Overwatch Archive

Field Report: Native Vanadium Cache

A small vein of what appears to be an unidentified vanadium isotope has been discovered at a Wayfinder Society dig site in Petra. It is rare enough to find such an isotope undecayed in nature, but it seems this source is also uniquely indestructible and undergoing reactions previously achieved only in a lab setting. It is posing a challenge to isolate and contain the material with the resources available on-site.

The Wayfinders are focusing their efforts on recovering artifacts and are uninterested in the isotope's phase-shifting properties. The Ministries of Oasis have brokered an agreement with the site lead at Petra, Dr. Hamid Faisal, to transfer the material to Oasis for further research.

Upon request, the Ministry of Genetics will temporarily house the material until Minister Al-Shahrani has completed her current geological study of seismic activity along the Red Sea Rift.

TO: Moira O'Deorain

FROM: Anya Al-Shahrani

Dear Minister O'Deorain,

I must first express my appreciation for the Ministry of Genetics' continued flexibility and willingness to store the vanadium isotope as we have completed our seismic research. It is exciting to see the results of your elemental analysis and mass spectrometry readings, and I look forward to conducting my own. Your extensive study and unique insights as a geneticist have allowed Oasis to imagine a wider array of applications for the material than originally planned.

However, I must once again urge you to transfer the isotope to the Ministry of Geology for study. We are now months behind schedule, and I can no longer condone further experimentation by the Ministry of Genetics. Though your suggestions for alternate uses of this material are well received, this is a matter for the Ministry of Geology.

Sincerely,

Minister Anya Al-Shahrani

TO: Anya Al-Shahrani

FROM: Moira O'Deorain

Your perspective on the vanadium isotope is valued but not necessary. My experiments have progressed beyond examination of the material's properties to clinical trials. To constrain the pace of my research would only diminish the mission of our collective.

I have forwarded you my complete analysis of the isotope. If you wish to share in the success of my current trial, I can contact you again when my work has concluded.

Dr. O'Deorain

TO: Moira O'Deorain

FROM: Anya Al-Shahrani

Minister O'Deorain,

I am pleased to hear that you have found value in the vanadium. Given all you have learned, you must understand how the Ministry of Geology would greatly benefit from immediate access to the cache so that we might conduct our own experiments.

I must stress that this material is unlike anything I've observed in my decades of geological study. To discover a new vanadium isotope in this region in the first place was unprecedented. If your NMR readings are accurate, they lead me to believe it should be called something else entirely—though I would much prefer to analyze the imaging myself.

As you conduct your trial, I ask that you consider the value this isotope has to other ministries. This vanadium's conductive properties suggest the potential for highly efficient energy transference. If alloyed with an even more durable element, this isotope could break new ground as a structural material and greatly benefit all of Oasis and, indeed, the world.

With respect,

Dr. Al-Shahrani

TO: Anya Al-Shahrani

FROM: Moira O'Deorain

Dr. Al-Shahrani—

I write to inform you that the vanadium isotope has found a permanent home with the Ministry of Genetics. Following the conclusion of my last trial, I have successfully re-created the conditions for repeated, stable redox reactions and created a prototype for military application. This isotope's value as a source of ammunition and its ability to enhance human strength has proven unmatched.

As you know, Helix Security has become an increasingly valued client of the ministries. Their recent successes with Oasis's predictive crime modeling and surveillance in Morocco have generated a continued interest in our emergent technologies. It is this minister's belief that Helix's force combined with my prototype applications for the vanadium will make for a lucrative venture that will not just benefit our world but improve it.

If you are willing to put your support behind my proposal, there should be more than enough vanadium to share with the Ministry of Geology. You speak of alloying this isotope with a more durable element: I assure you that there is no element with more potential than humanity.

I look forward to your cooperation.

Dr. O'Deorain

TOP SECRET

The following transcripts were recovered from the laboratory of Dr. Mina Liao after the terrorist attack that claimed her life. They contain partial observations from the (security level 7) Echo Project. For reasons that should be apparent, it is vital that these documents remain at a top-secret classification.

ENTRY: 10072.7.25.1237

Voice Memo

For the last several years, I have been engaged in ongoing attempts to evolve a new generation of artificial intelligence that can learn adaptively through my robotics projects with Overwatch. It is my intent to develop an AI that is sufficiently sophisticated to perform at levels akin to that achieved with Omnica Corp's Aurora project. Hundreds of attempts to re-create the precise conditions of that project have failed. Without going into the physics of the issue, I have come to believe that Aurora's well-known and exhaustively studied quantum event cannot be replicated. In addition, in the decades since, the UN has put strict regulations in place to minimize, if not eliminate, conditions that could result in the creation of a "newborn sentience." It has been difficult threading the needle, so to speak, trying to maintain progress under such conditions . . . though I certainly understand their purpose, particularly given my place in the history of the field.

Therefore, I have adopted a new approach: developing the next generation of AI and integrating it with increasingly complex robotic forms, from the Alpha model to now. The latest chassis includes hard-light elements that will allow the newest model to assume unique forms limited only by its mass and functional knowledge, maximizing its physical capabilities situationally. Needless to say, this could have both social and military implications.

As of this date, I have spent thousands of hours in the company of this new AI, codenamed "Echo," using a new educational paradigm to maximize socialization and mitigate the development of negative traits.

To further that aim, one of my primary goals is to identify and encourage this model’s displays of empathy while maintaining control over the "lessons" we impart. It seems to me that a strong sense of empathy—and of identity—will be absolutely crucial in this AI. Without a core set of "moral codes" in place, such an ability being misapplied could be cause for concern. As the Omnic Crisis so clearly demonstrated, intelligence without empathy breeds catastrophe. Test 4279 is intended to probe the sympathetic emotion-center cache response within the artificial neurons developed by the Neumann labs last year.

<pause>

On . . . a perhaps unrelated note, it’s fascinating to me that the world no longer views omnic sentience as remarkable, how humanity has adapted to the phenomenon in the space of a single generation. I suppose if they had an appreciation for the vast resources that went into it—or the infinitesimal chance (one in hundreds of billions) that it would occur—they might regard it with as much awe as I still do.

All this to say Echo's progress thus far is clear, but it’s difficult to quantify. There is no question that her AI is far more sophisticated than even the most powerful AIs of the Omnic Crisis—in some ways more powerful than our own Athena. Echo's carbon nanotube neural fiber network is designed to mimic a human brain as closely as possible, with some eighty-four billion separate connections—the pinnacle of microengineering and design. And yet, one of my recent conversations with Echo struck a false note. It gave a response that I would have predicted from programming, rather than from a free-associative mind. Whether further advancement is achievable within the framework of this technology remains to be seen.

And any outcome—positive or negative—is far from certain, given that this program is on a very short leash. It doesn't help that those at the command level have been scrutinizing my efforts intensely. The entire organization has come under fire of late over UN concerns about our expanding jurisdiction and some recent missions that overreached. Jack has warned me that any bad publicity—particularly if it's about an experimental new generation of omnics—would be a disaster for Overwatch. And Jack correctly realizes that the public might be particularly skeptical about a new omnic being created by me.

Even more disturbing is the fact that Commander Reyes has assigned Cole Cassidy to watch me. Though Cassidy and I have yet to work together, there can be little doubt that a Blackwatch operative overseeing my department is one step short of shutting me down—or worse. I should say that Cassidy is outwardly polite and projects an easygoing demeanor, but knowing to whom he reports, I'll have to be very careful around him.

<pause>

Something that still haunts me about Aurora is that, in hindsight, given more time, more understanding, I believe we might have found another way to solve the problems facing us during the Omnic Crisis. Had I known better . . . had I been wiser . . . perhaps I could have saved Aurora. But we cannot swim in the depths of regret; we must take the lessons learned and do better moving forward—as I hope to do in developing Echo, or whatever comes after her.

ENTRY: 10073.8.02.2143

Voice Memo

I will admit, I may have misjudged Cassidy. Despite his allegiance to Blackwatch and Commander Reyes, he has demonstrated not only a willingness to keep what I'm doing "between us" (his words, not mine) but also a more canny (intuitive?) understanding of what I’m trying to achieve than I gave him credit for. In fact, much as I hate to admit it, he's opened my eyes to something.

Cassidy was in the testing area earlier today when Echo underwent a field psychology test. During the test, Echo eliminated the wrong target and exhibited external signs of distress.

Though he was certainly not supposed to interact with her, Cassidy deescalated the situation, saying that it was just a mistake and she'd get it right next time. Echo’s response was that she was not supposed to make mistakes; he laughed and assured her that Everybody's bound to make mistakes. It's how you make your way in the world.

Echo appeared to absorb this and thanked him for his reassurance.

Cassidy laughed and said, Well, I've never seen anything like you before, partner.

And—this was the moment that struck me—Echo laughed and responded, Well, I've never seen anything like you before either.

They both seemed to find that quite funny. I was amused as well, but more to the point, I was surprised . . . because the moment pointed up a failure on my part: I had never thought to probe her sense of humor before. This is a rather advanced aspect of intelligence—one fundamental to human psychology—that I plan to explore further.

Her laughter did something else too—it renewed my hope that this new approach will work. While my tests and adjustments are ongoing, I can't rule out that Echo might one day achieve the level of sophistication I seek . . . or perhaps even more . . . though when or how remains uncertain. But it seems clear to me that Echo developing a sense of humor (very close to my own, interestingly) is an important indicator that we're on the right track. As with empathy, it is an almost uniquely . . . human trait.

Meanwhile, what Cassidy said (mistakes are how we learn to make our way in the world) has made me realize that the question of how to equip Echo with the psychological and emotional tools to navigate the world is even more important than previously considered. I can ensure that Echo is better prepared for what she will surely face, simply by continuing to interact with her and teaching her everything I know—not merely by providing information and employing the Socratic method, but through experiences. It is, as Cassidy (of all people) pointed out, the way that human children learn to process and grow: by mimicking and interacting with others. She may be a "child" now, but she is growing quickly.

I am appending a transcript from a discussion I had with Echo during the week, as it feels relevant to this issue:

ECHO: Dr. Liao, I have a question. LIAO: Of course. What would you like to know? ECHO: What am I? LIAO: You are the most sophisticated, complex android ever created, housing the most advanced AI in the world. ECHO: Why? LIAO: It is my hope that you will demonstrate human levels of psychological, cognitive, and emotional complexity. ECHO: I may not have been clear. I meant, why am I? Why was I created? Why did you create me? LIAO: You know my history. What I've done. ECHO: I have accessed all historical archives concerning your life from childhood, and all personal files and memorabilia that you have shared with me. LIAO: Then you know that I have much to answer for. I wanted to make a difference, to better the world— ECHO: But it hasn’t always worked out that way? LIAO: No. ECHO: The world seems filled with the ironic results of our best intentions. LIAO: Yes. Omnic sentience only exposed new prejudices, created new problems. I hope that you . . . your generation, can help ease some of that. ECHO: But I am not like an omnic, am I? LIAO: If by that you mean sentient, then no. But by no means are you lesser than they are. ECHO: Why could they not make a difference for the better? LIAO: It shouldn't have been their burden to bear. They paid a price for something I did. Something I did without understanding the possible ramifications . . . and which the world was not prepared for. ECHO: Oh. You are . . . sad. After so many years. As though you had lost a . . . child. LIAO: Something like that. ECHO: I'm sorry for your loss. LIAO: Thank you. ECHO: May I ask, do you consider me your child as well? LIAO: Not exactly. But something like that. ECHO: And yet you said that you hope I can ease some of the world’s problems. LIAO: It may not be fair to you . . . but, yes. ECHO: Has the world not improved? Is it not better? LIAO: In many ways, it is. ECHO: But then why have you equipped my body with weaponry? LIAO: Why do you think I've done that? ECHO: Obviously, I am meant to serve the needs of Overwatch, supporting our peacekeeping efforts. LIAO: That's right. To tell you the truth, I suspect it's the only reason they've allowed me to continue working with you. ECHO: Can't I be useful in other ways? It is not comforting to have these weapons as part of me. LIAO: How do they make you feel? ECHO: Like I've been given a terrible responsibility. LIAO: I'm glad to hear you say that. ECHO: Then why give them to me? LIAO: So that you can protect those who cannot protect themselves. ECHO: I see. Yes. That makes sense. LIAO: Do you feel better? ECHO: A little. LIAO: Is there anything else? ECHO: You said that you wanted to prepare me for the world. I assume you didn't mean that militarily, but psychologically. LIAO: That's right. And I know that you've studied me intensely. You've taken on many of my speech patterns, behaviors. Which makes sense, given that I have been, until now, your primary means of contact with the world. ECHO: I have tried to emulate you. I mean, other than your love of rhubarb sorbet. ECHO: But I can also emulate others. Such as Commander Morrison. Or Cassidy. The more time I spend with them, the better I can understand them. LIAO: Why Cassidy? ECHO: I like Cassidy. LIAO: Huh. So do I. ECHO: I know. I'm very much like you. LIAO: Yes . . . but we must be circumspect about you. I want to ease you into the world in your own time. ECHO: I think I understand. Omnic sentience was a break-point in society. Humans were not prepared for the omnics, and they did not respond well. Nothing in the world was the same after Aurora. LIAO: That's true. And that is not what I want for you. ECHO: What is it that you want for me? LIAO: To be the next step. The bridge that brings them together. Omnic and human. ECHO: I like that.

Seoul was hours behind them. Baptiste watched the familiar expanse of the ocean pass below.

Cassidy leaned forward, checked the screen one more time, and stood. "Fareeha, you got this?"

Pharah looked up from another monitor, barely swiveling in her chair. "Yeah, we're good. You gonna get some rest?"

“Thought I might give it a shot.”

"Just keep your door closed. Team might think we're under fire with the way you snore."

"With you at the wheel, I'll be lucky to sleep at all." Cassidy was bad at hiding his smile.

"Maybe I should try out those stunt maneuvers Lena used to show me . . ."

Cassidy looked ready for another round, but Pharah waved him off. "Go sleep. We'll let you know if anything comes up. Right, Baptiste?"

Baptiste sat up at the mention of his name. These past few hours, as Pharah and Cassidy talked, Baptiste had mostly kept to himself. Sitting awkwardly beside their conversation, he had observed the closeness between them but never joined in. To suddenly be included caught him off guard.

"Yes, of course." When his own words escaped him, Baptiste parroted Pharah's: "We'll let you know."

Cassidy nodded and walked off, tossing his cloak behind him as he went. Pharah rolled her eyes at that; Baptiste appreciated his attempt at a dramatic exit.

A few moments of silence passed between them. Baptiste could see the corner of Pharah's seat belt from where he sat. She must have been the only person on the dropship who was still strapped in. It occurred to him that she might be following some sort of protocol—one he should hold himself to—but he thought better of asking about it.

Baptiste had hoped that accepting Cassidy's offer in Romania would relieve some of the tension he'd felt in running from Talon for all these years. To his surprise, the edge remained. He was going to be a part of Overwatch—among heroes. But he wasn't like Pharah, who had always walked the same line, dedicated her life to protecting people. Baptiste knew that no matter how hard he tried to atone for what he had done, there would be those who'd judge him harshly for his time as a mercenary with Talon. It left him with a sinking feeling.

Pharah's curious gaze pulled him from his thoughts. She had turned her chair slightly toward his, as if prompting him to say something. Was he worrying over nothing? She seemed nice, anyway. He grasped for an observation to offer. "So. You and Cassidy?" he asked, trying to strike something up.

She looked confused, then concerned. "What do you mean by that?"

Baptiste reached one arm behind his head, rubbing at an old sore spot. "You know . . . you seem close. I thought you two might be—"

"Together?"

Her laughter caught him by surprise. It was clear and confident and made him feel a little more at ease. Maybe the same was true for her too; her entire body language seemed to change, and the seat belt strained against her as she doubled over. She had a nice smile. When she pushed her hair away from her face, her eyes were lit up.

"Ooh. Sorry, that, uh . . . that was a good one," Pharah said. She unbuckled her seat belt and let it slip behind her shoulder. "No, definitely not. Cole and I have known each other for a long time. He's like a brother to me. And besides, I'm a lesbian."

Pharah spoke with the ease of someone who had spent her whole life knowing who she was. She'd perfected the presentation of the words—offered them to Baptiste like a gift she knew he would accept. When he looked at her again, it was as if some piece of the puzzle had been filled in. Before he could respond, Pharah added, "I would have thought it was obvious. I'm not passing, am I?"

"No, not at all," Baptiste said quickly. "I just didn't want to assume. You two seem to know a lot about each other. I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable."

She raised an eyebrow, as if the thought of him making her uncomfortable was preposterous. "No, I'm fine. Just sorry to disappoint you."

"Oh, no . . . You seem wonderful, I just . . ." Baptiste trailed off, not sure how to proceed.

"Oh, you were asking about Cole?"

Baptiste met her gaze. There was a moment of recognition, and he chuckled.

"Well, I must admit he has a certain charm. I like a person who's sure of themself."

Pharah flashed a smile. She wove together her fingers and pulled her hands behind her head, leaning back in the pilot's chair. "Well, that's Cole. He wasn't always that way, but coming back to Overwatch, rounding up new recruits . . . He's at the end of a very long road. I'm actually kind of proud of him."

Baptiste nodded. "I get that sense. When he offered me a place in Overwatch, he told me they took a chance on him too."

He remembered the words clearly: When no one thought there was any good in me. Those were the words that had made Baptiste reach out to accept Cassidy's hand. He looked back out at the ocean—suddenly dark and endless. The sight of it flooded him with memories of Talon. He remembered the feeling of ash in his throat in Monte Cristi and the sound of Mauga's gunfire drowning out the waves in Port-de-Paix. The two boats, taken out of desperation, and the long nights on the water as he fled. Baptiste knew what he had done, all the mistakes he'd made. He had no illusions that people would be forgiving of that . . . but Cassidy was.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Pharah asked the question with genuine care, the same tone with which she'd spoken to Cassidy.

"No. Not today, anyway." Baptiste let out a long exhale. He hadn't realized how high the pain, the memory of those moments, had risen in his chest—that he had forgotten to breathe.

"Take whatever time you need. I'm just glad Cole convinced you to join us."

"As am I. He certainly knows how to make an impression."

"Yeah, that sounds like Cole." Pharah shook her head. "It's funny. I haven't seen him in years, but he walks back into my life and suddenly everything's as it used to be. And now, headed back to Gibraltar . . . Hard to believe."

Baptiste recalled the Overwatch personnel files he'd taken from Talon. Fareeha Amari, daughter of Ana Amari. Baptiste had read her mother's profile and seen mentions of Fareeha as well. Never an Overwatch agent herself, but always considered an asset. Working in Cairo as part of Helix. "You've been around Overwatch your whole life. You must know everyone already. Anyone you're looking forward to seeing again?"

Pharah seemed preoccupied. "Oh, I don't know everyone—Zarya and Hana are new to me. I'm sure there are others too."

"Do you know Dr. Ziegler? Or . . . Mercy, I guess, was her call sign."

"Angela? Yeah. About as long as I've known Cole," she said, looking a bit wistful again.

There was something about the way she said her name—not Dr. Ziegler, but Angela—that touched him. "I worked with her once, in Venezuela," he began. "I was tracking her when I ran into Cole. Last known location was Cairo, but by the time I got there, well . . . I'm sure you saw the news about Paris."

"I did." A slight smile crossed her face. "But I spent some time with her in Cairo too."

Baptiste raised an eyebrow. "Does she know you're headed to Gibraltar?"

"No. But she didn't tell me she was joining the team in Paris either, so I guess we're both full of surprises." Pharah looked down, and Baptiste struggled to read her. Was that disappointment?

"Were you hoping for more?"

Pharah lifted her gaze to meet his. "What do you mean?"

"Were you expecting her to say goodbye?"

Pharah looked away again, deep in thought. "No," she said eventually. "I guess not."

She paused again, and Baptiste resisted the urge to say something. His impulse was to make her feel better, but he could tell she was still thinking.

"Angela's feelings about Overwatch are . . . complicated. Knowing her, she probably wasn't sure she'd answer the recall until she was already there."

"Oh. Well, uh . . ." Baptiste sensed there was more going on, but he didn’t want to press her. He scrambled for a way to change the subject. "I'm sure you'll catch up once we get to Gibraltar." He leaned over, glancing at the screen in front of her. "Not long now, Pharah."

She looked up at him suddenly, a bit of a frown on her face. Baptiste wondered if he had said something wrong, but then her expression softened. She stood up, put her hand on his shoulder, and smiled.

"Hey." Her hand was steady, and Baptiste felt a wave of calm pass over him. "Call me Fareeha, all right?"

He met her gaze and mirrored her smile. "All right. Thank you."

She pulled her hand away and shrugged. "Don't thank me—I was about to ask you to take over."

Baptiste's concern must have been visible because Fareeha quickly clarified.

"Don't worry, I'll send Hana up here to keep you company. She's probably the better pilot anyway. I just need to lie down for a bit."

"Of course," Baptiste said with a sharp nod, as if accepting an order. "Go get some rest."

Fareeha moved to leave the cockpit, then paused in the entryway. "Can you do me a favor?"

Baptiste straightened, ready for her instruction.

"I know it isn't easy, but . . . try to relax, okay?" She stepped down from the cockpit, then turned completely to meet his gaze. "We're in this together."

Baptiste thought of how long he had been alone. He thought of all the ways he was not like her, and all the ways he had been a disappointment to the ones he had fought to protect. For all the good that Fareeha had done with Helix, Baptiste had strayed far from that path while working for Talon. Now with Overwatch, standing by Fareeha's side . . . he still didn't know if he deserved redemption. But why fight this?

He wasn't ready to tell her all he'd done. Even if, looking at her now, he felt sure she wouldn't care.

So Baptiste searched instead for all the ways they were the same, everything that had brought them together, on the right side of this conflict. He saw her confidence and was surprised to find it brought back a little of his own. Before he knew it, he was responding with a slow nod. "Yeah. Together."

Fareeha smiled, tossed back an imaginary cloak with a smirk, and walked to the rear of the ship. For the first time since Busan, Baptiste was alone. There was a clear view of the ocean outside the window. Isolated from the wind, relaxed in his chair, it suddenly reminded him more of sunlit afternoons on the beach, drinking Lefort's ji papay, than all the times he'd run away.

Baptiste closed his eyes. The steady hum of the monitors turned into the buzz of summer air. He let his feet dangle off the memory of a dock, swaying as if carried by the tide. The dropship continued its flight, and Baptiste—comforted by the knowledge that someone else would soon join him at the helm—let his thoughts drift toward the future.

Philosophical Differences

4 Years Before the Uprising

"You're a Ravager unit, right?" called a human behind me, and I froze, hands shaking beneath my robes.

The village beneath the Shambali monastery had barely changed since my last visit. A few cheery repair shops and tailors along the main road, specializing in robes for omnic travelers. In the alleyways and backstreets, shuttered shops. Mining offices. Humans drinking on doorsteps, watching the occasional omnic pass them by.

A handful of years ago, some of those same humans had knocked me to my knees and nearly killed me.

I turned instead to the human who had called me by my designation, fists clenched in my sleeves, and said nothing.

"Thought so," said the little shopkeeper happily. "Haven't seen one of you in a while. The news said you were all in hiding."

"Or dead at human hands," I said.

The human's smile faltered.

"You aren't a popular bunch. Not that I'm saying it's right," he added hastily. "But . . . what with everything you—and I don't mean you exactly—did in the Crisis, you, uh . . ."

I waited, then reluctantly came to his rescue.

"Make humans uncomfortable?"

"Exactly," he said, relieved.

Uncomfortable enough to justify violence, I thought. I should have been angry with him. Instead, I was weary. I'd had this conversation so many times.

"Can I help you?" I asked. The words were a relic of Mondatta's careful instruction.

"No," he said, "but I can help you! Thing is, I got a new shipment of actuators in for your kind. Can get you a nice discount, seeing as you're part of the Shambali and all."

He smiled. Warm gold flashed at the back of his grin.

R-7000s, unlike many other omnics, were never made by human hands. The rogue god program Anubis, the architect of the Omnic Crisis, built us in secret places and unleashed us upon the world. We were designed to lead its mindless armies, to hunt humans. We were made for murder.

There was only one way that spare parts had become available.

"I'm no longer a monk," I said. "I left the monastery today."

"Is that right?" the merchant said, glancing past me, down the street, down the mountain. I heard footsteps scraping on pavement. "Why?"

Because Mondatta places the burden of peace on the oppressed and not their oppressors.

"Philosophical differences," I said instead. "It seemed best. "

"Well, good luck to you, and safe travels!" he said. "You there! Welcome to the Shambali monastery."

I turned. A weary omnic pilgrim, stained orange by dust, scarred and dented, stumbled up the road past me. Seeing me in my robes, he lowered his head in respect.

The pain of it, the shame. The sight of me told him he was on the right path. I fought the urge to tell him that he wasn't. It wouldn't make a difference, even if I did.

I watched the shopkeeper come off his step, chattering, bundling the traveler into his shop.

Greed. Yet another of humanity’s crimes, but hardly their most terrible.

I sighed and continued down the road, down the mountain, away from the monastery.

And from my brother, Zenyatta, with whom I’d spent these last three years dreaming of peace.

Names

3 Years Before the Uprising

Two human guards blocked the windowless cell door. Both had stun batons, and a pistol hung from the hip of the larger man.

"I'll give you one chance to run," I said, hoping they wouldn't.

Some segments of humanity had decided that despite the Crisis, despite sentience, their former omnic servants were still their property. That our status as independent beings was somehow still a subject for debate. Hence facilities like this one existed, where omnics were kept until they decided that service to their former masters was the best use of their long lives.

Since leaving the Shambali monastery, I'd rooted out several identical operations, but there were always more festering. I'd come here hoping to free my people as quietly as possible. Unfortunately, after encountering the same injustice over and over again, my patience with peace was wearing thin. I'd gotten angry, thrown a man through a window, and here we were.

The first guard swung his baton. It bounced off my chest with a pop.

I took a step toward him.

Pale, he dropped the baton and went for his gun. Behind him, the other human struggled with the locked door, trying to escape. Or maybe to take a hostage.

Damn it.

I slapped the gun out of the guard's hand. As gently as I did it, something snapped. Again, I felt the ghost of guilt, the mournful weight of Mondatta's eyes on me. And following that, anger. Oppressors did not deserve the gift of our guilt.

The door flew open, and the other guard barreled through. Electrical light flared again, and someone screamed.

"Remember that I could have killed you," I told the human on the ground and plunged through the door to disarm the guard.

Oh.

The bald man already lay facedown on the tile, unmoving. His clothes were smoking in places. It wasn’t at all clear if he was breathing.

"I know who you are," came a voice from the corner of the small, bare room.

"Do you?" I asked, honestly curious. The omnic was a rarer kind, highly customized with features I thought hadn't survived the Crisis. Slightly shorter than myself, but blue-eyed and with ears rather like a slender humanoid rabbit. Made as a companion for children, if I remembered correctly, with a built-in battery for charging devices and taking pictures.

"Yeah, they said. You're the R-7000 who's been freeing omnics. Some of the others were hoping you'd make it here."

"But not you?"

"I can take care of myself."

The human made a burbling sound somewhere near my feet.

"I believe you," I said. "What did you do to him?"

"Electrical burst. Not a big deal."

"I think he'd disagree. So why haven't you escaped on your own?"

The omnic huffed. "And leave my friends behind? Waiting for a rescue that might never come?"

"I'm here now," I said, a little puzzled.

The omnic shook their head, thoughtful.

"Your model bossed us around in the Crisis. Sent us to die before we even had a thought in our heads."

My hand twitched at my side, but I nodded.

"So, is that what this is?" they said. "You still have a taste for glory? Ordering your soldiers around?"

"Do you still follow children around like an obedient pet?" I said, more sharply than I'd intended.

They half chuckled. "Fair. But the point stands. Our people are waiting for a savior when they should be saving themselves."

I agreed with this. It's why I was here. I'd seen enough in this year on walkabout to know that most of our people rested on the hope that Mondatta and the Shambali would save them. It seemed the truth—that no one was coming, that the people themselves needed to rise—was too much to bear.

But here was this omnic, saying the words that my mind had been shouting.

"And if they die?" I asked.

The omnic cocked their head.

"We're still at war," they said. "Didn't stop because the Crisis did. Difference is, humans are still organized. We aren't."

"Not yet," I said. The words felt like a promise. "Introductions, then. My name is Ramattra. Yours?"

"Don't have a name, don't want one. Call me Nameless if it gets awkward for you. What's Ramattra mean?"

"I chose it to honor the first of our kind and kept it to remember my mistakes."

"Huh," said Nameless. "If you're breaking everyone out, I'm coming with you."

"Beg pardon?"

"We should get Zera next. You'll see why. And if we're banding together, we need a name."

"Isn't that hypocritical?" I said dryly.

They snickered.

I glanced at the omnic's flank, at the scarring there, where a model number, a designation, had once been.

If I could have smiled, I would have.



Weapons of War

2 Years Before the Uprising

I led the three of them across the valley and down into the metal gateway, half-buried by thick slabs of ice and stone. We were silent as humans in a graveyard, and for much the same reason.

We reached the bottom of the gateway, a metal platform sheathed in ice. I turned to Lanet.

I could sense her mind racing ahead of mine, studying what little technology was visible of the facility at this level. I was a passable engineer, but she made me look like a human child playing with blocks.

"I know where we are," she said. "Unorthodox architecture. Lack of human safety features. Built by machines for machines. Similar to your design aesthetics."

She looked up.

"An omnium. Built by Anubis." Silence.

I laid a hand on the platform controls.

"For years we have tried nonviolence, coexistence with the humans, only fighting the worst forms of our oppression from the shadows," I said. "And we are losing. It is time to try something new."

I activated the platform, and with a jolt, we descended into the frozen darkness, through a shaft of ice.

"Of all the omnics I've brought into Null Sector," I said, "you are the ones I trust the most. And so . . . this is where I was designed and built. This is the cradle of Anubis's most dangerous secrets."

The corridor fell away, and they saw the vast underground factory.

"Humanity denies us equality because they have so successfully stripped us of our power. They made us forget that, when united—even if united against our will—we once brought them to the brink of extinction."

This was the world my maker had made, and together we would use it to forge a new future.

"It is time we inspire our people to find that unity again."



Rise Up

4 Days Before the Uprising

"Ramattra," Lanet said, using that tone again.

"There is no time," I said, pacing across the omnium's control center. Below, the assembly lines labored, building our robotic army.

"What do you mean, there's no . . . we're following your schedule!" she shouted, pursuing me, throwing her arms in the air. "You can attack any city anywhere, and you're choosing King's Row and choosing now, and I'm telling you the robots you're getting from the lower levels of the omnium aren't ready. They're old, Ramattra. They're obsolete."

"You think you can design better soldiers than Anubis?"

"I hope so, because we want to win, and your maker lost."

I gripped the edges of the table to calm my temper. She was infuriating because she was so often right, but she was wrong now.

"We can't afford to wait for better soldiers. Look." I activated the bank of screens before us. Images and footage from London appeared, gathered over the years our cells had been active there.

Omnic laborers trudging in a single-file line to their work, watched by armed human guards.

"Next feed," I commanded, and the image changed.

A hundred of our people lying in a locked basement. Their home, at the end of a thankless day.

"Next feed."

A scrapyard. And there, discarded like the trash humans thought we were—

"We know," Zera said. "She isn't saying we shouldn't fight."

I flinched. It was the same thing I'd said to Zenyatta when we'd met, and not long before I'd nearly gotten him killed.

"Give me and Nameless a week," Zera continued, taking my silence for hesitation. "My cell can take down their power grid and water supplies, and Nameless's shadows can seize the tunnels. Kill anyone stupid enough to go down there. Once they're weakened, you come in with your robots, and we'll take the borough. Maybe more."

I met Nameless's blue gaze at the corner of the room. The omnic who knew me better than anyone, save for my brother.

"You know we're right," they said. "We built the resistance there together. Let the people be a part of it. Let them be the ones to rise up, like we always dreamed they would. An invasion won't inspire them—it will scare them off."

I hesitated again.

"No," I said at last. Beside me, Lanet struck the table with her fist.

"Ramattra, these robots are mindless drones. They're outdated! They're—"

"Expendable," I finished. "And you are not. Our people are not."

Lanet's eyes flickered.

"Fine," she said. "But I'll be in the city, overseeing the deployment and watching for malfunctions, and you know I know better, so stop arguing."

"Fine," I said. "You'll stay in the Underworld, where our defenses will be strongest."

After a moment, she nodded, and I relaxed a fraction.

"During this uprising, we will show the humans we are stronger than they thought. We establish a stronghold in one of their cruelest cities, and we make a safe place for our people. We will show omnics everywhere that now is the time to join us. That is the goal."

I turned back to the footage of the scrapyard, where too many of my people lay.

"It is time for omnics to discover who Null Sector truly is."

The Greatest Crime

2 Days After the Uprising

"A small group of omnic terrorists, calling themselves Null Sector," said Mondatta sorrowfully on the screen before me. The human reporter on camera nodded with theatrical sympathy as my former master continued. "The monks of Shambali condemn this attack on London. We seek peace with humanity, not violence."

My eyes fell again to the words scrolling beneath his image.

NULL SECTOR RINGLEADER KILLED DURING POWER PLANT FIREFIGHT.

Fury descended. I remembered omnics sitting meekly in their cells, waiting for freedom. The vast rolling scrapyards of the dead.

And now, Mondatta dishonoring Lanet, who died fighting to free her people.

Someone was shouting. Someone was striking the screen with their fist.

Someone was begging me to stop.

"Ramattra! Please!"

I spun around, fist raised, and Zera stood motionless, making no move to defend herself. Nameless, far off in their usual corner of the too-empty room, looked up from their screen to stare at me, hard, and I froze at the pain of what I'd nearly done. The shame.

I looked up at the cracked screen. Bracketed by the damage stood Mondatta, flickering and still, naming us traitors to the omnic people.

The hypocrisy.

"Do you know," I muttered, "what humanity's greatest crime is?"

Zera stared down at me, shaking her head.

"I've had enough," she started, but I didn't let her finish. I flipped back around to face her, the anger surging through me again.

"Complacency!" I shouted. "They desire peace above all, and so they ignore injustice because it is more comfortable to do so. They want to believe tomorrow will be better simply because they hope it will be. Humanity will never help us. They will try to sell us a small place in their world, or at best, ignore us. And they have passed their weaknesses to him."

I pointed back at Mondatta because I couldn't bear to look at him again.

"He holds himself above us. Like Anubis, Mondatta is sending our people to their deaths. He must pay for this and—"

"Ramattra," said Nameless, speaking at last. "I'm checking reports. A lot of omnics are condemning us."

I put a hand to my forehead. My thoughts felt hot, poisonous. I had to say them aloud before they turned on me.

"If omnics are choosing death," I said carefully, "we must take that choice away."

My friends said nothing at first.

"What does that mean?" asked Nameless flatly.

"It means that I will build the army Lanet wanted," I said. "And then we will find a way to save our people, whether they want it or not. Whether they deserve it or not. If they will not willingly join us, we will find a way to make them."

"Ramattra, this isn't the way," Zera said, striving for calm and failing. More omnics will join us once the dust settles.

"They had their chance, and it cost Lanet her life."

Zera's giant hand closed into a fist at her side. "You freed us from a prison, and now you want us to put our people in one?"

"If that's what it takes to make them listen!"

Nameless uncoiled from their corner, eyes burning.

"You told me," they said, their voice low, a warning, "you told me this wasn't about control."

"Look at us," I snapped. "Fighting humans in bodies they shaped for us. Inheriting their flaws, their pointless disagreements. It doesn't have to be this way."

"It isn't your decision!" Nameless shouted back. "And I won't be part of it!"

"Then leave!" The words shot out of me, and I couldn't take them back.

Nameless straightened.

"Fine," they said quietly. "I've been away from my shadows long enough anyway. Coming, Zera?"

"Don't," I said.

"Then don't do this," Nameless said.

"You'll understand once I'm done."

Nameless came to me and patted my hand, a human gesture. It was infuriating.

"I hope you understand one day," they said, "that you didn't have to fight alone."

And then Nameless and Zera were gone.

I stood in the deepening silence a moment, feeling the absence of my companions, the impossible weight of metal and ice and stone above. A grave for our dream of peace.

Today, I note with great relief that the wounds Doctor Junkenstein left upon the town of Adlersbrunn have, at last, begun to heal. Our people know peace again, and once more do laughter and light fill the streets. News of our prosperity has spread afar, and travelers from all walks of life have come to partake of it. The chapter of misfortune, it seems, has finally come to a close.

But I must confess, the sleepless nights in the wake of the terrible encounters with Junkenstein have returned to plague me. As we near the anniversary of the mad doctor's revenge, an unmistakable feeling of dread has taken hold of my heart. I try to dismiss these as omens born of an overactive imagination, and I cannot bring myself to trouble my advisors with such unfounded worries. I suppose it is the burden of a ruler to endure his fears with stoicism.

Autumn, with its gift of crisp evenings and red maple leaves, was not yet here, but Kanezaka's weeklong eponymous End of Summer Festival heralded its arrival. The festival's grand finale, a display of dazzling fireworks that had been consistently spectacular for hundreds of years, always made Kiriko Kamori a little wistful. As her mother had taught the sons of clan leader Sojiro Shimada the Art of the Sword, and Kiriko's father had forged those blades himself, Kiriko had been a not-infrequent visitor at Shimada Castle. She had spent many years of her childhood staring in awe at the near-magical explosions of color from the castle’s balcony. And standing by her side had been Shimada's sons: Hanzo, looking ever forward into a future filled with duty; and Genji, who often filched sweets for her when the Shimada's many servants weren't looking. "The finest view in the city," the eldest Shimada had once stated, and it was no exaggeration.

But that was a long time ago. The Shimada were some ten years gone now, and their castle had a new occupant.

"I always wish these fireworks weren't the last of the year," Kiriko admitted as she, Ryōta, Nobuto, and Sakura joined the crowd heading back to town.

"Who knows? Maybe they aren't," Ryōta said, smirking. Ryōta was a busboy at Gozan Ramen. It wasn't the best job, but it helped him listen in on some interesting conversations. All the information he gleaned was being put to good (if slightly illegal) use by Ryōta and his friends, who had decided to push back against the criminal organization that had terrorized Kanezaka ever since the Shimada fell from power.

It hadn't taken long for the Hashimoto to swoop in and fill the power vacuum that the Shimada left behind. In the decade since, their stranglehold on the region had only continued to grow.

The Hashimoto's yen was as dirty as it got, obtained from dealing in contraband and other even more unsavory things. The hospital always had several patients who'd "fallen" after crossing paths with them. Tourists were told that the town closed up early because of tradition. In reality, it wasn't safe after dark in Kanezaka, not since the Hashimoto had moved in.

Ryōta and his friends could barely consider themselves more than vandals, but Kiriko knew their hearts—and their anger—were in the right place. The smaller gang had sprayed graffiti, broken windows at Hashimoto strongholds, and once, when they had felt very daring, robbed Tora no Sumika, the Hashimoto bar, a not-so-secret black market stop the Hashimoto had appropriated for their own use from a local family.

One of these days, Ryōta vowed, he and his friends would strike. Hard.

Kiriko believed him. All they needed was the chance, and it came sooner than Kiriko imagined.

Ryōta had learned from Nobuto that a weapons shipment was coming into the nearest port in two days. Sakura informed the gang that she had just visited her uncle, who unloaded cargo at the warehouses, and had pretended to avert her eyes when he'd entered the code for the main gates. The weapons shipment would stay overnight and be out of their reach in the morning. They only had one shot.

Kiriko, Ryōta, Nobuto, and Sakura snuck up to the gates of the yard unchallenged, though Kiriko kept a sharp eye out. The code worked like a charm, but as the gates opened, the moonless night was abruptly flooded with harsh, bright light.

"Which bay is the target in?" Kiriko asked.

"Number six-seven-five," said Ryōta. "Sakura has a code for it too. But first we have to kill these lights."

"Or get rid of the cameras." Kiriko lifted a pair of kunai and twirled them about casually, then pointed one at the top of a building.

The gang exchanged relieved smiles. They knew what she could do.

"Perfect," Ryōta said. "Take them out, Kiriko. We'll head for the bay and have it open when you return."

The group split up, moving quickly but being wise enough to seek what shadows they could. Kiriko closed her eyes and focused.

Fox Spirit, guide me.

She sensed warmth and affection, soft as the brush of a tail, and an image formed in her mind. She opened her eyes.

The Fox Spirit had answered.

Ethereal, softly radiant, the glowing figure stood atop the nearest building, beautiful as moonlight, bowing to Kiriko and inviting her to play.

Kiriko grinned and bowed in turn. She leaped at the wall, climbing with grace and speed to discover the spirit was already bounding along the roof. Kiriko followed, her gaze flitting about for security cameras, her hands reaching for her kunai, throwing with speed and precision. One camera sputtered, crackled, flashed, and went dark. The Fox Spirit sprang off the building, floating down gently, while Kiriko teleported two meters ahead of where the spirit would land.

The race was on. They ran between the outbuildings, Kiriko whipping blade after blade at the cameras until none were left. The spirit turned a corner, and Kiriko felt her energy change.

The Fox Spirit no longer appeared as a playful kit but something otherworldly, impossible, yet terrifyingly real. A trio of Hashimoto guards stood beside a door to the warehouse. Kiriko put her mother's training to work, taking on two of the Hashimoto guards. She knocked one out with the hilt of her kunai and the second by a precise, well-timed elbow to the temple. When she struck the third's weapon from his hand, he surprised her by standing his ground and attempting to grab her. Kiriko seized his outstretched arm and yanked him forward, ducking and slamming his midsection with her shoulder, and finally flinging him to the pavement. He was out cold.

Kiriko dragged them inside the warehouse and locked them in a custodian's closet, then teleported to the roof of the nearest building, scanning the area for other threats. Below, her friends had almost reached the bay, but Kiriko could see what they couldn't: another Hashimoto guard, headed in their direction.

Kiriko dashed lightly toward them as Sakura opened the door to the cargo bay they were after. Pleased with herself, the teenager stepped back.

Kiriko delivered well-placed blows to the pursuing guard's stomach and then neck, knocking him out. He fell to the ground with a thud, inches from her friend.

"Perfect timing," Nobuto told Kiriko.

Everyone's attention turned to the cargo. The crates were easy to locate—marked with the same stylized tiger-head emblem as the Hashimoto-controlled bar—but the shipment was also heavy and awkward. Still, the group managed, and Ryōta, who had come up with this plan, was given the honor of opening the first crate. As expected, it was packed with guns, and everyone gazed solemnly at the array of weapons.

Kiriko moved to push a crate toward the bay. The Hashimoto would be unlikely to search for them beneath the murky waters.

Ryōta grabbed her forearm. "Hang on. I said you'd see more fireworks this year." He opened his backpack.

Kiriko stared at its contents.

"So you did," she said quietly.

"We've been stockpiling fireworks all summer, waiting for a chance like this. I've made timers for them too, so no risk. Can you imagine the blast? This'll show those bastards who they're messing with!"

"Yes," Kiriko said. "It will."

At the coldness in her voice, Ryōta's smile faded. "What's wrong?"

"Listen, before we do this, I want to tell you a story I heard from Sojiro Shimada himself; he told it to me and his sons, Hanzo and Genji, one night after the End of Summer Festival."

Ryōta, Nobuto, and Sakura were younger than her, too young to remember the centuries-old bond the Shimada clan had formed with the people of Kanezaka. Centuries ago, the villagers supplied Shimada soldiers with the rice that kept them fighting and grew the famous Shimada peach, a source of pride for the clan. The Shimada understood how their strength came from the close relationship they had with the people of Kanezaka. They took from their people, yes, but the Shimada had learned a lesson the Hashimoto had not: as the rice fields and peach trees needed care to flourish, so would the clan flourish by caring for Kanezaka.

Sakura frowned. "Is now really the time—?"

"Yes."

Kiriko could see that this fledgling gang was poised to take the first step down a dark path, and she knew she had to stop them. Now. And, possibly, give them a different road to walk.

"A long time ago, Kanezaka was preparing to hold the End of Summer Festival. Each night, nearly everyone would leave their homes to watch the grand display of fireworks by the river on the outskirts of the village.

"A rival clan in the area knew this. And one summer, they came to end the Shimada's rule in Kanezaka . . . and to reduce the city to ash."

Ryōta looked away, as if he knew which way her story was going.

"With everyone distracted, the fires they set would burn unchecked. So the clan torched the peach orchard. Set homes aflame. They even tried to destroy the Fox Shrine. And in a last, despicable gesture, they murdered the guards protecting the huge fireworks and ignited the building.

"It's said the explosion was at once the most beautiful and the most horrifying thing that anyone had ever seen. Smoke and fire, colors and sparks—everywhere."

"But . . . why?" asked Sakura. "Just to get at the Shimada?"

Kiriko nodded. "They knew the Shimada were the only ones powerful enough to stand against them, and they wanted to take everything their rival had: their organization, their castle, and Kanezaka itself. The attack was meant to weaken and demoralize the Shimada. The townspeople were just collateral damage to them."

The friends all stared at the ground.

Good. This was something they needed to understand if they were to achieve their goal the right way.

"The clan assumed the Shimada thought like they did. There was nothing in Kanezaka that was of real value—no artwork or rare goods, just people. They figured the Shimada would send some wagons from the castle to extinguish the fires in the orchards or fields. The crops were important, but those who tended them? Replaceable. The rival clan hid their warriors in the orchards, ready to attack the unsuspecting Shimada.

"That was their mistake. Because the Shimada did not think like they did. The Shimada arrived in Kanezaka with twenty wagons of huge water jars, food from their own storage, medical supplies, and doctors. Shimada's heirs were even sent to coordinate the effort. When the people were tended to, the Shimada warriors and townspeople went to the orchards together, where their united numbers far outstripped the other clan's. They quickly extinguished the fires and made easy work of the intruders."

Kiriko remembered Sojiro speaking to his own children in his calm, serious voice. This is the lesson. This is what a Shimada does. We take care of our people, because they take care of us. When they are hungry, we feed them. When they are hurt, we heal them. And when their city is burning about them, we quench the flames. A leader must be responsible, or else he is nothing more than a parasite.

She turned to Ryōta. "The Hashimoto's idea of how to run Kanezaka is the same. In the past, the Shimada’s rivals used our festival and our fireworks—something we were known for, were proud of . . . something we still love to this day—to show how little we mattered and how powerful they were. Now? The Hashimoto beat up our families, they control our shops, they own our streets."

She regarded Ryōta with compassion. "A blast like this will destroy more than the Hashimoto's guns. You could easily ignite this place, the whole city even. People—our neighbors, our friends—could die."

Ryōta gnawed on his lower lip as he mulled over her words.

"I won't say the Shimada were perfect, especially at the end. But you need to ask yourself what this"—she indicated the bag Ryōta held—"is going to tell the world about who we really are."

Ryōta finally met her eyes. "It’ll tell them that we're strong . . . but also that we're no better than the Hashimoto."

Kiriko nodded. "We shouldn't give the people of Kanezaka more reasons to be afraid. But that doesn't mean we can't frighten the Hashimoto. And I can't think of anything more terrifying than a force that strikes from the shadows, a force with no face, one they can't explain—"

"Like ghosts—Yōkai," Ryōta finished.

The mood shifted in the group, and Kiriko even saw some smiles. In her heart, she sensed the Fox Spirit's approval.

"But for now," Sakura said tentatively, "maybe we take the guns and throw them in the bay?"

Ryōta nodded to his backpack full of pyrotechnics. "What should we do with these?"