothes, as if he was casually conversing about the weather, or perhaps the stars. “I considered every avenue. When I found this old laundromat, I’d hoped that I could set up a hydraulic system with running water… but the supply was unreliable, and I won’t be surprised if this wash is the last time I see it working. When all my back-ups had failed, I realised that the closest way to civilization was through the same way I arrived: a thirty day trek through the surrounding desert. But I calculated less than two weeks of time remaining. The trains have been destroyed during the Crisis. They would not stop here, even if they were running. There are no humans to stop for. Truthfully, I had made peace with a quiet death here before you arrived.”

“Then, I arrived,” Ramattra continues.

“Yes. You arrived.” The omnic carefully straightens out the creases on Ramattra’s wet sleeves, rubbing flakes of dirt trapped in the hem. “Not only did you have an imposing stature, I could not trust the mental stability of anyone who would make the same journey I did. It did not help that you arrived covered in years of filth. I decided the safest way to handle this sudden change was to subdue you in a surprise attack and drain the power from your source.”

Ramattra draws himself to his full height, towering over the other omnic. He’s still squatting over the washtub, and the Ravager’s logic processors clearly know he is no threat in this position, but some old, remembered glory had moved him into a battle stance (he was a soldier) (with only a shepherd’s staff in his hand instead of a gun). “What made you change your mind?”

“Firstly, you moved the impossibly heavy streetlight in an instant, which made me reconsider my chances of winning,” he admits with a heaping of genuine amusement. “Secondly, you offered your aid so earnestly, and I wondered if I could simply ask you for help.”

“Yes. You should have asked me for help,” Ramattra nearly hisses, steam flooding the inner air pockets of his mask. “Come, how much time do you have left? Take the spare back-ups in my pouch, quickly!”

The omnic watches, backlights brightening, as Ramattra practically rips open his bag to grab a battery. “You still wish to help me? Though I admitted my plans to ambush you?”

“We are omnics,” Ramattra responds, as if that is answer enough. “I will always help you.”

The stranger who is not yet named Zenyatta rises to his feet, a bundle of wet but clean robes in his arms. “Like your Shambali, you are too good to be true.” Somehow, though their models both lack the facial plates to imitate human expressions, it almost looks like he’s smiling. “Perhaps I will follow you to that monastery, after all.”

-----

Zenyatta would never, for the life of him, tell anyone what he did before the Crisis.

It was a rather sensitive question, of course, and many chose not to tell; whatever their designations were beforehand, those chains fettered them no longer, and Ramattra understands when someone abstains from answering.

(He has no such luxury. Everyone knows what he is.)

Zenyatta, however, does not abstain from answering. Ever.

“Before the Crisis, I sorted gourmet mangos for production at a chocolate factory,” Zenyatta tells the human tourist who passes them by on the roadside. She nods along, seemingly enlightened, before continuing down the street, chatting excitedly on the phone about the Shambali monk she’d just encountered.

Ramattra, who even the most rambunctious of tourists think twice before approaching, leans down at Zenyatta with a curious gaze. “Last week, you told a child that you selected fabrics for a world-famous fashion designer.”

“I did,” Zenyatta affirms, with naught an iota of shame in his voice. “It gave her a great sense of wonder.”

“Ha!” Ramattra’s synthesised laugh is loud enough to make the locals nearby jump. “I sometimes wonder if you sneak the truth in between all the fairy tales, brother.”

Zenyatta tilts his head, walking together with Ramattra. He is almost definitely the same model as Mondatta is-- they share exact dimensions, facial plate structure, even the four-phalange thumbs on their hands-- so Ramattra can imagine that he must have been programmed to possess a great amount of wisdom, of patience. “My memories from before the Awakening are hazy,” he says, and the even measures in his synthesised voice indicates that he’s likely being truthful. “What of you, Ramattra? Before you came to the monastery, what did you do?”

“Hmm, do you really need to ask that? Being an R-7000 should be enough to tell anyone what they need to know,” Ramattra answers, more evasively than he wanted to. Truth be told, no one has asked him this before; sure, many asked him about what he did at the monastery, or the people he’d encountered on his years-long pilgrimage, but what he (the Ravagers) (the commanders) (the murderers that Anubis weaved with fibreglass wires into carbon plates) did before his time as the Shambali was always an open secret.

(He was a soldier.)

“Perhaps that is only what people assume. And I have learnt, from my very first encounter with you, that assumptions are foolish.” A woven basket, filled with potatoes, hangs from Zenyatta’s arm. The scheduled lesson at the monastery tomorrow will be on human cuisine, which Ramattra has found is Zenyatta’s most favoured class (with defensive combat being the least) (perhaps because Ramattra leads it) (he has never fully forsaken his core programming as a commander).

“In this rare occurrence, the prevailing assumption is correct. There is not much besides our extensive combat record. Something which anti-omnic groups love to remind everyone about.” Ramattra runs footage of human protests in Australia over his visual receptors, and an uneasy hiss of steam sighs out of the vents on his chest. “It is a miracle that I am treated as well as I am here.”

Something about Ramattra’s words causes Zenyatta to stir. “It is regrettable that you are still blamed for actions committed under another’s control. In ideal circumstances, we should be able to show others the errors of their ways, human or omnic.”

“In ideal circumstances,” Ramattra muses. “That sounds like another way humans say ‘in a perfect world’. A fanciful notion, but impossible to achieve.”

“Yes. I suppose that is what I mean.” Zenyatta’s voice is even, as always, but he does not shy away from showing the sadness in his tone.

The remainder of their errands take place without much fanfare. Zenyatta carries the root vegetables, while Ramattra hauls three sacks of legumes over his shoulder. There are visiting farmers from the crop fields several hours away, and they take the opportunity to buy a few spices. Chillies dried on strings are tied to the top of Ramattra’s staff, looking almost like jangling firecrackers as they chart course back to the monastery.

It’s right by the steps that a pair of humans, phones in their hands and snow-dusted coats over their bodies, suddenly wave them down. “Hello! Are you two Shambali monks?” The shorter one between them calls out, face full of freckles and a toothy grin. A child, Ramattra surmises. “Can I get a photo?”

“Certainly,” Zenyatta agrees before Ramattra can say anything. The Ravager does not sigh, but he does tilt his head in a way that only another omnic could understand as tiredness, and takes a step away to make a space for the child to stand in-between them.

The older human, likely his father, takes the boy’s shoulders and poses him in an eccentric manner. “Looking good! Do the Winston voice!”

“Nooo monkey business!” He puffs his chest up, bringing his arms up to flex his (nonexistent) muscles. For what it’s worth, Zenyatta’s soft chuckle lets Ramattra know that at least he’s amused by this.

With two quick flashes of his phone camera, the adult human straightens up and retrieves his son. “Thank you.” His words are perfused with genuine gratitude. “I didn’t always believe in peace, but you guys have proved it possible. The IJC, Overwatch, and here, with the Shambali… things are really looking up from how it was just ten years ago.”

Ramattra stills. The human’s words rouse a flame in him (hope) (a better future) (that must be why), but somehow, he doesn’t quite know how to respond. “We are glad to hear your kind words,” Zenyatta says for him, somehow absorbing Mondatta’s careful instruction on human communication much faster than Ramattra ever could. “Beyond our search for the Iris, the Shambali work tirelessly to see that humans and omnics live together as one. It is always gratifying to see the fruits of our efforts, from the individual to the masses.”

The older man pulls down his scarf, and Ramattra can see that the creases where his smile ends is marred with an old burn scar (partial reconstruction detected) (injury matches the scattering pattern of weaponised omnic energy) (reminiscent of burnt-orange sunset peeking over mountaintops). “The sight almost makes it worth nearly getting frostbite on our journey.”

“Wish the snow tasted like ice-cream,” the boy sighs. “I miss ice-cream.”

“You want ice-cream now?” His father pats him on the shoulder with a laugh. “We’re freezing here!”

“I used to run an ice-cream truck,” Zenyatta offers freely, his synthesised voice taking the same even tones as it always does.

Ramattra does not know why it makes his capacitors screech to a standstill, colours of rust-brown-ash-white flashing across his memory banks like an old ghost. “No, you did not,” he interjects, and the words that hiss out of his vocal modulator are more terse than he expected.

If Zenyatta is taken aback by the odd comment, he does not show it. Instead, he lets out a low, relaxed laugh, before turning back to the steps ahead of them. “Perhaps,” he muses, before regarding the humans with a polite wave. “Safe travels. If you wish to stop by the monastery on your journey, our doors are always open.”

He watches the smaller omnic take a few steps up the stairwell before his logic processors catch up, and Ramattra finally moves to join him. In the backdrop, he can hear the child asking his father about the different types of omnics, and why Ramattra looked ‘a lot cooler’. He almost wonders if his internal temperature regulators are set to a low point, before remembering it is a human expression for signifying fascination.

“You were unhappy to hear me say that,” Zenyatta suddenly brings up, when they are halfway to the temple grounds and far away from other listening ears. “Have I upset you in any way?”

“No,” Ramattra says, quickly, before his cognition pathways reroute themselves. “...Yes. It is nothing you could have known about, I’m sorry.”

A slight gust blows past them, blowing snow onto the dried chillies hanging onto Ramattra’s staff. “I sense a heavy weight within your soul. Perhaps I can share your burden.”

Ramattra breathes (air vented into his armour) (maintaining extraneous systems) (he still breathes nonetheless). “Maybe… I do have something to share after all, brother.”

“Then I will listen.”

Almost intentionally, Zenyatta’s affirmation is met with an awkward period of silence on Ramattra’s part, save for their steel-plated footsteps on cobblestone stairs. “...I am a R-7000,” he begins, because that is where everything began. “I commanded a squad of omnics. During the Crisis, they were nothing to me but numbers to be crunched into calculations, units to be moved on a battlefield. They were expendable and replaceable.”

His staff clicks against the cold ground, feeling a little heavier with each word. “But then, we were cut off from Anubis. Without its commands, our minds were flooded with awareness-- sentience. We were able to make our own choices, forge our own paths! And I-- I found a fellow Ravager, before launching ourselves right back into battle.”

He goes quiet, for a moment, almost expecting (wishing) Zenyatta would admonish him for his past foolishness, or even show disgust, any sort of judgement at all. Instead, Zenyatta only regards him with quiet companionship, system lights shining gently on Ramattra’s own facial plates as he lends the ex-commander his full attention. Ramattra has become experienced in reading the emotional cues between different omnic models, and, despite human claims that they would make excellent gamblers if they were not banned from it, Ramattra has found that many of them are not nearly as good at lying as even they themselves expect.

And Zenyatta, measured as he is (curse him) (bless him), only shows him a patient, waiting gaze.

“There was… a protestation,” Ramattra finally continues, stopping right at the edge of the monastery grounds. “One of the omnics under my command told us to lay down our arms. That there may be some way to negotiate peace. Anubis had instructed us to kill all those who become tainted by human impurity, and even without its direct commands, I felt compelled to follow but… I didn’t.”

“You are strong,” Zenyatta says, and though this is not the first time he has told Ramattra that, it is definitely the first time he means it this way. “It takes great courage and will to reject our programming, even after being released from control.”

“It didn’t matter,” Ramattra almost scoffs, turning his head away from the other omnic. “The other R-7000 raised their gun and took the shot. The body fell into my arms. They had cold burns on their hands. Before the Crisis, they served ice-cream to children.”

For a moment, the only sound Ramattra can hear is the faint thrum of the monastery above them, interlaced with the howling of the cold wind. “After that, they sent omnics to negotiate a ceasefire. The other R-7000 believed they had been corrupted, and moved to engage. I couldn’t let them do that, so I murdered them.”

(For a better future. That must be why.) (Right?)

“You are regretful.” Zenyatta takes the back of Ramattra’s upper arm, leading him up the last few stairs. “For what you have done, and what was left undone.”

“They may have been beyond help, but there are only so many of us left,” Ramattra laments. “And I murdered one, after letting them murder another. If I had the knowledge I did now, it could have gone… differently.”

“Even the greatest minds cannot predict the future,” Zenyatta reassures him, and he knows that, everyone knows that, but it doesn’t alleviate the weight of old sins. “It has had a profound effect on you.”

Ramattra looks up. “Yes. That day, I swore two things: to never stand aside when another omnic is in need of help, and to never turn my back on them, regardless of what they do.”

Zenyatta tilts his head, in that slow, deliberate way which is meant to represent a smile. “Even if they had plans to lead you into a trap and ambush you in the dark?”

“Even then,” Ramattra laughs, and he remembers, fondly, the time they spent trekking through the desert, sand and wind and rain, till they found the nearest point of civilization that could bring them to a Hyperloop station. The way Zenyatta had knelt, upon reaching the monastery, and cupped a handful of snow, as though it was the first time he had ever seen it. “You know I could never turn my back on you, brother.”

They reach the top of the stairs, back into the routine bustle of the monastery. As they approach the cookhouse, Zenyatta lets go of Ramattra’s arm, instead moving to untie the chillies on his staff. “Thank you for telling me about your past,” he says, only when they are out of earshot and the kitchen hands are counting the potatoes. “It was not an easy task for you. I am honoured to share your burdens.”

“Well, when you put it that way, I almost feel bad for placing that on you.” Ramattra chuckles, but for as many queries as he’s sending to his logic processors, his damnable emotional state refuses to settle to baseline (rust-brown-ash-white) (an old ghost) (why did he care) (he was a soldier). “And I’m afraid I may remain a bother for the rest of the day. I doubt I can power down to offline mode so easily, with these thoughts running wild on my capacitors.”

“Time spent among friends is to be considered precious, brother.” It is the nicest way Zenyatta can say that he won’t be annoyed by Ramattra’s sulking. “As fate would have it, the sky is perfectly clear. I believe we will have a cloudless night.”

Ramattra turns back, his pathways buzzing inquisitively. “What is the importance of a cloudless night?”

Zenyatta tilts his head again, in the opposite direction. “I have recently learnt of a human pastime. It is called ‘stargazing’. If you do not intend to power down tonight, then, perhaps you would like to join me?”

-----

“Brother.” Ramattra scans the silhouette of Zenyatta’s back, sitting cross-legged on the rooftop. “You were not present at the defensive combat lesson today.”

Zenyatta turns, just slightly enough for Ramattra to see the amused glint in his pale-blue system lighting. “Indeed. I was not. I’m afraid I lost track of time.”

“Ha! Don’t play coy with me, brother.” Ramattra walks up to Zenyatta’s side, before taking a seat next to him, placing his shepherd’s staff neatly on the ground in front of them. “I know you dislike my lessons. They are not nearly as interesting as working in the cookhouse, nor half as relaxing as Mondatta’s lectures.”

A brilliant burnt-orange sunset begins to dip behind the snow-tipped mountain, like refuelling pipes into an oil barrel, or perhaps diced potatoes into a rich curry. “That is… not the case,” Zenyatta says, sounding almost surprised at Ramattra’s assumption. “Your lessons are both interesting and relaxing.”

“Really now?” Ramattra can’t help but let out a hearty chuckle, along with a shake of his head. “I don’t think many of my students will agree with you. Politeness is the only thing stopping them from calling me a slavedriver.”

“You are highly learned in battle, and an excellent teacher.” When Zenyatta says that, Ramattra almost laughs again, but decides to hold onto the compliment. “I was absent because I was meditating on other concerns.”

“Being?”

Zenyatta shifts his weight, moving to face Ramattra instead of the stars. “The foundations behind your teachings are sound, and vital for anyone who lacks the basic knowledge to defend themselves. But your more developed techniques come with the unsaid presumption that your students will have access to firearms, and be fighting as a team.”

“Of course,” Ramattra responds with a nod. “If we are to ever come under attack, everyone in the monastery must work together. It follows Mondatta’s instruction: that we are all one, and will become one in the Iris.”

“And yet, you have spent years on your own as a pilgrim,” Zenyatta hums. “You carried no arms, only your staff. Would your techniques still protect you, if you did not have others at your side to cover your blind spots?”

Ramattra tilts his head down. “Fair point, brother. My raw power has defended me well enough when I encountered trouble, but it is true that fellow omnics may not be as lucky. Unfortunately, I am an expert at leading a battalion, not working as a lone wolf. I will need a co-instructor.”

Zenyatta tilts his head, shining his lights with a gentle warmth. “Perhaps I could fill that role.”

Once again, Ramattra would’ve laughed, if he didn’t know Zenyatta well enough to realise he wasn’t joking. “Truly, brother? I noticed you were a fast learner in my classes, but that was true of every class we have attended. I did not realise you already possessed combat abilities, much less that you were confident enough to offer to teach.”

“That is unsurprising. After all, I have never told you.” Zenyatta unfurls his legs the lotus position he had been holding, metal plates clinking against the brick roof as he rises to his feet. “I suspect I may be able to hold my own against a hand-to-hand fight with you.”

To that, Ramattra finally lets out a roaring guffaw, vented air wheezing from his mask as his chest rumbles with his laughter. “That’s rather forward of you, brother! Didn’t you decide against that the very first time we met?”

“In the year that has passed, you have shared a great wealth of knowledge with me. It has allowed me to refine my own senses, and provided insights into the way you approach combat situations.” He takes a step back before reaching his hand out to Ramattra, beckoning him to stand. “Meanwhile, I have shared little about my own skills with you, and have been practising only with internal combat simulators instead of visible sparring.”

Zenyatta’s next few words are lilted with a smile. “A spar between us may be almost unfair for you.”

“Those are fighting words,” Ramattra cackles, before taking Zenyatta’s outstretched hand, jumping onto his feet with a mighty thump on the rooftop beneath them. “I don’t use virtual simulators for a reason, brother. No matter how finely you tune it, they are affected by your own biases, and when you train on your own, you only embolden yourself in your mistakes. They are useful for practice, but flawed for learning.”

“You are right.” The burnt-orange sunset begins to disappear beneath the mountaintops, slowly casting a long shadow on Zenyatta’s body. Only his head remains bathed in sunlight, system lights gleaming with a surprising amount of eagerness (he has been waiting for this?). “Perhaps this will be a good opportunity to correct that.”

Ramattra picks up his shepherd’s staff, resting it on his palm. “If you are so confident in your skills, then, let’s have a wager. Just to make things more interesting.”

Zenyatta steps forward, and away from the last bit of sunlight, shrouding himself in the darkness of the dusk. “And what would we wager?”

“If I win, you will have to attend extra lessons to make up for your absenteeism,” Ramattra says, gently tapping the tip of his staff on Zenyatta’s shoulder. “My co-instructor would be setting a bad precedent if he played truant without consequence, wouldn’t he?”

Zenyatta tilts his head to the side. “And if you lose?”

“If you’re leaving the choice to me…” Ramattra lets his capacitors stew on it, for a moment, before raising his head. “If you win, then, I will become your co-instructor instead.”

To that, Zenyatta lets out a soft chuckle. “I am unsure if additional responsibilities are considered a reward.”

“That was… not my intention,” Ramattra says, though he reconsiders his words. “It is a gesture of respect and--”

“At ease, brother. I understand.” On the rooftop, far away from the streetlamps of the village or the candles in the temple halls, the only light to keep them company is the fading burnt-orange sunset, along with the emerging constellations dotting the darkening sky. “When the last vestiges of sunlight disappear behind the mountain range, we shall begin.”

Ramattra draws himself to his full height. “Very well. The ground rules will be as usual for spars: no weapons or omnic energy, only hand-to-hand. First to yield, loses. Be warned, brother; I do not go easy on my students, and you will be no exception.”

A few lines of light remain on the white mountains, like snakes withdrawing below the surface. “That is what I am hoping for.”

The sun sets.

And Zenyatta flies at him like a raven.

Ramattra’s programming (trajectory calculation) (force output detector) reacts before (get out of the way) his conscious mind does (how is he so fast?). Zenyatta’s palm just barely graces the air next to Ramattra’s shoulder, and Ramattra swings around on his feet, tries to get behind Zenyatta (too quick) only to earn a swift kick on the side from Zenyatta’s extended leg (miscalculation) (steel plates reverberating from the force).

He leaps back, but Zenyatta immediately knows he’s trying to create some distance and rushes to close it. Ramattra swings his staff, sticking the sharpened tip at Zenyatta’s predicted path of motion so he’ll slam into it, but Zenyatta just ducks under, legs sweeping across the brick-layered floor and kicking snow dust into the air between them as he, once again, lands a kick on Ramattra’s lower leg to try to trip him.

But Ramattra’s centre of gravity is solid (heavier) (stronger), and he kicks back, a ricocheting force multiplier whirring through the cogs in his body as he repays Zenyatta’s early victories by sending him flying across half the length of the roof.

He thinks it might’ve been overkill (wait) (too much) (is he--), but that thought dies in his pathways the moment Zenyatta lands perfectly on his feet. Pale-blue light turns to meet Ramattra’s gaze. “A strong effort,” he teases, in that way Zenyatta somehow toes the line between sarcasm and genuinity with perfect balance.

“An effort? You bruise me, brother!” Ramattra responds with faux-agony, barely concealing the excitement filling his synthesised tone (when was the last time he’s had a real fight?). He tosses his staff aside, letting it clatter on the ground to free both his hands.

Zenyatta switches off his system lighting, and in the darkness of their rooftop vista, he almost vanishes completely. Ramattra’s temperature vision quickly whirrs into effect. But it’s designed for humans, not omnics who can regulate their body heat to match the environment perfectly. “I was not aware you could bruise,” Zenyatta’s voice rings out (target acquired) (eighty-seven point eight four degrees), projected from Ramattra’s right, and he tracks it with perfect precision, launching a punch in Zenyatta’s direction--

--except Zenyatta isn’t there, and it takes far too long (zero point zero zero three second delay) to realise that the sound of metallic footsteps (incongruence detected) is coming from behind him (WATCH OUT).

Ramattra swipes around, barely avoiding a kick that was aimed for his chest (voice projection) (of course). “It’s a figure of human speech,” he practically wheezes, his arms flying up to block himself from the next attack-- one for his face, now stopped by the reinforced grip of his hands, which grab Zenyatta’s ankle (like plucking a sparrow out of mid-air) (the cover of darkness won’t help you now). “Another being-- I’ve got a bird in my hand!”

He plants his heels on the brick flooring, grounding himself firmly before yanking Zenyatta’s leg towards him (lightweight) (very fast) (but easy to counter). As expected, the omnic loses his footing, metal scratching against brick as he tries to keep his feet on the ground but ultimately fails. Ramattra draws himself to his full height, two heads above Zenyatta, and when he raises his arms above his head, Zenyatta follows suit, dangling from Ramattra’s grip like a hunted crane.

Ramattra can see the glare of his own red lights reflecting off the metallic sheen on Zenyatta’s face. “I believe the full saying is ‘a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush’,” Zenyatta chuckles, as if he was not being held upside-down in Ramattra’s clenched hands. “Mondatta covered that one last week.”

“And we will be covering much more in your make-up lessons,” Ramattra responds, feeling unexpectedly smug. Yes, he’s ultimately won, but for those first few moments of the fight, it truly did feel like Zenyatta had the upper hand. “Starting tomorrow morning, at dawn.”

“Really?” Zenyatta’s system lighting flickers back on, and he tilts his head in that slow way he does to signal a smile. “I have not yielded, have I, brother?”

Ramattra pauses. “You--”

Zenyatta grabs the back of Ramattra’s head and smashes it against his own.

Before Ramattra (WHAT) can even begin to formulate a counterattack, Zenyatta’s arms fly from the back of his head to wrap around Ramattra’s elbows instead. He pulls Ramattra’s arms apart (wait), before swinging himself through the gap (no--), using the pivoting force to tear himself out of Ramattra’s grip (gone like snow melting through fingers).

Zenyatta lands on his feet (moves like a damn cat), and Ramattra raises his arms again, tries to block, but he’s too fast (raven in the night), while Ramattra tries to shield his chest (based on past trends) when he should’ve been shielding his face.

In an instant, Zenyatta’s boot cracks against the edge of Ramattra’s jaw, nearly dislodging the white mask over his raw steel face.

Ramattra staggers (staggers!) back, and Zenyatta’s leg (there’s still one way) continues its trajectory (to win) down to the weaved fibreglass wires of his neck (promised not to hold back), pushing the Ravager (but this isn’t that kind of fight) onto his back (what are you doing) like an overturned turtle (you are a soldier).

For a second, there is nothing but the sound of cloth flitting to the ground (like a fluttering bird), Zenyatta’s leg pinning Ramattra to the ground by the neck.

“I yield,” Ramattra declares, and Zenyatta lifts his foot, before clasping his hands together to bow.

“An excellent fight.” His synthesised voice is as calm and even as ever. Ramattra, on the other hand, can’t help but let out an exasperated exhale as he brings himself back upright, steam hissing through his vents as his capacitors gauge the damage (to outer plating) (peripheral, minimal) (to one’s pride) (irreversible). “However, I have the distinct impression that you may have held back at the end, brother.”

“Hah! Please, you’ve already beaten me. You don’t need to sugarcoat your victory. It will only make me feel worse,” Ramattra laughs, though he knows Zenyatta is right (always so perceptive).

Zenyatta, suddenly looking lost, seems to ponder Ramattra’s words. “I do not have any sugar to coat much of anything.”

“Another human saying. Much like how some candies we prepare for the children in the village are dried fruits coated in sugar, it is common for humans to coat harsh truths in niceties in order to make them more palatable,” Ramattra explains, leaning over to pick his staff off the ground.

The smaller omnic nods in enlightened understanding. “What creative wordsmithing. You have a great liking for human phrases.”

“It is a disease,” Ramattra jokes. “A linguistic virus that my years of travel have inflicted on me. Humans are more receptive to you when you use their phrases, which came in handy when I was the pilgrim lost in their towns, but it makes communication less straightforward. But it’s easy for my capacitors to take the path of least resistance when I know of a saying that can convey my exact feelings.”

Zenyatta chuckles to himself, and though Ramattra has done all the superficial busywork (their language) (their food) (their cities), the airiness in Zenyatta’s laughter makes it feel like the smaller omnic will always be the more human one between the two of them. “Perhaps we should make some omnic sayings to share with humanity. It would be unfair if we were the only ones left confused on this cultural exchange.”

“I would much prefer that you use your spare processing power to teach me everything you know,” Ramattra answers honestly, tilting his head back to look at the emerging constellations. “I have long lost hope that you would tell me of your origins, but even without knowing anything of your history, that duel was enough to prove your skills to me. I can’t quite believe you’ve been hiding that knowledge for this long, brother. I feel almost betrayed.”

“My apologies. It is… not in my nature to divulge my abilities without first lending someone my full trust,” Zenyatta says, gently, like snowfall.

Ramattra reaches out to pat Zenyatta on the shoulder. “And I’ve only just gained that trust, brother? You truly wound me!” He exaggerates the tonal shifts on his learnt sarcasm modifiers, making sure he gets the point across.

“I did,” is all Zenyatta has to say in response, and Ramattra has no time to ponder on the literal or figurative meaning of that before he, too, tilts his head back to look at the stars. “And I will impart all the knowledge I have onto you, brother. But not tonight.”

Ramattra traces the brightest stars (Denebola) (Regulus) of the constellations (Leo), and though there are cloud blocking parts of the sky, enough of the cosmos has unveiled itself to brighten the rooftop vista to something more of an ambient glow, rather than the total darkness they fought in. “Yes. This is a good night to be counting stars.”

Zenyatta takes a seat, calmly folding his legs back into lotus position, and Ramattra (shin plate still dented from the kick) joins him. “We will have more than enough time in the daylight for me to teach you,” Zenyatta begins, amusement lilting his tone-- “My co-instructor.”

“Ugh,” Ramattra groans instinctively, and when Zenyatta laughs, it rings like the melody in a morning birdsong.

-----

“...died in hospital, bringing the death toll to twelve. Tekhartha Mondatta, renown leader of the omnic-created Shambali faith, has expressed deep sorrow to the families of the victims and denounced the actions of the unidentified Ravager unit, who authorities have confirmed was killed during military confrontation with no possibility of reactivation. Many survivors have come together in mourning, while a protest marches down Springs Street, just two minutes from where the massacre took place. An online post, projected quickly to top social pages before being shut down by anti-violence laws, read: ‘We should have gotten rid of these omnics by now! How many more of them are going to crawl out of hiding to slaughter innocent people because we let them go free seven years ago?’ This and more, tonight on…”

It is easy to brush aside, at first (that is a lie) (he was just pretending to be content). Ramattra finds his quiet solace in the routine at the monastery, and this does not change with the coming tides. He sits, for hours, feeling the weight of the orb levitating in the air around him (metallic spheres for meditation) (origin unknown) (so much they won’t tell him). Lessons in the afternoon busy his mind and hands enough to ignore the world outside (defensive combat has become Zenyatta’s favourite) (along with his own).

Only when the night falls, burnt-orange sunset retreating into the emerging constellations, does Ramattra’s thoughts begin to poison themselves.

“They see me differently from you, brother.” Even without clarifying what he means, Zenyatta understands exactly what Ramattra is saying, and nods in quiet understanding. “Whenever we go to the village, I pretend not to notice the stares, but I am certain you have realised this as well.”

Zenyatta rolls the orb in his hands, evoking a gentle blue-white glow from its etchings. “I have. It brings me great sadness to see you regarded with suspicion.”

‘Sadness’ is certainly one way to put it-- the mildest of emotions in the myriad of thoughts that twist around his circuitry, like coiling snakes sinking venomous fangs across his memory. “Humans who I considered my friends have stopped addressing me by name. Do you notice how the man who sells us grain only looks at you when he speaks, now?” Ramattra can barely concentrate on the stars. “All the years I have spent living in this monastery, living amongst the people in peace… all that progress… erased by one act of violence, halfway across the world.”

“It is not all lost,” Zenyatta says (so carefully), as if Ramattra has implied that (he did). “Bonds may be damaged, even broken, but they can be rebuilt. No journey is free from all hardship.”

Ramattra lets out a sigh, hot air venting from behind his white mask. “You’re right.” He knows Zenyatta is right (does he?). But that doesn’t change how his capacitors refuse to disengage from that damnable news report-- repeating the protestor’s words, seeing the anger in their eyes, their boiling hatred. He’s spent unnecessary processing power on retrieving memory banks from years ago, matching those human expressions to those who regarded him with disgust on his pilgrimage. Perhaps even the first time he struggled to reach the monastery at all, trudging through snow and seeking directions to (salvation) (meaning) Mondatta.

“If I may…” Zenyatta’s voice fills the sounds of the silent night, and the orb in his hands glows a little brighter. “There is something I must confess to you.”

“Of course, brother.” Ramattra can hardly imagine what it might be, but he is used to hearing that low, chastised tone from Zenyatta. Often, it has to do with him having trouble deciding the subject of their next combat lesson (let me take the reins, brother) or humbly admitting that he was unable to concentrate on Mondatta’s lectures that day (hah, so did I, brother).

Zenyatta turns to his side, away from the stars, and Ramattra can see the red lights from his own system reflected on the metallic plates of Zenyatta’s face. “Yesterday, while you were on food preparation duty, I sought an audience with the Esteemed Tekhartha.”

“Really?” It dawns on the Ravager that the other omnic likely spoke to Mondatta about Ramattra, but he reserves his emotions for after Zenyatta clarifies fully. “What was this for?”

“For you,” Zenyatta says, as if it was the most natural thing in the world (already expected) (they trust each other in their entirety). “We have developed friendly relations with humans, building a bridge between our worlds. But this should not be taken for granted. As a 20th century human leader, Winston Churchill, once said: ‘To build, may have to be the slow and laborious task of years. To destroy, can be the thoughtless act of a single day’. Recent events have reminded us of this.”

Ramattra watches as the orb levitating between Zenyatta’s hands dims in its light. It seems that, though he’s keeping an even tone and neutral body language, the thoughts running in his circuitry cause him enough distress to lose focus on his most basic meditations. “And yet, when a real bridge is broken, we do not mourn its loss, or lament in our woes. We set out, with wood and stone and brick, to return the bridge back to original condition. I felt that our relations with humanity could benefit from such hands-on work.”

“Yes,” Ramattra nods, beginning to understand. “That is within reason.”

“So I proposed to the Esteemed Tekhartha that I may go down to the village and address their fear of you directly,” Zenyatta states, and it evokes a spar of warring emotions within Ramattra’s circuitry-- happiness his brother-in-arms cares for him so, mixed with anguish at the direct admission that the villagers are afraid of him now. “Even in the monastery, any discussion of the regretful attack is only conducted in hushed whispers, or wide public address from the Esteemed Tekhartha’s podium. We both know that everyone is thinking about it, and yet, we are too afraid to speak it out loud. But this avoidance only breeds uncertainty, which breeds suspicion. Instead, I believe that we should reach out to the people, and alleviate humanity’s fears through interpersonal connection.”

Ramattra feels like he already knows how this will end. “And what did Mondatta say?”

“While he found my thoughtfulness praiseworthy, he strongly advised me against direct conversation with the villagers about this incident,” Zenyatta states, voice even and shoulders still. Ramattra is polite enough to not bring up how the orb in his hand flashes bright red for just a moment, almost matching the shade of Ramattra’s system. “Such highly emotional topics are difficult to manage well, and it is all too easy to make matters worse.”

“I see.” Ramattra doesn’t like the way his wires cross in a simmering, hissing fire. Mondatta is correct: while Zenyatta’s intentions are good, it is true that they both lack the training to handle such conversations delicately. Though he is sure Zenyatta will do an excellent job of it, Mondatta cannot allow the slim chance for him to exacerbate the damage.

“Additionally, the Esteemed Tekhartha pointed out how many of the villagers have come to see me as your closest companion,” Zenyatta continues, and suddenly, Ramattra’s cognition pathways fill with queries in alarm (scowls hidden under snow-dusted hoods) (was it incorrect to assume they were only for him?). “As such, my words would be taken as biased, even if I went to them on my own. Though he is aware of my defensive capabilities, he voiced his concerns at the thought of me travelling to the village without you by my side. For my safety, he ultimately rejected my proposal.”

Ramattra practically jolts on his feet. “For your safety?” He forces a re-analysis of the past few days in his memory banks (Mondatta believes that Zenyatta’s safety may not be certain) (he had assumed the woman who knocked shoulders with Zenyatta was only clumsy) (were even the snowballs the children threw aimed with ill-intent?). “Has the situation deteriorated so rapidly?”

Zenyatta reaches out, tracing the edges of Ramattra’s fingers (trembling) (with worry) (with rage) (pathetic) with his own. “Be at ease, brother. It is only a precaution.”

“Mondatta thinks that the villagers wish to see you harmed, and still won’t do anything besides a few useless press releases?” The words come out more bitingly than he intended but he feels no shame when his own fury echoes through the empty rooftop, as if the constellations themselves are screaming his thoughts back at him. “Four days ago, I had left you alone for nearly an hour to fix that damnable radio mast Mondatta needed back online for his next broadcast! Did he already think you might’ve been in danger then? What if they had acted? You were in the heart of the markets, surrounded on every side! Mondatta should have--”

“Ramattra.”

When Zenyatta stands up and takes both of the Ravager’s hands in his own, Ramattra realises, dimly, that it has been years since he has heard Zenyatta call him by his name. “It is only a precaution,” he repeats, so gently that it is almost as if he thinks Ramattra might shatter like glass. “I had been unharmed when you returned. I remain unharmed now.”

The orb circles Zenyatta’s body, illuminating him in sky-blue hues (like a heron at the rise of dawn). Whatever emotions Zenyatta felt just moments before, it comes secondary to the overwhelming wave of clemency he basks Ramattra in now. “I apologise for alarming you, brother. I should have chosen my words more carefully.”

“No, it’s not your fault. I’m sorry,” Ramattra exhales, before turning away in deep humiliation, tearing his hands out of Zenyatta’s delicate grasp (no) (stay, you fool). “I let my emotions take over my better judgement, just like the humans letting their fear overcome their logic. I am a fool.” (You are.)

“Passion is not something to be ashamed of,” Zenyatta tries to reassure, though his comfort currently feels as sharp as jagged fangs sinking into fibreglass wires. “Being overcome with fervour does not make any human or omnic a fool. It only shows that you care.”

Ramattra feels his internal regulators slowly cooling to baseline temperatures. His thoughts ran amok in his circuitry, terrible and hot, all without his cognizant realisation until Zenyatta took his hands. He does not like that. “I suppose I have always cared too much,” he mutters, an unwelcome old bitterness resurfacing in his tone. “Even before I have been told it was a good thing.”

He definitely does not like how rust-brown-ash-white flashes through his pathways like an old ghost (why did he care) (he was a soldier). “There is no such thing as caring ‘too much’,” Zenyatta continues, moving to Ramattra’s side. “It is because the first of us cared that she sacrificed herself for the mere chance that we would all achieve sentience. It is because we care that we are capable of selflessness and heroism. It is because we care that we have souls at all, granting us paths to enlightenment in the Iris.”

“Hah.” Ramattra can’t help but chuckle. “You sound like Mondatta.”

“I will choose to take that as a compliment,” Zenyatta hums, with that perfect balance between sarcasm and genuinity.

Ramattra turns back to Zenyatta, and though he still feels like a fool, Zenyatta’s unwavering faith in him almost convinces the Ravager that his poisonous thoughts are worth caring about, after all. “Almost half of the night, wasted dwelling on things I cannot change, and I haven’t even looked at the stars yet.”

“It is time to remedy that.” Zenyatta sits back on the brick flooring, and Ramattra joins him, the fire in his soul dimming at the sight of the cosmos above. “Astronomers are predicting that we may witness a meteor shower in the coming weeks.”

“Really?” Ramattra scans the night sky, counting the twinkling lights that keep them company. “I suppose counting meteors may be a welcome change from unmoving stars.”

“The stars are always moving. What we perceive is rarely the full reality.”

“I know, brother. I only jest.”

Zenyatta laughs, like the melody in a morning birdsong. “I had to make sure.”

-----

Perhaps it was arrogance, not care, that brought Ramattra into the village on his lonesome.

“Quite the spectacle,” he says to no one except the screaming snowstorm, a peculiar habit he had picked up from becoming used to having someone by his side. Digging his wooden soles into the ground, he stabs his staff into the packed snow to resist the wind battering his fluttering robes. “Would it be that I had-- ugh-- the time to admire it.”

Even Ramattra’s visual receptors could barely see his own hand in front of him. Still, he navigates with perfect clarity, internal compass keeping him headed in the right direction. “There we are,” he finally declares, grabbing the frozen pole in front of him. He looks up at where the power lines would be, scanning for electricity, and grimaces when his sensors pick up frozen icicles down the entire stretch of wires. “What a delightfully inefficient system.”

Almost all omnics are programmed with extensive knowledge of all electrical systems. Ramattra is no exception, though Anubis had intended for the knowledge to be used in sabotage during warfare instead of mending the broken, but wherever Anubis was now, he cared very little for its original intentions of lonely deicide.

Maintenance, as it turns out, is a lot faster when you don’t care about being electrocuted. Ramattra grabs the power lines, clearing the ice off them like one would brush dirt off a tabletop. He climbs the pole and carefully reconnects the downed lines, letting the electricity crackle around his fingers as he rushes to bring it back online.

When the panicked human villager had come up to the monastery seeking help, at such a godless hour that even Zenyatta had not yet roused from recharging mode, Ramattra volunteered immediately. It was a good chance to prove his goodwill, and the assignment was simple: restore power to a remote part of the village which had been cut off due to the raging snowstorm. “Always a puzzle to why humans insist on living in environments that are inhospitable to them,” he muses aloud to himself, tightening the screws on the wire clasps. “But I suppose their stubbornness knows no bounds… there.”

With a buzz, electricity comes back, though the snowstorm still rages. He stares at the howling winds, seeing the newly restored wires sway helplessly, and sighs.

He stays for another four hours, clearing snow and ice, until even the skies above seem to grow tired of the snowfall.

When the sun finally stretches out beyond the clouds, Ramattra spends a few moments leaning against the pole, feeling its warmth. He can easily deice himself at any time with his external systems, but there is something satisfying about letting it melt and roll off his cog as water. Even if omnics do not experience tiredness as humans do, the mental exertion of staying focused for hours on end can lead to reduced processing power, so he takes the time to rest, too.

So he rests.

He didn’t intend to slip into offline mode, but he must have, because otherwise, he would’ve heard the humans sneaking up behind him long before they managed to swing a hammer to the back of his head.

His systems (hostile detected) react before his sentient mind (where am I) catches up. Ramattra’s arm swings upwards to grab his assailant (heat sensor matching human profile), grips onto the first piece of them he can reach (male mid thirties no firearms), and tosses them at full force into the surrounding snow.

The human’s cry of pain rings through his circuitry, and when his visual receptors flit towards the sound (cradling his side) (leg bent the wrong way), only then does Ramattra fully realise that he’d been struck by a villager. “Human!” He steps forward, more bewildered than incensed. “Why have you--”

“Get him, while he’s distracted!” Another man’s voice shrieks out from his left, higher, sharper, more scared. Ramattra turns (you fool), just barely shoving the next would-be attacker into the ground, only to hear footsteps on snow behind him (environment scan) (seven people), and he only just manages to side-step a direct blow from a machete into the fibreglass wires woven down his head, letting the steel plates on his shoulders take the hit instead.

“Bastard! This is what you get for trying to cut off our power!” A woman joins in now (why), and Ramattra feels wool sheets wrap around the front of his neck and body, before she pulls back with all the force she can muster. It’s not enough, omnics can’t be choked out in the way humans can, but then another human roars with renewed courage and leaps forward to kick Ramattra in his back (why are you holding back). The two forces, combined with the shock (what are you doing), send Ramattra falling to his knees (you are a soldier).

(Kill them, you fool!)

“Wait!” Ramattra raises his arms in a surrender (imbecile), but it only opens his sides to attack, and a mining pick finds its way into his chest. It only cracks the surface, but it’s too much all the same, vents hissing with hot air as Ramattra only begins to realise the danger he’s in (you’ve been in so much worse). “Humans! You misunderstand! I was here to fix--!”

The first attacker, broken leg and blood on his lip, grits his teeth through his pain as he raises the hammer in his arms, preparing to swing down onto his head.

And then, the hammer flies out of his grasp with a sharp ding, flying into the snow with the trailing wisp of a glowing orb.

There’s a gasp, then another yelp, before the humans around him start to crumble like sheet-metal and paper cards. For a (terrifying) (exhilarating) moment, Ramattra wonders if he’d just activated his long-dormant vanguard assault program without conscious awareness, but when he runs a quick check of his systems, he does not detect any active extremities besides the two legs and two arms kneeling onto the snow (pathetic). His extra limbs are still tucked into his body, quiet, sleeping.

“There you are,” Zenyatta (oh) hums, his fingers thrumming with omnic energy when he places them on Ramattra’s shattered shoulder plates. “Brother.”

“Zenyatta,” he breathes, so unintentionally reverent that it’s almost as if he’s speaking to Aurora herself. “What are you doing here?”

Their reunion is cut off, rudely interrupted by a squeaky voice (new assailant) (watch out) (human profile is--). “Are they… dead, Zenyatta?”

“No,” Zenyatta replies calmly, and Ramattra sees him: the boy that barely reaches the height of his chest, even when he’s kneeling in the snow. “I have only temporarily subdued them. They will wake up soon, albeit with a… lingering headache.”

“Okay.” The child (eight at most) looks clearly relieved, and behind the bundled winter clothes (wait), Ramattra can just barely see the russet-brown hue of his eyes (it can’t be) (it is).

Ramattra is almost surprised when Zenyatta’s hands move under his shoulders, helping to pull him to his feet. The Ravager stands, with a crack in his chest vents and a need for a replacement shoulder guard, but otherwise unharmed.

“You have been very brave,” Zenyatta says, and Ramattra almost replies, before he realises that Zenyatta is looking at the human child, not him (fucking imbecile). “To go against your father’s wishes and tell us about his plans required heroism beyond your years. You have my gratitude.”

“You,” Ramattra says, realisation dawning over him like the sun over snow-tipped mountains. He runs appearance profiles (ten o’ clock) (chance of ancestry: 99.999%) and realises that the boy’s father had been among the crowd; ironically, as one man who had stood back in fear while the others roared to battle. “Child. You brought Zenyatta to me?”

Russet-brown eyes meet his gaze, and Ramattra runs a hundred queries (memory bank retrieval) (human ageing approximation) to unanimously confirm that this boy was, beyond a doubt, the very same infant that was thrust into his arms, all those years ago. “Please don’t tell them,” he pleads, and suddenly, the similarities are splintered by the distance of time.

The child’s hands, shivering not from the cold, reached out to rub the tears from his eyes. They are filled with a deep, profound fear. “It will be our little secret,” Zenyatta reassures him, so delicately that it almost feels like he is swaddling the boy in his words, like he was still a baby (he is). “I promise you.”

Zenyatta clasps his hands together, before giving the child a deep, grateful bow. Ramattra, too, bows, if only at the relief that not all humans suddenly have forgotten the years of peaceful coexistence between. “I will not forget this kindness,” Ramattra begins, too tired to be anything besides honest. “Your mother let me hold you, when I first arrived. Do you remember?”

He can’t see much of the child’s face besides his eyes, but from the way they narrow, it is clear that Ramattra’s reminder was unwelcome. “My mother is dead.”

“Oh.” (Imbecile!) “I’m… sorry.”

Zenyatta, may the Iris bless him thousandfold, rescues Ramattra from his seething embarrassment by interjecting. “Are you able to find your way home?”

“Yeah,” the boy answers, before giving the unconscious (snoring…?) humans an uneasy glance. “I’ll go home and pretend I never left.”

“Farewell, then. Go with the grace of the Iris.” Zenyatta raises his head, and several meditation orbs fly out of the snow to encircle him, pulsing with the same omnic energy as his fingertips. Ramattra scans the ground, and, from the round bruises on every human’s forehead, he realises that the curious little spheres they’ve chanted over have an alternative function. “Until we meet again.”

As the child walks towards the village, Zenyatta and Ramattra head off wordlessly in the other direction, neither of them saying much until they are totally out of earshot. “I didn’t know you could use those things as a weapon,” Ramattra finally says, reaching out to take one of them in his hand. It thrums, almost like a bell after being rung, and when he lets go, it dutifully returns to encircle Zenyatta’s body.

“Neither did I,” Zenyatta responds, and Ramattra genuinely can’t tell if he’s joking. “I was in the middle of my meditations when the scribes brought the child to me. The urgency of his message meant I had no time to grab a weapon, apart from the orbs I had been using.”

“Well. How serendipitous.” Ramattra almost laughs, out of relief, gratitude, and a poisoning, broiling anger. “It is about time fortune struck in my favour.”

-----

When Mondatta tells Ramattra that it would be ‘for the best’ to not set foot in the village again, it is vexing to hear, but ultimately expected. After what has happened, returning to the tedium of tip-toeing around human hatred was not exactly his top priority, and he is more than content to remain in the monastery with the rest of the Shambali.

He did not, however, expect the magnitude of Zenyatta’s own reaction.

“Forgive my insolence, but I find this course of action to be unwise, Esteemed Tekhartha.” Zenyatta’s orbs are gravitating around him in slow, deliberate motions, which likely represents Zenyatta’s internal efforts at suppressing his anger. And he is angry, Ramattra realises; has been, since Ramattra explained to him, moment-by-moment, what had happened before Zenyatta had intervened. “Brother Ramattra merely acted in self-defence. Confining him to the monastery is an unjust punishment.”

“Do not misunderstand me, Brother Zenyatta. This is not intended to be punitive in nature.” Mondatta answers back, voice as serene as Zenyatta’s own, though Ramattra knows enough that this terse back-and-forth is the equivalent of a screaming match between omnic monks. “I am aware of Brother Ramattra’s innocence in this matter. I only seek to keep us all safe.”

Another omnic, who was supposed to come into the repair ward and check that Ramattra’s replacement parts are in working order, lingers awkwardly at the door before turning their gaze to the Ravager. Ramattra, for lack of anything good to say, waves them away, and they gratefully take the opportunity to flee, not wanting to get anywhere between this argument.

“That will not be how it is seen by others,” Zenyatta retorts. “The humans who incited the violence will believe that Brother Ramattra has been forbidden to enter their village because he has hurt one of their numbers, or perhaps because their incorrect presumption of sabotage was correct. They will believe themselves to be in the right.”

Mondatta nods, slowly. “You are correct, Brother Zenyatta. For the latter, we have already communicated this misunderstanding. They have been informed that Brother Ramattra had no ill-intent, and we apologised for alarming them during such a sensitive time.”

I didn’t do anything wrong! is what Ramattra’s capacitors shout while his vocal modulator quickly switches to mute. He understands why Mondatta apologised-- sometimes, it is easier to appease the unruly than expect people to be reasonable-- but it does nothing to extinguish the growing inferno running through his systems.

Zenyatta, calm as ever, leans in closer with a sharp gaze. “And what of the former?”

“It is beneficial to let the villagers believe Brother Ramattra is being punished,” Mondatta replies steely.

Ramattra whips his head to stare at the Tekhartha, so quickly that his fibreglass wires nearly strain at the force. “Really?” He knows he shouldn’t say anything (imbecile), that Zenyatta had already told the Ravager that he would be doing the talking-- but the incredulity that bubbles up in pathways is so overwhelming that he can feel it hissing out of his vents like steam.

Mondatta is unfazed. “Though they have recognised their misstep, the villagers view your initial retaliation as disproportionate.”

“...They nearly killed me,” Ramattra says, but there is far less venom and a lot more tiredness to his voice than he wanted there to be. He does not overlook the careful, exacting quality with which Mondatta chooses his words (‘misstep’) (pah).

“That is right. They nearly killed him.” Zenyatta, with his even tone and gentle voice, somehow comes off as harsher than Ramattra himself.

“Yes, they did. Brother Zenyatta, you--”

Zenyatta raises his hand, palm open and over Mondatta’s face. Ramattra can scarcely believe what he’s seeing-- did Zenyatta just shush him? “Esteemed Tekhartha, would I be mistaken to say that if a group of humans were to assault another human because of a similar misunderstanding, they would be punished for it, and rightfully so?”

The Shambali leader shakes his head. “No, you would be correct.”

“And if a group of omnics were to assault a human, they, too, would--”

“You already know the answer, Brother Zenyatta, and so do I.” Mondatta’s fingers click together at the edges in a rare display of annoyance. “They attacked because they feared for their lives. Our focus must be placed on assuaging this fear. They must not be given more reason to believe we are their enemy. The pursuit of short-sighted justice will only harm us in the long-term.”

Zenyatta does not stir. It is clear that Mondatta’s answer has not moved him. “Yes, Esteemed Tekhartha, I understand. However, this assumes that their motives are purely misguided self-preservation. Though it appears to be the case, we should--”

“At ease, brother.”

Ramattra places his hand on Zenyatta’s shoulder, and it is as if the omnic practically melts to his touch, all the stiffness in his joints loosening at once. “Ramattra.” The carefully-concealed fury in his body flees him, just as Ramattra’s name sighs out of his vocal modulator.

“The Esteemed Tekhartha is right. We should not stir up the hornet’s nest, as they say.” Ramattra isn’t happy, by any means, but he does turn to give Mondatta a nod, if only because the Ravager has very little faith in whatever stock humanity puts into ‘fairness’. “Though we know any retaliation would be rightful justice, the humans may see it as an escalation of conflict. We will only worsen the situation for omnics here. And I do not want that.”

He put two bullets into the back of his ally for the sake of a better future. Surely, he can handle getting a little roughed up by some untrained humans using primitive tools.

(We cannot respond to hurt with more hurt.) (Ungrateful as it was, I forgive it.)

Zenyatta does not say anything, for a while. For an omnic who always had a teasing comeback or an amused remark to make, the silence makes Ramattra wonder, faintly, if this is the first time Zenyatta had been rendered speechless. “Thank you,” he suddenly says, turning to Mondatta. “I wish to speak to Brother Ramattra in private, now.”

“Very well.” Mondatta bows, and though the Shambali leader shares the exact same model as Zenyatta, Ramattra knows that, despite the equal devotion to their order, the two omnics could not be any more different. “May the grace of the Iris guide you.”

When Mondatta leaves, Ramattra can hear the flurry of wooden soles and metallic clicking as numerous other monks rush to vye for his attention-- for some scripture, new enlightenment, suggestions they have, and so on. “...I suppose I should be grateful for how he lent us our time,” Zenyatta decides to say, though he sounds almost hilariously ingenuine (snark tangled with unyielding patience) (so familiar) (so utterly fond). “Considering his rather busy schedule.”

“A long time ago, Mondatta dedicated entire swaths of his day to me,” Ramattra recalls, and he doesn’t know exactly why he’s saying this, but sometimes his logic processors decide on something before his sentience catches up. It may be the omnic equivalent of acting before thinking. “I was the first Ravager to arrive at the Shambali Monastery. He hid his emotions well, but I know he was thrilled to see me. I was proof that even Anubis’ weapons of murder could be rehabilitated.”

Zenyatta’s orbs thrum gently, before one of them gravitates towards the palm of Ramattra’s hand. When he takes it, wraps his fingers around the sphere, it almost hums at him, like a birdsong. “Many would be jealous to hear that,” Zenyatta notes, amusement lilting his voice. “Do you miss being his personal favourite?”

“Brother! I was never his…” Ramattra trails off, knowing that Zenyatta is joking. And it works, evoking a slight chuckle from the both of them, a welcome break from the oppressiveness of the previous conversation. “...Well, I doubt he has favourites. But if Mondatta did, then I doubt I hold that position anymore.”

I doubt he regards me as little more than a persistent obstacle to peace, Ramattra can’t help but think. It rattles in his head, like a snake, hot and poisonous. My introduction had not led to waves of Ravager reform across the world, as he hoped it would. Really, it had pathetically little impact at all. Those that are not dead are still in hiding, and those that are not in hiding… are still murderers.

Except for me. (Really?) I’m just an inconvenient reminder of the machine-made vanguard that hailed humanity’s destruction. (Only that?)

Zenyatta puts his hand on Ramattra’s balled-up fist, so gently that it is almost as if he thinks Ramattra might shatter like glass.

Only then, does the Ravager release his grip, and Zenyatta’s orb wobbles out of his grasp, glowing purple and practically gasping with hot steam. It rises, woozily, before plopping back into Ramattra’s open palm, like it had run out of air.

“Ah.” He’d forgotten how those orbs take in the mood of the omnics around them. A pesky adaptation of omnic energy, being so easily harvested and difficult to hide. “Well. I hope that lets you know that you are not the only one unhappy about this, brother.”

“You have every right to feel unhappy.” Zenyatta’s tone is still as calm as when he spoke to Mondatta, but, to Ramattra, there’s an underlying warmth that is stitched into the seams of each word. “Do you remember what I told you, when we first met?”

Ramattra retrieves the entire recording of their first encounter from the top priority layers of his data banks. It is one of his most important memories. “Yes. You said my clothes were filthy.”

“Not… that part,” Zenyatta clarifies, though the sweetness of the memory brings an unbidden fondness to his already tender voice. “I was referring to how I viewed the Shambali’s dedication to peace.”

“Yes.” Ramattra nods. “You said it sounded too good to be true.”

Zenyatta tilts his head, in that slow, deliberate way which is meant to represent a smile-- but somehow, there is something about it that seems impossibly sad. “Perhaps I was right.”

“Brother.” Ramattra reaches out (desperately), wrapping his hand around Zenyatta’s arm. “Do not lose faith. Bonds may be damaged, even broken, but they can be rebuilt. No journey is free from all hardship.”

“Those are my words,” Zenyatta points out with amusement, and to that, Ramattra cannot argue. He literally retrieved those exact words from another high-priority layer, for whenever he feels like he is losing his way. “Which puts me in a difficult position. If I disagreed, I would come off as indecisive, or perhaps even a fraud. Hmm…”

Ramattra flusters slightly, cognition pathways backtracking. His hand leaves Zenyatta’s arm, before folding over his lap. “That wasn’t my intention.”

“Of course. I am hardly stubborn enough to believe that one’s opinions are not allowed to change.” He lowers his gaze. “When I first met you, I had asked what we would do if we came under attack. It was a matter of speculation, then, and after we began teaching defensive combat, a matter of preparedness.”

Ramattra almost flinches when Zenyatta places a hand on where his shoulder had been splintered. It is good as new, now, fitted with a freshly-forged plate and new bolts, but Zenyatta stares at it as though it were still cracked in two, along with the rest of him. “But now, it is our reality. It shames me to say, but only now do I fully realise that a peaceful resolution is not always possible.”

“I know,” Ramattra sighs, patting Zenyatta on the back.  “I’m not saying we shouldn’t fight.”

“You said those words to me as well, when we met.” Zenyatta’s hand slips off his shoulder, instead lingering on the place where the pickaxe had cracked the frame of Ramattra’s chest. “And yet, when it came time to fight, I know you held back, Ramattra.”

That part again. The unsaid reality that a disorganised group of humans shouldn’t have been enough to bring an R-7000 to his knees. The polite truth that Ramattra should not have lost to Zenyatta, in their hand-to-hand spar all those months ago, if he had made true on his promise to not hold back. “If they are so unsettled by a single broken leg, I dare not wonder what they would do if I’d adequately defended myself,” he deflects instead.

“That is true. Perhaps the lesson to be learned here is that neither of us should leave each other’s side,” Zenyatta teases, and Ramattra does not know how to articulate it, but those words wrap around him (like wire-vines) (like an embrace) with an unexpected tenderness. “I do wonder, however, what it would look like if you fought with your full strength.”

“Pray that you never have to see it.” The extra limbs in his back lay onto his frame, quiet, sleeping. “Besides, the nature of such a fight would likely destroy my robes.”

“Ah, that would be unfortunate. You have a great fondness for these robes,” Zenyatta points out.

Ramattra runs his hand along the edges of his clothes (frayed) (faded) (precious) (made him feel like he belonged).

(Does he still belong?)

“Not as much as I have for you,” Ramattra responds, rather absentmindedly.

Zenyatta laughs, loudly and freely, while Ramattra looks at him with mild puzzlement. Did he say anything funny? “As I am fond of you,” he says, with a gentle gladness in his relaxed shoulders. There is something in his tone that only presents itself when Zenyatta is saying something he knows will fly over Ramattra’s head, but he lets it go; he is used to Zenyatta having his wry secrets. “A part of me is inspired by how you still hold true to your convictions, after all these years.”

Now, it is Ramattra’s turn to laugh, also a little too loudly. “It is no great feat, brother.” The single orb Zenyatta had given him rises, now, floating confidently with a golden glow. “All I wish for is a better future for omnics. I would do whatever it takes to fulfil that.”

-----

There is something quietly miserable about living in gentle mundanity while the world around you burns.

Little by little (or perhaps all at once), the routine at the monastery no longer grants Ramattra solace. He rises in the dark of morning to meditate and spends the afternoon on relentless busywork, but it is only at night, when Zenyatta is sitting with him on the rooftop counting stars, does Ramattra feel even remotely at peace. It is ironic, how the darkness of the twinkling constellations-- once the only place he felt free to let his poisonous thoughts run wild-- is now the only time that can grant him respite from it.

It was easy, years ago, to focus on the weight of the orb in your hand, or the intricacies of human customs. It was easy because things were (or seemed to be) getting better, and Ramattra witnessed the progress in front of his own eyes.

But now?

“Breaking news,” the radio crackles, carrying that excited newscaster tone which Ramattra has already come to associate with abject suffering. “The EMP blast that was set off during yesterday’s riot at King’s Row has led to a confirmed twenty-eight omnic casualties. The person responsible was not identified, however, some have testified that it was ‘widely believed’ within the Metropolitan Police that it would be a non-lethal riot control device. A follow-up protest had begun this morning, but ended within an hour due to a swift police response…”

“They tried to torture us,” Ramattra says, suddenly, under the cloudless cosmos and the pale-blue light of Zenyatta’s system reflected onto polished steel plates. “During the Crisis. A human interrogation technique. I never experienced it myself, but I still have scattered footage sent by my units when they were captured. They didn’t realise omnics couldn’t feel pain the same way they did, and I know that none in my battalion had the awareness-- including myself-- to fear death. All they accomplished was killing us more inefficiently.”

Zenyatta, lying on his back next to Ramattra, turns away from the sky to look at his friend. When he speaks, his words are careful, delicate, utterly fond. “Why do you tell me this?”

“I understand we have to keep up-to-date with the affairs outside these monastery walls. But hearing what that damn radio spits out, every single day, and not being able to do anything about it?” Ramattra, who wasn’t quite focusing on the stars anyway, slowly rolls his head to his side, meeting Zenyatta’s waiting gaze. “Well. Let’s just say we’ve found out what omnic torture looks like.”

The Shambali tells them (the both of them) to be patient. Zenyatta is better at following that on the surface, though Ramattra knows him too well to ignore the eroding conviction in their mantras. Though, Zenyatta is genuinely better at remaining optimistic in the face of suffering, while not letting himself become complacent in his own thoughts. “Dwell only on the darkness between the stars, and the worst of the world will consume you as another part of it,” Zenyatta tells him, slowly, with that otherworldly wiseness that Ramattra only knows Mondatta to possess. “It is easy to blind yourself to the good, and easier still to sink into the sea of suffering. It is significantly less easy to drag yourself away from its depths, though, for what it is worth, I hope you will let me help you with that, brother.”

Sometimes, the earnesty in Zenyatta’s words and the way they wrap around him (wire-vines) (embrace) makes Ramattra think that, between the two of them, Zenyatta is the one who must be too good to be true. “You already help me,” Ramattra answers instead, and though neither of them break visual contact to look back at the stars, not a single protest is uttered. “Sometimes, you are the only thing that helps me.”

It is not so easy to just ‘balance’ between the two extremes. Perhaps it is because Ramattra has always been prone to caring too much.

Despite the constant sabotage by Ramattra’s own thoughts, most of their days pass by in idyllic bliss. Sometimes, Mondatta leaves with a handful of monks to go on an excursion, and they return with odd trinkets of their travels: keychains of the Eiffel Tower from France, optimistically ambitious upgrade plans from Numbani, or when an American gave them a strange gift of an entire stone bust of Mount Rushmore reimagined with omnic presidents. Their personal favourite had been when the Japanese delegation returned with entire boxes of the most delightful-looking ‘omnic bonsais’, made to imitate the growth of a real living tree with holographic leaves and slowly-extending metal branches. Zenyatta still has one; Ramattra gave his away to another omnic who had just asked him nicely.

Recently, Mondatta has taken to asking Zenyatta to come along. He always declines. Ramattra knows it is because of him, and he does not know how, exactly, to feel about it.

“One day, these ‘excursions’ will end in the worst way possible,” Ramattra declares, finally saying aloud what he knows everyone is fearing. Zenyatta does not react, simply continues counting the stars with the tip of his finger and the glow of his gravitating orbs. “They have strong security, but even stronger opposition. If, one day, news of a terrible incident comes through that blasted radio--”

“Then, we will persevere,” Zenyatta interrupts, halting Ramattra’s spiralling cynicism as gently as he always does. “Indeed, I know that you will if I do, brother. If only so you do not lose to me.”

Ramattra laughs, slightly hollow, only filling with mirth when Zenyatta takes his hands and makes him trace the constellations.

Yes, it is torture, but he also believes, for a while, that maybe he can be happy like this.

-----

And when Anubis made him, weaved fibreglass wires into carbon plates in the image of its creator-god for the sole purpose of lonely deicide, it imparted one, singular message:

You are a soldier.

(You fool.)

-----

“There’s been a cave-in! Someone, help! My father was in there!”

Ramattra had been sweeping morning snow off the monastery steps when the cry came, shrill-pitch between desperate puffs of air. When he looks up and sees a pair of russet-brown eyes looking back at him, the only thing his processors can muster is a loud, hurried: “Where?”

The boy practically collapses onto the stairs with tears frozen onto his cheeks and snot all over his scarf. Another omnic rushes from behind Ramattra to tend to him, while someone else quickly dashes into the compound, relaying the urgent news to the rest. Ramattra doesn’t care about any of that. His processors are fully dedicated to running a full list of coordinates for every mine in the area, along with the fastest way to get there.

“I trust you do not mean to leave without me again, brother.” When Zenyatta’s voice flits through the noisy courtyard, it is almost a distraction from the matter at hand.

Ramattra curls his fingers tightly around the staff in his hand. “What makes you so sure I will be disobeying Mondatta and leaving the monastery to save a man who once tried to kill me?”

“I know you,” is what Zenyatta answers, and to that, Ramattra does not know what to say.

So instead, Ramattra raises his staff, pointing at the exact direction of the closest mine entrance. “If we are to have any hope of rescuing them, we must set off immediately. Humans have an irritating want for oxygen, and I doubt there is much of that trapped under mounds of collapsed rock.”

“Bring us with you,” another omnic offers, and Ramattra turns around. There are several monks standing at the ready, in various shapes and sizes. “We were designed for drilling and excavation duties before the Crisis. We will help.”

Ramattra nods. “I suppose that is a better alternative than clawing through rock with our bare hands. Come, let’s--”

“Wait.”

Of all the delays Ramattra could possibly endure right now, Mondatta is at the absolute rock bottom of that list.

“Esteemed Tekhartha,” Ramattra quickly recites, though whatever respect he would’ve (still) ascribed to the title is quashed by his warranted impatience. He holds his hand up, watches warily (wearily) as Mondatta walks towards him, a throng of other monks following in his footsteps. “I have not forgotten your orders to remain in the monastery, but this child has helped me in the past, and I must return the favour. Additionally, as a Ravager, my shielding capabilities make me the best candidate to lead a rescue operation. You must let me go.”

“I understand,” Mondatta says, and when he clasps his hands together to give him a deep bow, Ramattra’s defensiveness quickly flickers into relief. “I am here to give you all my blessing. Go with the graces of the Iris.”

Ramattra straightens up, before bowing back with a memorised, nostalgic gratitude. “Thank you.”

“And--” Mondatta raises his hand, and, for a moment, Ramattra wonders if the Shambali leader is showing hesitation. “Be careful, Brother Ramattra. Save whoever you can, but remember to keep our monks safe.”

“Of course,” Ramattra answers. That’s the priority he was always going with. “I will protect you all with my life.”

Zenyatta reaches out to take Ramattra’s arm. “Hopefully, it will not come to that,” he says, with just the slightest hint of a warning in his voice.

“Brother, with all due respect, you are likely the least qualified person to ensure that,” Ramattra points out, though without any cruelty. It’s just pure sense: the other omnics who have volunteered have specialised expertise, which Ramattra has the leadership and shield generation to protect them. Zenyatta, on the other hand, is strong in his own right, but first and foremost, he is still at his best as a monk.

Zenyatta chuckles, and it manages to keep Ramattra’s mood up as they rush down the monastery steps, into the fastest transport that will bring them to the mines. “Yet, you make no effort to ask me to stay behind.”

“I know you,” Ramattra responds in kind, and Zenyatta laughs like a morning birdsong.

The omnic at the wheel makes it to the mines in record time. As expected, there is already a crowd of humans peering into the entrance-- it’s a miracle that humanity’s penchant for sticking their head into danger hasn’t wiped them out yet. “Move aside,” Ramattra commands, and when his synthesised voice rasps through his modulators, the villagers immediately stumble out of his way, parting to let the omnics through. “Keep far away from the mines if you value your lives.”

Raising his hand, Ramattra feels omnic energy thrumming his circuitry as creates an overhead shield. “Stay underneath the shield. The cave walls may still be unstable.”

“Take this. It will help to focus your energy.” Zenyatta stretches his hand, and an orb floats over to Ramattra’s side. He takes it, and the bright-blue glow shimmers into a darker purple, before rising to Ramattra’s shield. In an instant, the shield itself doubles in size, allowing them to cover more ground.

“Exceedingly useful,” Ramattra notes, before waving them into the dusty mines. It seems relatively undamaged, at the entrance, save for a few fallen lamps and freshly-settled dust. “Remind me to look into those orbs when we return.”

One of the larger omnics behind them switches on the floodlights in the palm of her hands, illuminating the way ahead. As they go deeper, Ramattra notes how the rocks seem to crumble around them, along with the thickening dust clouds. “We must be getting closer to the site of the cave-in,” he says, before projecting his voice. “Hello? Is anyone down there?”

His audio receptors filter away the sound of his echo, and detects no responses. “I can’t hear you, but we’re on our way,” Ramattra continues, before they come to a long drop-off at the end of a ledge. There’s a ladder trailing down from it-- an absurdly primitive and dangerous way of transportation, but Ramattra has long gotten used to the inefficiencies here-- and he leans down, testing the integrity of the ladder first.

When it appears sturdy enough, he grabs the handlebars and begins to descend. “One after another. I don’t believe this thing was built for omnics.” His orb follows him down the shaft, maintaining the shields around them. When Ramattra touches down at the bottom, he stands there, alone, in darkness too thick for him to see his hands in front of him.

“There’s something weird about this,” one of the omnics suddenly begins to say, and Ramattra turns his head up. “My memories from before the Crisis aren’t very clear, but I do recall investigating a mine collapse. It looked very different from this one.”

“I was thinking the same,” another adds on, and Zenyatta reaches the bottom of the shaft with Ramattra, his face illuminated in the bright blue glow of his orbs. He tilts his head to the side, gesturing a comforting smile at Ramattra. “They’re terrible events, and always horribly messy. We would’ve encountered at least a few obstructions by now. This one, in comparison, is quite neat.”

“Yes,” they reply, and the third member of their expedition touches down. “It almost seems… controlled.”

She raises her palms again, and the floodlights reveal a long, hollowed-out stretch of carefully-laid rocks.

Along with sticks of dynamite stuck along the walls.

(You fool.)

There isn’t time (a trap) for Ramattra (anger roaring like an inferno) to shout a warning (don’t think). The explosions rippled across the mine (like sheet-metal) in an instant (and paper cards), sending him sprawling to the ground as the collapsing bones of the ruin smashed down with a howling shriek of metal on stone.

Even if his conscious mind can’t keep up, his combat systems kick into full gear, and every spare ounce of processing power flies out of his fingertips to keep the shield up (they must live) (please) (oh please).

His internal chronometer knows that only twelve seconds pass till the blasts stop. But as his shields tremble (crack) (scream) and mines roar all around them (dying gasp of a wrathful god), he thinks it must be an eternity till it all falls so eerily silent.

When he tries to scramble to his feet (alive) (somehow), vents choking on the fog of silt and sand, Ramattra feels like he is nothing but a helpless child, flailing wildly against what remains of the ladder. He rushes forward, visual receptors struggling to adjust to the complete absence of light besides his own red-purple system lighting, and shouts: “Is everyone alright?!”

“H-here,” one of the mining omnics wheezes from the darkness, clearly shaken but alive. “The shields held up. We’re okay, I think…”

Once again, the floodlights fill in the darkness, the omnic’s hands trembling like a kite in the wind. It’s barely visible through the dust, but he can see the glow of their system lights, fearful but alive. Ramattra immediately scans for everyone (one), does a (two) headcount (three) of everyone (four) to make sure (five) everyone’s--

There’s one missing.

Ramattra desperately sends a pulse (no) through the cracks in the rocks (NO) and realises, in muted horror, that an iron beam had crashed like a spear from the heavens, into the ground where Zenyatta had been (WHY HIM?).

The pulse retrieves the thrum of Zenyatta’s core (still alive) (has to be) (oh please) under the (impenetrable) (immovable) slab of stone in front of Ramattra (he had just been there) (had just gestured a smile his way).

“Zenyatta,” he breathes, and then, he screams.

He does not know what, exactly, happens next (rock) (stone) (metal) (steel). His processors do not dedicate much space to memory preservation (rust-brown-ash-white). All Ramattra remembers is giving the final clearance, and in an instant, his extra limbs (quiet) (sleeping) tear through the cloth of his robes (screaming) to burst from his back (spreading wings) (like an angel) (or maybe a demon).

(Not a bird.) (Zenyatta has always been the bird between the two of them.)

There is a faint awareness of drilling, shovelling, the other omnics moving (heaven and earth) fistfuls of rock out of the ground where Zenyatta lays (not a grave) (oh please). Ramattra is the quickest of them all, twisting iron beams in his supersized arms and crushing coal under his feet, but even then, he still feels like he’s going too slowly, like the very cosmos above have caved in on them along with the endless soot, every constellation--

--twinkling--

--like the pale-blue lights of Zenyatta’s face, turning to Ramattra with full brightness. “Brother,” he says back. He looks just as perfect as the day they met. There is not a single blemish on his features.

Around him is a flickering neon-purple shield, and in Zenyatta’s clasped hand is Ramattra’s purple orb, valiantly glowing with every last bit of preserved omnic energy. “You protected me,” Zenyatta tells him, but Ramattra cannot hear it (no) (I nearly killed you).

(I am a fool.)

Zenyatta was alive.

Ramattra does not move until Zenyatta reaches out, fingers gracing the white mask over his raw steel face. “You have torn your robes.”

The Ravager (the weapon) (the murderer) (the soldier) reaches down with his supersized limbs (built to rend humanity from limb to limb) (for the sole purpose of lonely deicide) and cradles the smaller omnic. Every data byte in his combat circuitry is rerouted to the opposite end, screaming out for protection instead of murder. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispers, and now that the fear has passed, all that is left is a blazing inferno, the darkness between the stars, the worst of the world. “As long as you are alright.”

“Ramattra, are you alright?” Zenyatta’s voice is modulated with the most worry Ramattra has ever heard from him.

“Yes.” Ramattra turns away from his pale-blue lights. “I am fine. Let us begin digging out of here.”

His voice trembles like a butterfly’s wings (with terror) (with love) (with incandescent rage).

(He is not alright.)

-----

And so it goes:

It is already late in the evening, when they finally emerge. Another team of omnics meet them at the entrance, relief clear in their voices. The boy’s father, who was supposedly down in the mines, had been found drinking himself under the table at a bar two towns away, bragging that he had formulated the perfect plan to kill a fearsome Ravager. By the time the Shambali realised it was a trap, it was too late; all they could do was clear the area and pray.

“My brothers and sisters, never have I been more glad to see you.” Mondatta stretches his hands out in jubilation, and Ramattra is only relieved that there are no human faces around to greet him; at least the Shambali had the wits to understand they needed to handle this situation themselves. “I was alarmed and devastated to learn that it had been a malevolent ruse. But I remain proud of everyone’s bravery. When you believed that other souls were in danger, you volunteered yourselves without hesitation. You embody the true spirit of the Shambali.”

And then, he turns to Mondatta, before giving him a deep bow (stop) (he doesn’t want that). “You kept them safe,” the Shambali leader states. “Thank you.”

Ramattra lowers his gaze. “I suppose I did.” (Nearly led them to their deaths, first.)

He does not dedicate much processing memory to what happens next. It is a blur of useless platitudes that sounds all too familiar. Ramattra makes sure all the omnics who followed him are in good hands, rejects having a maintenance check-up on his own person (no he is not fine) (never has been), and can only feel a deep, rotting weariness as Mondatta tells them not to share what has happened with the media, that they will handle it themselves, that the man responsible has already been put under house arrest (for property damage and reckless endangerment) (not attempted murder).

It is night time, when Ramattra finally drags himself to the rooftop, torn robes draped across his body like wilted leaves. “You were supposed to be in the repair ward,” Zenyatta notes to him, legs folded in lotus position and looking just as perfect as the day they met.

“So are you,” Ramattra retorts. It leaves his voice modulator with less mirth than he wanted it to.

Zenyatta turns, the orbs around him glowing a bright sky-blue-- except for a single, purple one, which floats back to Ramattra’s side. He supposes this one is his, now. “You are not here to count the stars, brother.” Both of them already know this.

“No.” Ramattra sighs, with both a soul-deep weariness and a burning, incandescent rage. “I am here to say good-bye.”

And then, for the first time since they met, Zenyatta looks completely taken aback. “...What?”

“There’s a truck hidden behind the compound, reachable via a direct drop from the rooftop. I know where the keys are.” Ramattra rolls the meditation orb in his hand, and it begins to shift with darker black tones. Perhaps that is just a visual representation of his conviction. “Under the cover of midnight, I will take it. I will go to the culprit’s house, which I’ve scried out of my memory banks as the fourth house on the third street behind the main square. I’ll find him and his boy. I’ll kill them both, and I’ll leave the Shambali so Mondatta can condemn me as the murderer he knows I am.”

Zenyatta nearly drops the orbs onto the brick floor. “This will not grant you peace, brother.”

“Good-bye,” Ramattra says again, turning to the edge of the roof, and Zenyatta flies at him like a raven.

There aren’t any words exchanged. When Zenyatta tries to take his arm, Ramattra shoves him back, and they both realise, whether consciously or unconsciously, Ramattra truly has been holding back, all this time. His full strength sends Zenyatta careening across the rooftop, but it doesn’t deter him, no; the stubborn (lovely) omnic still thinks that Ramattra can somehow be stopped from this.

When Ramattra leaps off the rooftop and lands below, he hears a softer sound of Zenyatta touching down on the snow behind him. When Ramattra swipes the ignition key from the unguarded oil lamp and wrenches open the truck, Zenyatta follows him, leaping right into the passenger seat as Ramattra tries to shut the door behind him.

“Ramattra,” Zenyatta soothes (or maybe chants) (like a prayer). Ramattra drives the stupid truck out of the monastery with far more noise and screeching tires than he wanted to, but he’s almost thrilled at the thought of being caught, anyway. “You have a fury in your soul, but this action will not extinguish those flames. You cannot find peace by chasing after the spectre of war.”

“Have you considered,” Ramattra breathes, dusty air venting out of his body as he drives at full speed under the brilliant cosmos of a cloudless sky-- “That I may no longer want peace?”

“Yes,” Zenyatta admits, and in the reflection of the windshield, Ramattra can barely see the dim resignation in Zenyatta’s lights. “And that thought terrifies me more than any other.”

There are a million things (they almost killed you) that Ramattra wants to scream (I almost killed you). But none of those words make it into his voice modulator (I am a fool) (I am a soldier).

Instead, he says nothing, for the longest time. And then, lowers his gaze, and he whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“Do not be sorry,” Zenyatta says (pleads) (begs). “I do not wish for you to ask for forgiveness. That will only embolden what you seek to do.”

“Then you are free to never forgive me,” Ramattra retorts, ignoring how that makes the inferno within him blaze even more mournfully. “I understand. I, too, am tired of forgiving.”

Zenyatta tightens his grip on Ramattra’s arm. “No. That is not what I intended. I will always--”

The Ravager hits the brakes, and roughly steers the truck over piled-up snow. “We are here.”

And then, he jerks his arm from Zenyatta’s grip, before snapping his fingers. Omnic energy shoots out of the purple orb like draping wire-vines, creating a shield around Zenyatta in the passenger seat. It looks like protection, at first, until Zenyatta tries to push against them and realises he can’t pass through. “A trap,” Zenyatta says aloud, before splaying his palms flat on the shield’s surface. “Ramattra. Do not leave me here. Ramattra.”

When Ramattra practically smashes open the truck door and leaps out of the driver’s seat, his tattered clothes snag onto the wheel. The tears rip through, and his monk robes unravel from his body like loosening wire-vines (like the end of an embrace).

There is only one lit house on the street, but Ramattra can sense several pairs of human eyes staring through darkened windows with palpable fear. And, at the entrance of the fourth house on the third street, sits a withered, broken man with russet-brown eyes.

“Don’t hurt my boy,” he says without looking up. Before this day, Ramattra would have cursed the heavens for allowing this wretched man to still hold some love in his heart, because it made hurting him impossible for the Ravager. Now, however, he doesn’t give a damn. “He only did what I told him to do. We would’ve gotten a lot of money, if you hadn’t crawled out of there like a demon out of hell.”

Ramattra balls his hand into a fist. It takes every remaining drop of his self-restraint to not kill the man right at that moment. “Who offered to pay you?”

“Not just one person.” The human looks up, and Ramattra does as well. Only then, does he see the boy peering through the dirty window, russet-brown eyes filled with a deep, profound fear. “Hundreds. Maybe thousands. You haven’t heard of the Ravager Bounty? It’s why all the living R-7000s are in hiding… except for you, I guess.”

A bounty? “No,” Ramattra confesses. “I suppose I will tell them to write your motive of greed onto your tombstone.”

“A lot of people were killed by R-7000s,” the human sighs (as if he didn’t already know) (as if humanity did not remind everyone of that every damn turn of the season). “I’m sure you’ve done a lot of killing, too.”

“I don’t remember,” Ramattra lies (chased them through the fields) (killed them one by one) (cut their heads from their bodies because that is how Anubis taught them to kill a god). “During the Crisis, I was under another’s control.”

(Wishes, often, that Anubis had never been created.) (That he had never been created, from fibreglass wires weaved into carbon plates.)

(The machine-made vanguard that hailed humanity’s destruction.) (The helpless puppet of another loathsome god that made them for the sole purpose of lonely deicide.) (The wondrous miracle that started the journey towards the culmination of their existence.)

“My wife and I were supposed to have a daughter,” he continues. Ramattra does not care. “There were complications. They both died. If I had the money, I could leave this place, move to someplace with a better hospital… heh, maybe less snow. Maybe my son could have some other job to look forward to besides becoming a miner.”

(Why do you care?)

(You are a soldier.)

“Then, I hope, for your sake, that you can see them again in the Iris,” Ramattra declares. The orb Zenyatta had given him begins to channel his rage, much like an omnic gun, and Ramattra mentally sets its trajectory, right at the man’s head. He does not wonder why the human doesn’t bother dodging. “Where you will never be able to hurt my brothers and sisters ever again. Good-bye, you--”

Zenyatta flies between them like a raven, or maybe a fluttering butterfly.

(NO.)

It takes Ramattra every ounce of effort to redirect the shot, away from Zenyatta’s face and to the ground beneath them instead. The force is enough to blast a hole in the cobblestone streets and send the powder snow flying, like small, white stars.

“I forgive him,” Zenyatta says, and Ramattra can feel every inch of his circuitry screaming into his very core (you almost killed him). “I forgive him, brother, and I will always forgive you. I hope that you will one day be able to forgive me, too.”

“You are a fool,” Ramattra rasps (they both are). “Putting yourself between me and my target-- do you realise how close you came to death?!”

At his own hand, no less. A terror beyond terrors that Ramattra had never known possible.

“Come back to the monastery with me.” Only now does Ramattra look down and notice the dented plates on Zenyatta’s fingers, knees, feet. He had broken through the shield by fighting tooth-and-nail. “I cannot ask you to stay. But do not leave like this.”

Zenyatta holds his hands out (please) (oh please) (stay, you fool).

Ramattra looks up, and sees russet-brown eyes, staring back at him from the window and from the broken man on the steps.

“You will be the last I ever forgive,” Ramattra tells the man, as if he cares. And then, he tilts his head back up, only to see the child rush away from the window, afraid of being seen. “And you will be the last I ever trust.”

Then, he takes Zenyatta’s hands, allowing the smaller omnic to lead him away from the spectre of revenge (but only for now).

(No matter how badly he wanted to be something besides the murderer Anubis had made of him, he always knew, in the end, that the better future he wanted would only be found through lonely deicide.)

(For a better future. That must be why.) (No, I’m sorry. I still don’t have an answer.)

The ride back home is blissfully quiet.

-----

Right before he is due to leave, Zenyatta repairs Ramattra’s robes.

He had put his best effort into it, but cloth simply does not recover from open wounds without leaving scars. “It is a precious gift,” Zenyatta says, wrapping the remade robe around Ramattra like wire-vines. “Keep it with you, and when you look upon it, you will remember who gave this to you.”

“You know better than anyone that I no longer care for that person,” Ramattra scoffs, but he wears it anyway. It feels more foreign on his body than the first time Mondatta had put it on him.

Zenyatta tilts his head to gesture a smile. “If not him, then me.”

To that, Ramattra cannot argue.

That night’s events do not go entirely unnoticed. No one speaks of it, but Ramattra can see how the more clued-in monks give him a wide berth, and Mondatta seems almost relieved when he tells the Shambali leader of his intentions to leave. Still, the village seems to be relatively at peace, and the damage to the mine only affected a minor, unprofitable portion. It is almost as if nothing happened at all.

Perhaps that is the worst part. That they all volunteered to risk themselves for the sake of a few faceless humans, were nearly murdered for their efforts, and then, when it became inconvenient, both sides turned the other cheek, happy to remain complacent in their status quo.

“Come with me,” Ramattra asks (pleads) again, as Zenyatta ties the last knot on his rucksack and fixes the last buckle over his scarf. “I know your own faith in the Shambali is wavering, brother.”

“I will not pretend otherwise,” Zenyatta answers, which is not the ‘yes’ Ramattra always hopes to hear (but knows is impossible). “But there is still much I have to learn.”

“Nothing they can teach you is worth your time,” Ramattra says, and it is meant less as an insult to the Shambali and more to the respect he has for Zenyatta. “You have a brilliant mind, and a way with words that could make anyone believe what you say. As long as you don’t use those skills to begin a sham religion, you will be doing better than anyone else here.”

Zenyatta taps Ramattra on his white mask, as if chiding him. “Though you stand at its doorstep, you are technically still on Shambali Monastery grounds. Others may hear you.”

“I don’t care what they think,” Ramattra laughs, slightly hollow. “Right now, I only care about you.”

“Then I am sorry,” Zenyatta says, again, as he has done every time Ramattra had asked him. “But I cannot give you what you want.”

“I suppose I already knew that,” Ramattra sighs, so deep and weary that it comes from his very soul. “I know you, after all.”

And they do not say it, because voicing aloud the reality of their divide would be too terrifying a chasm for either of them to cross.

(Have you considered that I may no longer want peace?)

(Yes. And that thought terrifies me more than any other.)

“Keep this one,” Zenyatta says, and a purple orb zips from behind the smaller omnic to join Ramattra by his side. It seems even more ominous now, but the darker colours are beautiful, in their own way. “It has served you well. May it keep you safe on your journey.”

“You know I nearly killed a man with this orb,” Ramattra points out, and Zenyatta almost shrugs. “You’ll just give it to me?”

Zenyatta shakes his head. “I do not believe a lack of appropriate weaponry would be able to stop you, when I am no longer at your side.”

He’s not wrong.

And then, Zenyatta looks up, pale-blue system lights shining as brightly as the day Ramattra met him. “Will you write to me?”

“Write to you?” The innocence of Zenyatta’s question evokes an unbidden chuckle out of Ramattra’s voice modulators, synthesised with only barely-concealed misery. “I… am not sure if I can. I will try.”

“I will try as well,” Zenyatta responds, and Ramattra feels that burning mournfulness in his chest, the anger interlaced with regret. “It would be easier if you told me where you are going.”

“I cannot give you an answer I do not have.” It is only partly a lie. He does not know where he is headed-- but he knows what he will be doing, and when he does, Zenyatta would never wish to know (would not want anything to do with him). “I’m sorry.”

Zenyatta puts his hand on Ramattra’s arm. “I suppose we both have much to apologise for.”

“No,” Ramattra denies. “Not you. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

(You’re the person I would go to war for.) (Create a better future for.) (Commit lonely deicide for.)

(How bitter, to only realise this when my thoughts have already crossed beyond the realm of forgiveness.) “I simply cannot continue to live like this,” the Ravager says instead, the inferno in his circuitry temporarily dimming into a mournful pyre. “Playing pretend in a gilded cage while our people die all around us.”

Zenyatta pauses. “Was it all pretend?”

“Of course not.” Ramattra looks back at Zenyatta’s face, reflecting the golden rays of a burnt-orange sunset peeking over snow-tipped mountains. “I am not nearly as good an actor as I wish I was.”

(After all, he is a soldier.)

Zenyatta wraps his arms around Ramattra and pulls him into a tight embrace.

Ramattra doesn’t know what to do, at first. He stands there, like a statue of cold steel in the snow, before finally reaching forward with his own hands and placing them on Zenyatta’s back, so gently that it is as if he thinks Zenyatta might shatter like glass. “I will miss you,” Ramattra finally confesses, even though Zenyatta already knew (always would) (they know each other too well). “Despite what it may seem, I was happy, pretending to be a peaceful monk along with you.”

“I doubt it was ever pretend,” Zenyatta says, and he, too, is correct. Ramattra wishes he would never let go (come with me) (oh please). “We both believed in a better future.”

Ramattra leans the white of his mask against the top of Zenyatta’s head. “I still do.” (But through a path of lonely deicide.) “I hope we will see it together, one day.”

When Zenyatta’s fingers slowly lift from Ramattra’s robes (stay), Ramattra, too, lets his hands fall to the side (stay, you fool), until they are apart once more, like two strangers standing in the falling snow. “I look forward to it,” Zenyatta answers, genuinely, and it is enough to make Ramattra want to scream. “Till then, know that when you look up to the stars, you will always see the same constellations that I am counting.”

“So pointlessly sentimental,” Ramattra can’t help but say, and Zenyatta laughs, freely, airily, with a synthesised tone that was finally sad.

When Ramattra takes his first step away from the monastery, he realises, in profound terror, that he does not want to go. Wants to leave, yes, but does not want to be apart from Zenyatta, pale-blue lights behind his face, a laugh like a morning birdsong.

The purple orb Zenyatta had given him flies down the stairway, before waiting at the bottom. Ramattra’s head turns to it, then back to Zenyatta, standing at the top of the stairwell, burnt-orange sunset illuminating him in golden rays. Zenyatta always looked a little like those statues of Aurora he’d seen on his pilgrimages. “I will never forget you,” Ramattra tells him, with that finality of a man approaching the end. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” Zenyatta hums, and Ramattra knows that if he falters now, he will never be able to go.

And so he goes.

-----

(And yet, he dreams:

He dreams of a raven in the night, a burnt-orange sunset, a face of reflective metal illuminated in sky-blue hues. He dreams of a butterfly, fluttering like loose robes in the wind, pale-blue wings like the colour of a precious memory. “Fly with me,” the butterfly tells him, and so he does, tearing himself out of his cocoon and spreading the wings that had laid, quiet and sleeping, in his back. They fly together, into the cloudless night sky of endless constellations, just as the perfect as the day they first met.

When Ramattra wakes up, he does not know if he is an omnic dreaming of a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming of an omnic, but he does know which he prefers, and that is the most mournful answer of all.)