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In the inner sanctum of the Shambali, a triad of conversing monks had stopped on a circular platform. Golden light filtered across the pools, softening the lotuses floating at their edges.
Ramattra scoffed lightly, and he caught the look Mondatta gave him—the one that told he was allowing doubt to manifest again. He cleared his throat and attempted a suave correction. “There is still room for improvement.”
His mentor replied, gently, understandingly. “I believe the calm is proof of prosperity.”
“Is it?” Ramattra modulated his tone into softness, but his optics squinted at Mondatta basking in the ephemeral sight around them.
The newest initiate, Zenyatta, shuffled in place, deliberating whether to share his own thoughts, but the soft scrape of metal against stone remained his sole input.
As they stood there, a wake of air passed through the open windows, a disturbance which gently swayed the blossoms. The motion made Mondatta lift his head slightly, quietly catching attention from his students.
When Mondatta’s voice filled the tall room, it echoed like a soft hymn. “Do you see what I see?”
Before stepping closer to partake in Mondatta's impromptu lesson, Ramattra cast a glance at the parted sanctum doors and the blinding light entering through it.
Together, they studied the lotuses.
Instead of blurting out the first thing that came to Ramattra’s mind, he reminded himself of the virtue of thoughtful silence. When it felt empty rather than filled, he had his observation at the ready. It came steady, confident.
“The petals are spaced according to the golden angle, further arranged in a parabolic spiral.”
Mondatta glanced at him. Warm light reflected off his ivory metal, refracting into a soft halo. Somewhere within that aura existed an answer, but not of flowers and water. One which felt intangible and too far away to the Ravager.
“Not quite,” Mondatta finally revealed, folding his arms behind his back, closing his optics. His machinery whirred faintly in a mantra composed by steel..
Zenyatta skirted close to the edge, drawing down onto his haunches as his vocoder warbled under pressure. “Could it be… Ah, the harmony of their colors?”
“They're certainly lovely,” Mondatta agreed, perhaps enjoying his little test a tad too much.
Ramattra refrained from tapping a foot. Zenyatta sought his gaze. With their mentor’s back to him, the Ravager shook his head in exasperation. A quiet amusement passed between them; subtle but unmistakable.
Ever patient, Mondatta crouched down next to Zenyatta, inviting the tall Omnic to do the same. They loomed over a fresh blossom, and carefully—so as to not bruise the flower—Mondatta tapped the seed pod. The lotus bobbed, petals lapping at the water.
“Do you see the rings it creates upon the water?”
Ramattra’s eyes traced a gentle wave, calculating its trajectory and energy retention. “Yes. The movement disturbs the tension of the surface. Negligibly, I might add.”
“That is one way to put it.” Mondatta’s small hum of a chuckle harmonized with Zenyatta’s own chiming laugh. “Look closer; the sway of the lotus is quite small. Yet the waves it creates upon the water grow ever grander.”
After a moment of contemplation, Zenyatta picked himself back up, followed in tow by Mondatta.
In contrast, Ramattra hesitated by the stone lip, still attempting to reconcile the words with a message. His saffron robes shifted as he rose slowly.
Perhaps sensing the internal struggle, Mondatta touched Ramattra's arm, followed by Zenyatta’s, completing the link. The Ravager leaned into it, seeking that feeling of unity.
“My brothers. We are the breeze. We are the lotuses. Together, we create the wake that will ripple across the world. Through it, all will heal.”
The ambiance within the chamber shifted. Not the breeze flowing in, not Mondatta drawing away, but something else entirely. It stalled the Ravager.
His scoff came slow, imperceptible. Nonetheless, Mondatta had already twisted to look at him, even before it left his vocoder. The white faceplate never shifted—could not—yet spoke as loudly as human expression or words.
No throat clearing. Ramattra’s response stumbled slightly. “There is still room for improve—”
“I believe the calm is proof of prosperity.”
Zenyatta did not react to their mentor’s rude interruption. Neither to an odd, out-of-place hiss rising over the shuffle of his feet.
“Is it?” Ramattra forced out. His lights dimmed in unease when a wayward shadow settled over the three, encroaching from beyond the sanctum’s gates. The dark shape warped the Iris peering inside, glitching into wireframe around its intact central circle.
Ramattra’s system hitched.
“D-do you see wh—at I see?”
Mondatta’s voice untuned. Tears broke from the Iris, weaving through the ether, crackling.
No. No!
Ethereal arms unfurled like wings from Ramattra’s back. There was no grace to their movements, plucking frantically at the matrix, trying to restore the memory. A low growl rumbled in his throat, forcing his reply through cleaved concentration.
“The petals are spaced according to the golden angle.” One seam mended. Desperation broke open another. “Further arranged in a para—bolic spiral.”
Despite his intention, despite the teachings of detachment, the anger in his chest fed the spiderwebbing tears. They engulfed Zenyatta. Then Mondatta. Patches of their chassis burned away, drifting off in pixelated embers.
“No—,” Mondatta's voice split. Skipped.
Zenyatta’s response broke apart. “—har-mony—”
“Do you see the ring—,” A single note. The scene blinked. Mirrored, reflected, overlaying itself in echoes. Ramattra reeled from sudden nausea. “—upon the w-water?”
The Ravager grunted from the exertion of stabilizing the digital sanctuary. His mind took one step back to brace, yet his body stayed firmly rooted in place. “The… The movement disturbs—”
Everything skipped ahead without warning. Ramattra’s legs locked underneath him. A heaviness seeped into his being, sagging his shoulders, bowing him forward.
He could only watch as his brothers withered.
Stay! Ramattra cried out, but his call was absorbed by the matrix.
“Clo-se—the—way of the lo-tus—” Laughter, interwoven with a chime. The disembodied sound spread, parts of the sanctum shifting back upright. “—s—ever—others—”
Still Ramattra tried. Tried to latch onto what he could.
Mondatta’s guiding voice.
Zenyatta’s comforting presence.
The feeling of belonging.
I don’t…
None of it was meant to be, slipping through his trembling fingers.
Not again, don’t leave me again…!
A resonating whirring overtook the void, Ramattra left crosslegged and alone below the inverted Iris. As it, too, scattered into pixels, the inner halo died.
From everywhere, Mondatta’s echo ebbed.
“—wake—the world—”
Optics snapped wide open, roused from their deep trance. Ramattra raised his head, neck creaking from the jolt.
His body stilled. Artifacts dithered in his vision, shivering around the figure beyond the threshold of the prison cell.
“...You… Returned,” Ramattra’s synthesizer shaped without input, a soft mumble swallowed up by the low drone of electricity. Processors continued firing at full capacity, struggling to decode why Genji stood there, frozen, neither speaking nor stepping into the room.
Ramattra closed his eyes. Refreshed his ocular scanners. Yet Genji persisted. Unmoving.
Corruption. A glitch, drawing code from unrelated registers, merging memory and truth. Ramattra had stayed within himself for so long, his code had begun breaking down. The theory became ash in his mouth.
“Are you going to stay there?”
Ramattra nearly recoiled at the Japanese lilt, morose mood shifting into bewilderment. A tepid question slipped as he confirmed his audio drivers had, in fact, not crashed.
“...What?”
Genji crossed his arms, head tilted, calm and unbothered. “I asked you. Are you staying, or are you stepping out?”
For a moment, Ramattra simply sat there on the floor. Looking around himself. Expecting more figures of the past. His vision had calmed, greeted only by the walls now familiar like the back of his hand.
Sick of himself, he relented, optics flashing. A golden outline enfolded Genji, and the results of the scan burned in his vision.
Data streamed, but the river of information went ignored. He was solid. Real. An actual tangible presence, not a figment of a corrupted system erroneously interpreting visual defects. And yet, the situation was no less absurd.
“Is… Is this some kind of vile joke?” Ramattra rumbled under disbelief, unsure whether Genji’s question had been made in good faith or served as a point—cruel or otherwise.
“You can stay or follow me. It’s your choice.”
No venom. No undertow of sadistic enjoyment. Astonished, Ramattra approached the offer carefully, eyes narrowing. “You are… Breaking me out?”
“No,” Genji said, his tone light almost to the point of irreverence. “Command has forbidden me from speaking to you in your cell.”
The single sentence split one inquiry into multiple, amassing questions like a decapitated hydra duplicated heads.
When Ramattra did not respond immediately, Genji leaned up against the doorjamb, blocking the sensors and keeping the door from sliding shut. “I wasn’t expecting you to protest this much.”
“I am not protesting. You confuse me,” Ramattra countered bluntly, too focused on tempering the frustration trying to edge its way into his voice to realize he was already shifting to stand.
“It’s simple.” Genji swept a hand in a broad gesture, offering the open corridor behind him, visor glinting with mystery. “I would like to talk.”
Talk.
Ramattra’s processors hiccuped, prognostic algorithms stalling. Unease settled in his cogs, their clicking all too loud.
Why are you truly here, Genji?
Slowly, he attempted to rise to his full height, a first after so long. Genji observed him intently out of the corner of his visor, vaguely rubbing at his arms. Discomfort at his imposing build, the Ravager figured.
The thought filed away; dry leg joints and actuators stuttered, scrambling Ramattra’s balance. The interlude between them broke as Genji realized, empathy thawing his aloof front.
“Do you need oil?” He asked softly.
“Yes. Please. It would be…” Ramattra carded through his cable hair, weathering the nagging feeling of something—everything—being off. Still vaguely dreamlike, but now tinted in paranoia. “It would be greatly appreciated.”
Genji gave him another once-over. This time, it did not linger. “Are you able to walk? The barracks isn’t far. It’s just outside.”
“Outside?” The word hit Ramattra so hard he stopped, frame swaying. Then he continued, dragging his feet along the metal floor, claws scraping loudly. “Yes. Yes, I can walk.”
Genji watched him with caution. His words, though considerate, came terse. “I know how that sounds. Don’t be too hopeful.”
“I am hopeful of oil and fair treatment.”
Ramattra chugged into the small antechamber, bending down to avoid the low door frame. A mistake. Servos overcorrected, torque pitching him down. His front did not meet the floor, however.
Ramattra stiffened.
Genji braced him, his hands diminutive against the broad Ravager chest, yet no less effective. A palpable silence descended, settling in the space between their close stares.
It lasted only a second, but a second too long. Genji acted without input; he shouldered Ramattra’s arm, his own wrapping supportively around the Ravager’s narrow waist.
Overly close. Such proximity craved excessive trust, intolerable reliance.
“I am not a human child. You may let go,” Ramattra said, straining to keep his tone level, raising his head disapprovingly. He wanted away. Away from the memories that felt too false, away from the touch that felt too real.
“I’m aware. Steady on me, or you might fall again.” The glow of Genji’s visor thinned, as if curving from a smile. “Unless you do prefer my subpar repairs.”
“You are a stubborn little thing,” Ramattra griped in dry exasperation. His stuttered pace was easily matched, able to feel Genji’s shoulders bounce with a soft laugh.
“I have been told it’s my worst quality. I would say it’s my best.”
“You’re certainly an insistent thorn in my side,” Ramattra mumbled inaudibly.
It was odd—they had been like this before, hurrying out of his Iris. Now it agitated him, sparked his dignity, and he attributed it to lucidity; a leader, reduced to such humiliating weakness he could not even walk on his own.
How far he had fallen.
But he internalized it, optics on the hunt for danger and opportunity. Down the corridor, he expected to meet with the business end of a weapon, alongside angry eyes and shouted orders to keep still and obey.
Nothing. Only quiet, exposed beams, and windows caked in moss.
It flared Ramattra’s paranoia; the longer their steps echoed within empty rooms, the more the damp walls receded, drawing anticipation. Of torture, perhaps even execution outright. Or a sudden flash, to reveal it all a dream, still left behind in his cell. Speculation which did nothing to help Ramattra’s already poor mental state.
And then came the orientation sign, hanging lopsided by a junction. Though faded, the text made him stop dead in his tracks.
“Veterinary wing?” Ramattra read quietly.
Chains. Camps. Slave facilities. He had seen his people shoved into every conceivable confinement. And here was he, rendered the same fate by Overwatch—supposed paragons.
His restraint burst. No longer were his tremors solely from friction, dragging Genji into the building’s foyer along with a spiel.
“This is how the world sees us,” Ramattra hissed, so forcefully he swore he could feel the crackle of static. “As unfit for their society. We are nothing more than ill beasts to be caged away in rot.”
“That’s not…” Genji’s response trailed off; as Ramattra smoldered, he swayed precariously. In a blink, Genji shifted closer and tethered the Ravager with a firmer hold. “Watch your footing,” he cautioned softly.
The concern struck Ramattra hard. It clashed against Overwatch’s dehumanisation, burned him with shame, and now, more than ever, he just wanted his dignity, his autonomy, back.
“Enough,” he snapped, wrenching himself free, joints groaning. “Enough of this constant degradation. Enough of your shepherding.”
With the momentum of heaving off Genji, Ramattra's knee buckled. His side slammed into a column, so forcefully it cracked. Shock hunched him over, flickered his vision and rang in his ears.
He stared down at the scratched flooring. He should be standing tall, proud, walking on his own. Trying to convince himself, his voice did not feel like his, exiting as a low, mechanical rasp.
“I can move on my own. I can…”
Ramattra’s vents inhaled, desperate to feed his cooling system and fight the heat anger left behind. Recycled air puffed out in a long exhale, and when he turned, he finally felt drained of fight.
A hand, silent and patient, extended for him to take.
Genji did not meet his gaze, staring off to the side, stance subdued in that way Ramattra never fully comprehended. No words were exchanged when their hands clasped together again, nor as they took their prior positions.
For the rest of the walk through the building, Ramattra felt woefully small.
Despite having hoped for it previously, the exit arrived all too quickly. It loomed, its glass shrouded by vines, and he slowed his pace. Betrayal lay beyond. Overwatch agents, there to see his final walk. He was certain of it.
The doors parted. Brightness blinded him, and he tensed. Genji led them out, and Ramattra’s sight adapted.
In front of him, overgrowth nestled around sleek buildings of curving glass, surrounded by a horizon of endless, rippling water. Overlapping plates of irregular sizes girdled the island, its translucent material scattering and refracting light.
Quiet, calm, and open. The opposite of his expectations.
Adjustment did not come immediately. After a few tepid steps, it crystallized. Freed from the narrow confines that had defined his present, relief seeped into every corner of Ramattra’s being. Not only. The steadily piling oddities finally made sense. And understanding—that was control.
Ramattra lifted his head, shedding his bruised ego with the motion. “I have heard of this place. Ecopoint: Indira. The abandoned island prototype the Atlantic Arcology modeled after.”
The path crunched with gravel, scraping at the undersides of Ramattra’s plating. What had never failed to make his frame shiver in discomfort was now a point of marvel.
“In terms of options, Winston’s were limited,” Genji explained, vaguely apologetic. Then sly pride tinted his voice. “He works well under pressure. It’s the last place anyone would expect to find Null Sector’s leader.”
“I see,” Ramattra mumbled, distracted, tuned to the ocean breeze. It caressed auxiliary vents and ports with salt. And yet, he welcomed the feeling.
Evening broke through the streaks of clouds, bedazzling the skies with gilded shafts of sunlight. One enveloped them, gleaming against their metal.
“Just a moment, please.” Ramattra closed his eyes. He stood in place, absorbing the sensation of it all.
Cold, artificial light melted underneath the warm caress of the sun. Zephyrs danced, playing with cloak and cables in a way recycled air could never. Waves roared, fizzling foam, no intrusive hum of electricity underneath.
Ramattra spoke with a wistfulness he rarely afforded himself. “I thought I had lost this forever. The sun… The breeze. The sight and sound of water. These small things become so very mundane, I foolishly allowed myself to forget how intrinsic they are to life.”
Just barely, the clutch on him shifted. Or squeezed. The distinction managed to be negligible.
“I think you will enjoy it more when you’re not clinging to me.”
It was true. Tearing attention away from the touch to his waist proved difficult, and Ramattra was not sure what to do with his free arm almost to the point of restlessness.
He laughed, brittle. “Then you are mistaken. After three years of artificial light and isolation aboard my ship, I will take what I can get.”
“Three…?” Genji trailed off as if struck. There was no subtle shift this time; Ramattra felt the small ninja hold him tighter, straightening to better carry the heavy Ravager. “...Alright. When you’re ready.”
◇◇◇
Late night in Honolulu was as pleasant as it was beautiful, even as a host for Null Sector’s invasion. Under Cole’s guidance, his strike team had secured a perimeter on the eastern front, between the airport and harbor, ensuring evacuation efforts ran smoothly.
And that was when things had turned complicated.
The door clicked softly behind Cole as he returned back into the large cargo bay, his voice carrying. “Back from my round.”
His team stood gathered over by a stack of crates, busying themselves in the lull of combat. Farther in, Juno and Echo tended to a large throng of subjugated Omnics.
“So that’s what you call smoking,” Baptiste grinned, one eyebrow arched, dabbing a cotton swab around a laceration on Zarya’s bicep. She did not so much as flinch; rather, her expression was slack, bored.
Hana, on the other hand, sat hunched next to Tokki, the keys of her portable console clicking loudly as she typed, snorting at Baptiste’s joke.
“Guilty as charged,” Cole chuckled amicably, offering a smile to bury the truth that it was to settle the anxiety in his gut rather than his nicotine addiction. When his grin lasted a tad too long, he rubbed at the side of his nose, turning to Hana. “Any luck?”
She made a face, shaking her head. “Ugh, Cass! You asked me like a minute ago.” She used the interruption to chug the last of her Nanocola, the empty can leaving her hand with a practiced flick of the wrist.
“Ten,” Zarya corrected flatly, catching the can and crushing it like nothing.
Hana huffed, her breath displacing her wild bangs. “I’m a gamer, not a code wiz. Or a clock.”
While the two women juggled words, Cole leaned close to the screen, face tightening at the glyphs the younger recruit navigated with ease.
“Ain’t make a lick of sense,” he complained, flicking the brim of his hat back up when it dipped in front of his eyes. “Comms were stable just an hour ago.”
Baptiste twisted the slightest amount, enough to peer down at him. “Back in Talon, they loved deploying suppressant fields. Maybe Null Sector’s doing the same.”
“‘Maybe’? No. Definitely,” Zarya said, a restless sigh passing her lips when Baptiste pulled out a patch. “We would do well to find the machine and destroy it.”
Cole scratched at his beard, weighing the options. He was never really a multiple-choice kind of guy; his heart belonged to simplicity. “Guess we could do a sweep.”
“Or,” Hana interjected, jabbing a finger into the air, “I suss out whatever’s being a pain in our butt and deal with it from here. E-z.”
A stalemate. Everyone turned expectantly toward their captain.
“See, how I figure is…” Cole sucked in a breath, trailing off. The weight of Peacekeeper in his holster reminded him he was never one to settle down and twiddle fingers. Now, though, he had to compromise; be a captain, not a runner. “D.Va, another tenner. Then we git. Go pokin’ around.”
With a nod, Hana’s typing renewed into a frenzy, intent on proving Zarya wrong. The latter stretched, already committing to warmups. At the very least, they were both eager to prove themselves. Nothing Cole could fault them for, having had the same gleam in his eye during his youth.
Baptiste, ever the empath, sent a wink and fingergun Cole’s way.
“Cap. No nerves. You’re knocking it out of the park.”
Despite the disagreement earlier, everyone concurred simultaneously; Hana and Zarya both gave a thumbs up, just in time for a blue-tinted Cassidy to stride up, lazily adjusting his belt, Juno in timid tow.
“I’m doing right swell.” Then Echo dropped her guise, shifting back to her true self, humour softening her pixel face. “Glad you agree, Captain.”
Cole smiled around his cigar. Maybe he had underestimated himself.
◇◇◇
A vast distance separated Indira from the strike team at Honolulu.
The Ecopoint’s barracks, flat and oblong, sat between the domed veterinary facility and a tower. Within its halls, Ramattra began a tactical scan, cancelled before it could even initiate. He clenched his free fist, then uncurled it in muted resignation.
Nothing of military use; only loose wall panels and hastily cobbled wiring solutions.
Past a canteen and into a shared dorm, he made sure to avoid touching anything he deemed too filthy. Easier said than done with the reliance on a ninja preferring the straight path through.
The dorm itself was standard fare. Bunk beds and storage, some in better condition than others. For the Ravager, more pressing was the fact Genji had been assigned a bed in the first place.
Humans and their insistence on forcing their habits on Omnics.
“Look at this ‘accommodation’,” Ramattra griped. They hobbled toward a carefully made bed; the only one with a comforter on top and a frame that seemed stable. “The audacity of your superiors to force you in here and act as if it’s fine.”
Drawing away from Genji, Ramattra felt relieved to regain distance and self-reliance. Moving on his own was still a task, but he kept his posture proud, supporting himself against the bedframe.
“I travelled by foot for a long time. Even a hay bale is more pleasing than the ground,” Genji replied, crouching down to sift through the contents of the duffel bag placed by his bed, noticing the Ravager’s awkward hovering. “You can make yourself comfortable, if you want.”
“Yes, I suppose it is superior to the hard floor of a cell. Granted, just barely.” Ramattra turned his head up at the notion. He begrudgingly eased down onto the mattress, relieving his joints of tension when he was certain the frame would not snap in half.
“So we’re in agreement.”
“In agreement that the Ecopoint continues to exceed expectations,” Ramattra said, pointedly shifting his heft to make the bed groan in mimicry of settling beams. “Am I safe to assume the oil Overwatch is offering will be equally crude?”
As Genji retrieved a container, he gave a small, noncommittal shrug, but the tease in it could not be missed. “It works well enough for me.”
“Some of us maintain higher standards than that.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” The canister traded hands, amusement now stark in Genji’s voice. “For the next time I’m on an abandoned island.”
Ramattra eyed the label critically—premium, thankfully. He would have rolled his optics, but a cloying humbleness stopped him.
While Genji heaved himself up to sit atop the bedframe, Ramattra unhooked the tube slithering around his waist. Carefully, he refilled his oil reserves, allowing his gaze to roam around the personal space he had been invited into.
On the nightstand sat that damned tool case. The crack in his faceplate itched at the mere thought of invasive pliers. Thankfully, distraction could be found above; a small polaroid had been pinned to the wall with a tack.
The photo showed a moment of celebration inside a carrier craft, Overwatch agents crowding together. As his optics trailed over them, Ramattra announced the most recognizable in his head: Veterans Reinhardt Wilhelm and Vivian Chase. Mercy, or Angela Zeigler, a revolutionary in medical science. Then the newer blood; Dr. Mei-Ling Zhou, Tracer, as well as Winston, whose interrogation skills had proved subpar at best.
And among them, belonging—Genji.
Ramattra's spiteful eyes softened, albeit only for a beat; none of that was quite as inflammatory as the item wrapped around the bedpost. He reached out, drawn to the embodiment of a simpler time, stopping himself short, smoothly placing his hand onto the bed as if it were his intention all along.
Vents exhaled softly, telling himself it was from the lubrication pumping through his dry oil channels, but words left him as easily as his sigh. “I did not take you as one for sentimental possessions.”
There was no immediate response, just shuffling of cloth. Turning slightly, he caught Genji inspecting the layout from his seat, combing over it the same way he had intended to. Subtly preparing for an attempt at freedom.
“You'd be surprised,” the ninja finally said, tone concise from either concentration or avoidance.
Believing himself unmonitored, Ramattra allowed his fingers to brush the offending fabric. The delicate white felt smooth to the touch, barely snagging on the scrapes in his pads. Gilded Shambali crests had been embroidered into either end of the ceremonial scarf, the trio of bands linking together in the middle.
When Genji finally looked back at him, a hint of his true persona peeked through. “Oh. That khata... It's more of a reminder than a possession.”
For better or for worse, the nostalgia piqued Ramattra’s curiosity.
“A reminder? Of what?” A part of the Ravager dared to wish for an anecdote regarding Zenyatta, the monks of the order, or even the Shambali monastery itself.
Genji, on the other hand, seemed to hesitate, considering if he should keep quiet. When Ramattra surmised he overstepped, the ninja answered.
“Negaeba, heiwa wa otozure yo.”
The translator module in the Ravager’s system struggled. Even so, the message was clear.
If we pray, peace will come.
An axiom of Shambali, distilled into a single sentence. Ramattra could see it plainly, written in the stitches of the khata. Days spent in prayer and meditation, surrounded by likeminded monks, unified. Piety and brotherhood, believing a mentor's cadence held bottomless wisdom. Letting go. Achieving peace. Hope flickering within.
Ramattra’s arms crossed, shielded his chest, hands resting on either bicep. He left that life behind long ago. Smothered each desire. The reminiscing in his cell had been a moment of weakness. Now, though, he could afford no more shackles of nostalgia.
With his mind tempered and oil reserves renewed, he made an attempt to stand. Genji watched him intently, presumably awaiting a stumble. Or a response to his musing.
Ramattra decided to give him neither.
“I would like to move,” he said, vying to distance himself once more, “and lubricate my joints.”
Without waiting for confirmation, Ramattra shuddered off toward the exit. He did not know he had been clinging to the crests sewn into his sleeves.
Genji, however, did. He slipped off the bedframe, catching up to the Ravager leaving the khata behind in mind, but not in heart.
◇◇◇
Far away, in the stirring spring morning of Santiago de Chile, a fire alarm wailed. A sprinkler system spouted water within the building, drenching overturned clothing stands and mannequins.
Droplets cast off one of the many Nulltroopers stationed there, its servos clicking quizzically as it pushed forward from the group. The others responded by taking a step backward, tightening the guard around a machine pulsing violet.
When a sharp drop in ambient temperature registered in the Nulltrooper’s system, it hesitated by the barricaded door. A cracking sound had the unit chirp in quiet confusion, its sole optic focusing on a crystalline material forming along the frame.
Its second tweet cut off. The door burst off its hinges, slamming into the unit.
A blur zipped forward. The Nulltroopers raised their guns, but they were given no opportunity to shoot. Pulses struck each unit quick and hard. They reeled, slipping on the floor frozen beneath them.
Frigid air seeped out of Mei’s Endothermic Blaster, but neither she nor Lena lingered; the pilot sprang back into the hall, clutching her friend. In time with their exit, Winston stepped forward. The Tesla Cannon in his grip shivered, muzzle ardent.
Energy shot into the room, smoke bursting into plumes and cascading out into the corridor. The sprinklers made quick work of the thick cloud. Winston nonetheless waved at the air, eyes watering from the sting, grinning at the result.
Overloaded by energy, electricity arcing dangerously, the Nulltroopers lay still while the machine in the center rattled in throes of death.
“Yep, well, confirmed it can’t get any more trashed,” Lena laughed breathlessly, holstering her twin Pulse Pistols without the usual flourish. Only pragmatism, and a moment to push away the wet bangs clinging to her goggles.
“Good job.” Droplets scattered off Winston’s fur as he moved, adjusting his level glasses, swallowing candidly before speaking into his earpiece. “Athena, can you hear me?”
Met only with silence, his nostrils flared.
Angela stepped out from where she had been safely covered by a pillar. She, too, was drenched, miserably grappling her staff with both hands. “So it wasn’t a signal disruptor. Something else is interfering with our comms.”
“We can only hope Sojourn and Cassidy are unaffected,” Winston said, voice heavy with concern. He checked a small map projection at his wrist while he dragged himself along. “The northern city quadrant still needs our help. Then we can return to HQ and perform a full relay system diagnosis.”
Fareeha inspected her missile launcher. A handful of rockets remained. Her eyes darted between the gun and Angela; one of the metal wings protruding from the doctor’s back bent at an awkward angle.
Despite Fareeha’s collected aura, her voice betrayed urgency. “We won’t be of much help in our condition. Rendezvousing with the Orca will give us an opportunity to refresh and restock before we redeploy. Let’s go.”
Outside, the avenue bore the marks of an earlier siege, air thickened with the tang of smoke and ozone. Not far above, a Command ship loomed, its tall, cold shadow devouring the light of the rising sun. Wave after wave of reinforcement pods shot from the carrier onto the city, not content with the ruin already wrought.
Lena’s expression tightened. “Heads up. Mother ship’s here to give us an earful.”
“Another one?” Winston breathed. His stun at the shift in behaviour lasted less than a second, assessing the wide street. Cratered in the middle, a pair of steel capsules conjoined where they had slammed together hours prior. “Get to cover before it locks onto us.”
The team sheltered behind the cylinders, Mei peering out from its side. “It’s cutting off our way to the Orca. We won’t be able to reach the suburbs," she observed. Snowball fluttered its slats nervously, and she reached over to pat its head.
Meanwhile, Angela crouched low, biting down onto her lip; there was no time to conduct impromptu field repairs. “My wing is too damaged for us to provide air support. If we try for the Orca on foot, we’ll be immediately overwhelmed.”
“What if you hold onto Pharah? You two could bring the ship here,” Mei offered, arms curling around Snowball seeking more reassurance.
When Fareeha shook her head, Mei’s brow creased, accentuating the bags underneath her eyes.
“She could,” Fareeha said, exhaling her misgivings. “But the increased weight makes maneuvering harder. Trust me. We’ve tried before.”
Everyone braced when the ground shuddered from pods impacting nearby. Car alarms cried out, then turned silent. In their stead, the off-tune pitch of a propulsion system shrouded the battlefield.
Lena reached for her pistols when she noticed the carrier ship slowing down, ejecting a stream of Vultures descending toward them. She barely registered her heel kicking a detached Nullbot arm. “Winston. Big guy. You have a backup plan at the ready, right?”
“Not without Athena,” Winston feared, tone sober, eyes glinting from adrenaline. “It’s all improvisation from here.”
The opposite building groaned. Its edifice burst outward, twin Chargers tearing through. Dust swirled off their beveled bodies, barreling straight toward the scattering strike team. Winston’s jetpack propelled him into the air, Tesla Cannon lighting up, mind racing with possibilities.
◇◇◇
As Santiago’s skies darkened under a Command ship, a storm gathered over Indira.
Ramattra had spent most of the stroll with Genji composing himself, trying to discern his options. A hard task, when the entire island existed as a space in the liminal, the margin between here and there.
Once he could not stall the reason for his limited freedom for longer, he chose a vantage point close to the water’s edge; a deck, suspended from a communication tower.
Oxidation had chewed away the alloy of the railing, and Ramattra sneered internally in disgust, deciding against resting his hands there. Genji joined him by the view, propping an elbow against the bar. A subtle gambit, Ramattra noted; the stance left both of his blades easily accessible. Clever, if a bit disheartening.
“Earlier,” Ramattra began, bowing slightly to appear less intimidating. “You said you wished to speak, yet your superiors forbade you.”
Waters roiled underneath them, waves crashing against the island’s hull. Dark clouds spread across the sunset-painted sky, shrouding their predestined path in rainfall.
“I was never authorized to enter your cell,” Genji admitted tautly, watching the waters. “When I claimed to have the prerogative to bring you tools, I was insincere.”
Ramattra straightened from the implication, his response—not a question, but certainty—coming almost too quickly. “You were reprimanded.”
“…I was.”
Regret strained his voice. It fed a bloom of satisfaction Ramattra had not allowed himself when he was led out of his cell. His air intakes inhaled deeply, and as to not provoke, eased closer with a languid gait. Then, in a gesture as controlled as it was genuine, he rested a hand on Genji’s arm. A whisper of a pulse flashed in the visor’s green glow, as loud as humans sucking in a breath. Ramattra’s optics narrowed; gaze cold, vocoder warm. Honeyed.
“I find your empathy admirable. I lament that your superiors do not.”
Genji stood still. Ramattra cocked his head, greedily drinking in the body before him; squared shoulders, clenched fists, averted gaze.
“This is not for kindness’ sake, Ramattra,” Genji said finally, reaching for Ramattra’s arm in a short, jerky movement. He hesitated, hovered over the limb he had helped repair. Then he curled around the wrist, fingers twitching.
“I want to stop the war.” Genji stared up at the massive Omnic. “I want to save Master from Talon.”
A pause. Then he took a half-step forward—closer. The horizon rumbled indistinctly, charge prickling around them, rushing over Ramattra’s ports. He refused to bow to discomfort and concede. Space, nor quarry.
Genji’s hand wound taut. “I want answers. From you.”
The shinobi had decided to throw his games aside, drop the ambiguity. And Ramattra, he found himself at a crossroads. He had expected it to arrive at some point. Entrusting Genji with sensitive information, even redacted, meant yielding the truth of Null Sector's operations to Overwatch.
The Ravager did not need to glance skyward to know, did not need to hear; the storm approached. And he. He could choose to do nothing. Let the world drown in metal and fire. Fail his people again.
Optics unfocused. Greens LEDs became bokeh backdrops to the mind torn between control and duty. Beyond the railing, the surf swelled, shaped by gales picking up, dying down. From the corner of his vision, Ramattra saw his cable hair shift to-and-fro, sensed how his cloak fluttered behind him. He felt the touch, meant to unite.
There, by the railing, he finally understood. The wisdom of lotuses swaying in the breeze, and the smallest of ripples.
Perhaps, then.
Perhaps there was a chance for the storm to break before it arrived, by stings plucked from the shadows. A faint strum, a subtle swell, and Overwatch would be on the right side of history.
Unconsciously, Ramattra’s hand mimicked the motion. He felt his fingertips graze the furrows in Genji’s plating—the ones sustained aboard the Iris. In turn, Genji’s hand hiked higher, bit by bit, thumb dragging over the heel of Ramattra’s own.
It drew a subdued shiver from Ramattra’s hydraulics, foreign in a way he assured himself he disliked. Therefore, his touch did not linger for longer, and he withdrew. Severed the tactile connection and turned away, unwilling to be witnessed unnerved, managing grievances, and preparing himself for the gamble with leverage as currency.
“It pains me to say…” He closed his optics, the dark less of a comfort than usual. “There is more at stake than my brother's life.”
Genji did not force him to elaborate, mindful of the frailty of the unweaving thread. A courtesy as appreciated as resented; Ramattra released a heady sigh, but emotion did not dissipate with it.
“Do you recall the skirmish with Talon? What they stole from me?”
Genji’s gaze dropped, searching the memory of the fight. His voice came forced, almost disinclined to accept he had made a critical miss. “…The staff?”
The precipice loomed, and the void beneath swirled and raged. Lights strobed far underneath the waves, the island’s underwater corridors swaying like tentacles. An old beast struggling for control, much like the Ravager.
“Staff,” Ramattra repeated slowly, exhaling tart amusement. “Yes. Such a perception was deliberate.”
The betrayal—he could still feel the brand in his wires, how his grip turned slack. His jaw tightened as if to keep himself quiet, but to prisoners, choice was rare commodity. “I… Kept its true function guarded dearly. Even from my most trusted peers.”
Genji shuffled, moving his weight to the balls of his feet, on tenterhooks. “Its purpose is…?”
Ramattra looked back at him, cable hair whipping. Something in that intense stare tightened like a noose around his throat. With a finger, he pulled at the collar around his shoulders. The cloth loosened, and that was the last bastion of reservation, no more convictions to hinder.
“To be the fulcrum of all Null Sector operations. A controller.”
“All? Including your armies?”
“And the industries constructing them,” Ramattra said. He heard the clinical quality of his inflection, and added dolefully, “do not misunderstand me. It was hope. A safeguard. For all Omnics.”
Genji leaned over the railing on his crossed arms, looking on ahead. Toward the flecks of sky failing to contest the tempest’s influence.
The wind burgeoned. Bruised clouds swallowed up the final hint of sunset, and Genji dimmed alongside early nightfall. He said nothing for a long time, mired with burden.
When he spoke, it emerged edged and heavy. “I could have stopped them.”
Ramattra’s servos eased. He moved to reply, but Genji was not finished.
“Master’s speech. Talon’s positioning. I thought their main goal was disposing of you.” Genji’s hands gripped his own arms until they trembled. “I was too blinded trying to save Master to see what was truly occuring.”
“You could not have known,” Ramattra intoned. Hearing the truth only made Genji avert his gaze, as if refusing it entirely. “By the time their motivation came to light, I was fighting my own failing system. You could not have stopped them. Not without more than you had.”
Genji laughed. A small, bitter sound that surprised the Ravager. “You’re trying to comfort me.”
“No,” Ramattra said smoothly. “I am aligning you.”
Genji flinched. Then he began to subtly fidget under the phrasing. “Aligning me?”
“You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.” Ramattra’s faceplate angled toward the sky, met the first drops of cloudburst. “As do I.”
Though he meant to settle Genji’s guilt into something that could be controlled, the sincerity startled Ramattra into hesitation. By instinct, his hand came up to the bar, steadying against the internal fragility as he finished his thought.
“That does not entail we must carry it alone.”
Genji looked down at that dark hand, so close again. Though not shying away from the gesture, he seemed to contemplate it, rain drawing streaks along his visor. The fingers curling into his arms eased, then tensed, searching for something. A response, perhaps.
Wind had long since chilled Ramattra’s chassis. The contact of metal-on-metal barely registered now, yet the warmth radiating beside him never faltered. It moved with Genji as he pushed off the bar, straightening himself, decided. “Then there is still hope. If I report to Command, they’ll find a way to stop Talon.”
They faced one another fully, cloth and cloak buffeting. Ramattra’s baritone breached the gale, probing.
“You trust them?”
“I do.”
Sharp truth parried Genji’s declaration. “Even though they reprimanded you for your empathy? You realize they might not consider your warning. Worse still, if they learn you bypassed their sanctions, they could punish you.”
But he was not to be dissuaded. “Orders and authority will never define me.” The swords within their sheaths rattled against the wind, shivering like conduits of Genji’s rebellious spirit. “My path is my own.”
In picture perfect reverence, Ramattra dropped his head, optics shutting closed. Solidarity twisted against his detached self; lamenting burden, or thanking it.
Rain drummed. Against the hollow railing, and against the two bracing for a shift in the status quo. It swept away the charge clinging to Ramattra’s body, and deep within, his core lightened.
With fate uncertain, he moved to the entrance.
“I cannot say with certainty that they will understand. However, what I do know,” Ramattra held the door open, tilting his head toward the dark interior, “is that the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
The green visor glinted as Genji slowly perked up. Water gathered along the flutes of his plating, in the seams of Ramattra’s chassis.
The shinobi heeded.
Lightning split the heavens, and for a brief second, their silhouettes stood as one against the crumbling edifice.
◇◇◇
The sky over Bangkok still burned from the setting sun.
Vivian dropped to her knees, a pulse narrowly missing her head. Her railgun answered for her in kind. The shot tore through the Jumpjet’s neck, its spinning head knocking another unit from flight. The robots shattered against the ground in a rain of parts, close to a crowd of bracing Omnics.
The metal bounced harmlessly against Brigitte’s shield and Orisa’s spinning javelin. While Brigitte swept over the huddling civilians, ensuring none had sustained damage, Orisa spoke with a calmness that belied the situation.
“Impressive shot, miss Chase. Efi will be happy to receive this recording.”
Bastion, perched up on a platform in recon mode, beeped excitedly in agreement.
Sprawled on the ground, a large, cyan Omnic picked herself up with help from Brigitte. The squire glanced at the skies, brows furrowing. “Was that the last?”
Orisa trotted ahead, javelin poised and ready to be sent skyward. Her optics brightened, then dimmed again. “My scanners return zero criminals. Justice has been dispensed.”
“Don’t trust the quiet,” Vivian warned.
Skates swished as Lúcio rounded the corner, joined moments later by Reinhardt’s heavy gait. The musician had been sent ahead to scout, while the crusader had cleared a passage through the congested street further up.
“Grid’s fully knocked out. Whole city’s dark, but that won’t slow Null Sector’s tempo,” Lúcio said, gliding to a stop, the soft pump of his music washing over the team and the civilians in an invigorating wave.
Reinhardt concurred. “We must march forward before they regroup.”
With the team corralling around the civilians and Vivian’s gesture, they moved, using the path cleared of rubble and vehicles. She led without a single shift in her expression, but Athena’s quiet was a constant presence in the back of her mind.
Halfway through, the sun’s last light drew long shadows across the broken streets, shifting the world into a blue hue. Suddenly, they were not by themselves.
A lone Swarmer unit scuttled up onto the hood of a car. Within its mouth, quad metal prongs glowed like the eyeshine of a predator animal.
It fell square within Vivian’s iron sights. Before the trigger could depress, the dark car interiors filled with the same flickering lights. Behind her, Cyan soothed strangers with whispered comfort. A pair of sleek models hugged each other close, refusing to let go.
The crack of her weapon firing became the starting gun. Her team sprang into action. As did the Swarmers within the vehicles.
A sonic projectile amped. Units caught within its blast scrambled, confused, minced when Bastion’s turrets roared. All the while, the team inched forward.
Not for long. Both ends of the makeshift path crowded with Swarmers units. They forced a cramped detour between a truck and a bus. Anticipating the fork, Jumpjets shot up from behind debris. Some traded shots with Bastion and Vivian. Others sent suppressive fire for the Swarmers to close in.
Reinhardt surged ahead. A tuk-tuk caught the face of his hammer, launched straight into the airborne robots.
“Hah! This reminds me of the movie we watched back in Zür—”
“Bad news, I see Subjugators!” Lúcio interjected, bounding frantically between car roofs. His Sonic Amplifier worked overtime to keep Swarmers at bay.
The civilians gasped and whimpered. They pressed up against the bus’ broadside, a tight ball of metal and fear. Cyan barriered those she could with her body, her own shudders swallowed up by thick plating. “It’s okay, they won’t—they won’t abandon us.”
A stray Jumpjet bolt rushed straight toward her. Orisa and Brigitte tried to intercept. It breezed past both.
Vivian leapt in front. Her arm trembled, shoulder sparking where the shot struck her. Then her breath caught.
She pivoted.
The night was ablaze with burning eyes.
More Swarmers. Arriving as if sensing blood in the water.
The Swarmer units dashed. Vivian’s determination roared. A lucky railgun shot clocked more than one, but her aim drifted as the rest scrambled over the caracasses of their brethren.
The units up front slammed headfirst into Reinhardt’s shield. He pushed back, the wedged robots crushed between each others’ bulk. But the remaining Swarmers adapted. They flowed around each agent. Encircling.
Reinhardt’s eyes widened as realization sank.
“They distracted us…!”
“Civs!” Vivian barked, catching her team’s attention, but it came too late. The Omnics shrieked.
A beam had torn open the truck, widening the undercarriage. Waves of Swarmers burst through. The Omnics tried to break away from the bus, blinded by panic. They knocked into each other in their crowded formation. Lasers nipped at their heels, herding them toward the purple glow just out of sight.
When one Omnic crossed an invisible line, the Subjugators finally struck.
Weapons thundered over clamor. Omnics fought and thrashed, wailing and pleading. The sleek pair stopped. They waited, their hands clasped tight, offering themselves. Cyan pushed onward, grasping others under her arms. A Swarmer tripped her.
All around, metal appendages closed.
Screams hushed.
◇◇◇
The wind wailed mournfully as it pushed through the crevices of the Ecopoint.
Sheltered inside and safe from the elements, Ramattra walked along an inset bookcase. His fingers brushed lazily across the spines once curated by a dedicated bookkeeper.
In truth, in spite of promise, he was restless. Nervous to not only leave his own fate to humans, but that of all Omnics. Nevertheless, no anxiety saturated his behavior; he did not allow it.
“Is it possible Talon has already reverse engineered your staff?” Genji's voice asked. Ramattra caught him scrolling through the list of agent IDs, moving to rest up against the backside of the sofa only to immediately decide against it and meander again.
“Highly unlikely,” Ramattra answered plainly. Optics narrowed in skepticism at the sound of his own conviction.
Odds. Certainty.
Ramattra huffed, stepping up to a window. Void reigned outside, broken up by the white mask staring back.
King’s Row. Odds were in our favor. We should not have lost our army, nor dear Lanet.
Genji nodded once. A small noise confirmed the selection of Sojourn’s name. He shifted where he had ended up on the low table, ensuring nothing incriminating could be caught on camera. “Stay out of frame.”
“Hm.” Ramattra brushed his hair behind his shoulder with the back of his hand, both to dismiss the order and to free his peripheral of obstruction. “I am content enough here.”
The green visor pulsed slowly, narrowing. Genji did not respond. Not out of restraint or offense, but for the nervewrecking tone from the device searching signals. The ninja kept his attention on the screen, waiting. Expecting.
Just like him.
Raindrops burst into rings against the transparent window glass. Ramattra saw them. Each foretold, yet thwarted by the unseen.
The Iris. Impenetrable, untouchable. Somehow, now one with the ocean.
When Ramattra swore the buzz threatened to drill into his head, Genji canceled the call and continued through to Winston’s ID.
It, too, dragged mercilessly. Ramattra’s core pulsed in tempo of a rising heartbeat, nearly lost underneath the steady symphony of the storm.
My Void Accelerator. The keystone for Omnic liberation. Despite safety protocols, gone, with an enemy I should have anticipated.
Behind him, the holopad reprised its dismal drone. Mechanisms within his jaw tightened. Held even as the cracks in his faceplate shifted, burning the reminder with pain.
And you.
He traced the reflection of Genji.
You were not supposed to return to me.
The ninja hunched closer to his holopad, hurried swiping betraying his veneer of calm. Winston had not answered. No more attempts, Ramattra ascertained.
Then Cole Cassidy’s name flashed in the display.
The call connected almost immediately, the projection scattering pixels into a cowboy. Ramattra winced. Even when confident, his predictive algorithms seemed to only ever render him blind.
“Well now, it’s the ninja. Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
Genji did not waste time on reciprocating Cole’s pleasantries. His message came clipped, serious. “Cole. We need to contact Command, now.”
Cole’s easy-going smile pressed into a thin line. “I hear ya. The tenderfoots and I’ve been trying to get through all damn night,” he sighed, tapping at his gadget. “Been sweeping for a jammer but ain’t had no luck, then you call outta the blue. Reckon whatever ghost’s haunted the comms moved on.”
“Yeah! The ghost of Winston’s coding!” A voice shouted on the other end, followed by suppressed laughter and snorting.
The cowboy’s face tightened with restrained amusement. “Easy there, D.Va. He might overhear ya.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Genji pressed. He cast a subtle glance at the Ravager. To him, he was still peering out the window. “Ramattra shared critical information.”
Cole blinked hard. His jaw slacked, the smoldering cigar tipping and scattering ash. Vague humanoid figures crowded in the edges of the hologram; curious Overwatch agents drawn forth by the news. They took a step back when Cole waved them away.
“Pardon.” A tip of the hat, followed by the slap of boots as the cowboy moved to a calmer corner. “Got caught up in high spirits. Trying Command now.”
“Thank you,” Genji said, though the gratitude came out vaguely strangled.
No one spoke as the link initialized. Nor when the nettlesome tone returned. Cole’s outline turned fuzzy, then sharpened slightly.
The building groaned, agitated by the island seesawing atop the churning waves. Genji’s fingers dug into his thigh, and Ramattra’s confidence in his decision struck rock bottom.
“Connection’s still iffy,” Cole drawled, harder to parse through compression. “The last evac’s right ‘round the corner. We’ll be heading back to HQ after, so why don't you tell me what’s happening and I can be your personal courier.”
At that, Ramattra’s optics dimmed. He resented the notion of being misquoted by a human. Genji, though, seemed to trust Cole. Begrudgingly, the Ravager kept silent, fingers plucking at stiffening air.
“Aboard Null Sector’s ship. I—we believed Talon aimed to create a power vacuum within Null Sector. We were wrong. Their true target was Ramattra’s staff.”
The foot of Cole’s cigar brightened to a long drag. His face scrunched as if tasting bitter, questions escaping alongside curling smoke. “Hold on now, partner. Their plan was to nab his weapon? A piddly staff. That’s what the Ravager confessed?”
Again, the connection’s bitrate fell. The projected image turned mosaic, obscuring everything but Cole’s mistrustful expression. The sight pulled choking walls closer. Amplified every noise in the small room.
“It's more than a weapon.” Genji rubbed his thigh. The ponytail of cloth fluttered when he shook his head in search of concise words. “Ramattra… He described it as the controller for Null Sector’s operations. Talon could gain access to everything.”
The tautness in Cole’s face smoothened. “Everything, huh. That’s one helluva claim, Genji.”
A corner of the cowboy’s mouth remained pinched. Cole seemed conflicted. Forced to walk the narrow tightrope between trusts.
Ramattra’s forehead touched the cold glass. Humans would never understand.
“Then again…”
Smoked wisped with a puff. Another hitch in the projection. For a beat, the cloud stayed suspended. The very air crystallized, awaiting Cole’s verdict.
Then it shattered.
A muted explosion rippled. Ramattra pivoted toward the noise. Genji flinched, nearly dropping the device as if burned. Combat and shouts layered Cole’s swear, the cowboy ducking behind cover.
“A battalion! How did they find us?” A Russian accent growled.
Another woman gasped, tears in her voice. “They are after the Omnics.”
“Consarn it…! D.Va, Zarya, bait ‘em. Echo, Juno, air support. Baptiste, with me." Cole took a deep breath. His weapon raised as he left the frame.
The revolver snapped in quick succession, followed by splintering wood and a crash.
Genji started to his feet. He grunted in frustration at his uselessness. Ramattra, though, stood still. Torn between satisfaction at Overwatch’s plight—and fear that he had spoken up too late.
A shrill battle cry, then detonations. A low hum of energy responded moments later, crackling the speakers. The hologram flickered. For a breath, distorted text flashed in the connection log. Ramattra’s core seized, and he drew near. The oddity did not slip past Genji unnoticed; they locked gazes.
A wordless understanding passed between them.
White bloomed in the room, forcing Ramattra’s searing apertures closed. The sky boomed. Windows rattled like the bars of a cage.
When darkness descended again, the flash had wrangled Cole’s attention. He appeared back in the stuttering frame, crossing the hall in an exposed roll. His hat flung off from the momentum, brim pierced by a bolt of plasma.
Genji tried again, his voice carrying in hope that he could be heard. “Cole, you have to tell the others!”
The cowboy snorted loudly, spitting.
“That sidewinder’s story is hogwash Genji, this here attack ain’t a coincidence. Dangit, we need to end the transmission now!” He ordered. His gun unloaded as he tried to approach his own device, knells overpowering the speakers.
“Talon almost went down with the ship for it!” Genji’s composure began cracking, refusing the conclusion. “We have to believe him, Null Sector is com—”
The hologram reeled. Blue fragmented into purple. Purple into red. Without warning, the swansong cut off. Fingers slacked, the device dead before it hit the floor, stumbling together with Genji’s warning.
“—prom…”
Rolling thunder joined the roar of the deluge. Beams rasped from everywhere, whispering, the island flickering as generators failed. The final syllable glitched incessantly in Ramattra’s audio transducer, harmonizing in time with his electrical heartbeat.
Time seemed still.
Genji did not move. He stood a stone sentinel, caught in an internal struggle.
Ramattra’s vocalizer fizzled before it even activated. His eyes refocused. Tried to pierce the silence. Burning a hole into the small, stiff form.
They spent an eternity there, on the knife’s edge. What should have been spoken remained unsaid.
Genji peered over his shoulder. White hands curled, arms shaking.
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In a fight, Winston’s curt admission would be deemed a suckerpunch—entirely out of left field.
Color drained out of Genji’s face, his mind recoiling. “I… Sorry?” He fumbled, casting a glance toward the way he had come from. “But Ramattra is locked up here. Null Sector’s base of operations was destroyed. They should be scattered.”
“Our leading theory is that Null Sector’s operations and command are branched to counteract disruptions in structure. The lull in activity must have been a strategic feint for a secondary blitz.” Although hardly skewed, Winston nonetheless repositioned his glasses. It was a nervous tick he had, one he thought was well-hidden from the workforce depending on him for guidance in times of doubt.
For the simple gesture it was, it formed ice in Genji’s veins.
Vivian nodded, the dark under her eyes a harrowing hint of human limits, yet her stance remained steadfast. “It’s bad out there. Multiple governments have issued a state of emergency; Thailand, Hawaii, Chile…”
Supplementing snapshots blipped into an arch around Command. Genji felt his heart rend at the sight: Omnics in varying locations, slumped over or prone on the ground, all wearing the metal crowns of Null Sector. While he sobered from the flurry of emotions, Vivian continued her summary by pulling up a globe highlighting different countries.
“We’re stretched thin and on borrowed time. Debriefing is being conducted while we are en route to deploy.”
Genji began moving even before his mind made the decision, his determined words following suit. “Sojourn, your aircraft at the landing has an autopilot function, correct? I can reach Bangkok within the hour, and—”
Vivian raised her hand with a sympathetic look, stilling his ramble.
“We need you there. At Indira,” she quickly elaborated. “Whoever is leading Null Sector now, if they learn where Ramattra is, there’s a risk they will try to break him out.”
“For that reason, transmissions to and from the island need to be restricted. I’m granting you full authorization,” Winston explained as he hunched forward to type into a secondary device.
With the momentary lull, Genji’s eyes flicked over the rest of Command; Cole’s stance was rigid, his signature cigar missing. His incomplete holographic depiction gave the impression he was attempting to hide.
Meanwhile, Angela was tending to a figure partially drawn inside her quadrant; the bangles in the hair and the definition in the arm suggested it was Fareeha. Out of everyone in Command, Angela looked the most haggard. Of course, she juggled the same responsibilities and then some. Even now she was busy weaving medical work together with a response strategy and the logistical nightmare it all entailed.
Forgetting to respond to her messages had guilt prod at Genji’s stomach, so he busied himself with the list of logged IDs, scrolling through it. Every agent, old and new, waited silently for the debrief to resume.
“In the meantime, you wouldn’t have anything to report, would you, Genji?” Vivian requested. She aimed to move the conversation along, as every second was precious.
…And now Genji was frightfully aware of how he had misspent them. “No. I can only confirm the intel we have.” Speaking the truth out loud made him cringe.
A wave of disappointment swept through Command. Only Winston caught the nuance, even while typing. “But you have been making progress.”
“I have been trying to gain favor. Through Ramattra’s past with Master Zenyatta, and… Ah…” Genji’s gaze dropped, the words almost lodging in his throat. “…Assistance in repairs.”
Winston stopped mid-typing to raise his head, just as surprised as Cole. Vivian closed her eyes shut while Angela looked back at the screen, her brows slightly raised. Fareeha leaned into frame, her expression unreadable. Murmuring from agents filled the channel.
Genji’s face flushed. The gulls’ cries twisted his insides.
“You didn’t consult us,” Sojourn stated flatly, opening her eyes. “Entering an enemy commander’s cell unsupervised, compromising containment by giving him tools… Genji, what you did wasn’t only reckless, it broke protocol.”
Genji nodded but did not look up; his head felt heavy on his shoulders.
Winston sighed, rubbing tiredly at his face. “Go easy on him, Vivian. This is partially on me. If I had more time after bringing the Ecopoint online, I could have repaired Ramattra.”
An attempt to redirect blame and soften the flawed call of judgment. It made Vivian shake her head, her ponytail mimicking the motion.
“I take full—,” Genji tried all too softly, but Vivian was louder.
“When he was still unconscious, Winston. This was an individual decision, and it was performed while Ramattra was awake. He’s an R-7000—an out of commission limb won’t turn such a model harmless, nor does it impede their tactical strategizing.”
Her expression tightened at the thought of a worse outcome. “What if Ramattra had attacked and successfully breached confinement? Do I have to remind you Genji is alone at the Ecopoint? There’s only one way on or off that island and it’s at the landing pad, waiting. Back me up here, Ange.”
At the call, Angela scooted closer to her screen, her voice non-confrontational yet decided. “I support Genji’s decision.”
Fareeha seemed unphased. While she anticipated the response, Vivian did not. In spite of Vivian’s surprise, she matched Angela’s confidence. “You’re saying you agree with what he did?”
“He should’ve gone through the proper channels, yes, but leaving Ramattra in disrepair would’ve been inhumane.”
“Inhumane?” Vivian echoed. Her optic lenses activated, their brilliant blue suggesting she was looking through archival photos. “Angela, these invasions are inhumane.”
Angela was not to be dissuaded; she placed a hand on her chest, her halo gleaming. “What good would Overwatch be if we resorted to treatment befitting war criminals?”
“These are real stakes we’re dealing with, not a hypothetical scenario in an ethics class. People are dying and Omnics are being stripped of their consciousness. You know that. You’ve seen it. ”
Genji’s eyes glazed over, his mind tuning out the voices. The arguing made his body twitch. An old, faded reflex of his: Fall into a prostrate position, touch his forehead to the tatami mat until father and the Elders finished exchanging words. Muffled words and squawks reached him like underwater noise, and his mind drifted to the place it should not have gone to begin with.
At some point, the conference turned quiet. Only the sound of the many crafts’ whining engines poured out of the speakers. A harsh reminder of the division of teams.
Cole jumped, realizing his superiors were awaiting his input, the sudden movement breaking Genji out of his fugue. The cyborg realized he had subconsciously moved throughout the debate, now finding himself standing in the shadow of the barracks.
Cole’s eyes darted as he adjusted his hat. “Eh, well… I have t’take—,” he cleared his throat, smoothing his drawl. “I have to take Vivian’s side on this. You’re no tenderfoot; you know cornered animals bite. Moseying on in without a partner was a right risk.”
Genji nodded with a hummed agreement, retreating into the sterile halls of the building. He stared down at the cracked concrete as he meandered. Cole and Vivian were more than right.
“Hey, you woulda given Ramattra one hell of a dustup. He should be countin’ his lucky stars,” Cole offered with a subdued chuckle; his attempt at raising Genji’s sullen spirit.
“Okay, okay. We can discuss this when we have time,” Winston meditated in anticipation of the topic straying further. He returned to type at his keyboard, his fingers jabbing at the keys in a flurry. “The longer the connection is kept, the more we risk triangulation and an attack. If you have any cause for concern or an update, Genji, report to us immediately. In the meantime, we are depending on you for information.”
“Without stepping into Ramattra’s cell,” Vivian cut in, ignoring the sharp, resigned exhale from Winston.
Genji’s face contorted behind his mask. Straightening himself, he finally dared engage the many eyes seemingly fixed on him, not out of his own will but out of necessity. “Understood. May I speak with Dr. Ziegler? Privately.”
Vivian appeared pleased with the affirmation, her firm tone softening somewhat. “Of course, Genji. We’ll reroute her call to you when we’ve finished up the debrief. Stay vigilant. We don’t know what more Null Sector have up their sleeve. You’re free to go.”
At the granted dismissal, a clamor of opinions and questions were aimed at command, prompting Cole and Angela to try and get everyone to settle. That was the last thing Genji registered before he left the digital conference, his musings already moving on.
His feet took him toward the canteen, a familiar gnaw eating at him, but he knew it was not just hunger.
Leaning his chin against his hand, Genji absently stirred the contents of his ramen cup. Wafting steam had long since cleared. On the table next to his faceplate, the same holopad sat at the ready. Its blue glow clashed with the dim warmth of the canteen’s lights.
During the time between ending the call and now, his focus should have been on the debrief. Let the words ring in his head. Contemplate the concerns and adjust his conduct accordingly.
Yet the world had been tipped on its axis and his mind always wandered back to the cell. Back to the sight that had struck revelation. Ramattra, staring forlornly at his hand. At the chassis designed and forged to be a weapon.
And in front of Genji was the same. Hands belonging to a body birthed and twice shaped for that purpose.
Ramattra remained ghosting, his shape laced with the very hate and pain Genji had witnessed in Null Sector’s machines. The one and same which had defined his own reflection once. A state of being Zenyatta had shifted, proved possible of remedy.
A mingling sense of regret, hope and shame simmered within Genji’s chest. He continued stirring his cold ramen.
Some time later, the holopad chirped. Angela, at last. He swallowed, forced himself into a more dignified posture before answering.
“Hi, Genji,” Angela greeted warmly albeit tiredly. As suggested by the low, constant drone, she was still in the cabin of the Orca. “I’m here now. What is it you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Ah, hi Angela…” Genji trailed off and rubbed at his neck. He was not confident in how to approach the subject matter, even though he knew he could confide in her.
The pause wrought a line of worry across Angela’s forehead, her expression falling. “Is it about my messages? I’m really sorry, Genji, I didn’t mean to come across so strongly. All the stress and worry took over.”
Genji threw his hands up in front of himself. “No, I—I understand. The subject is… slightly related to that. My actions, that is.”
“Well. I stand by what I said to Vivian. Maybe I was a bit too blunt, but you know how passionate I can be,” she said, twirling a strand of blonde hair that had loosened from her ponytail. “No one deserves to suffer. Not even the most vile person on Earth.”
“I agree. Still… There has to be a line. Where is it?”
Trying to appear casual, Genji swept a curtain of noodles into his mouth. He grimaced at the cold, soggy texture.
“This isn’t just about the way you defied safety regulations, is it?”
Genji’s eyes widened, nearly choking on his food. He coughed. Slamming the ramen cup down almost created a mess.
“S-spicy,” he claimed, wheezing. At Angela’s pointed look, he gulped down a glass of water.
The theatrics left her pursing her lips, unimpressed. “Genji. I brought you back from the brink of death. I helped you learn how to walk again. We tackled Maximilien together. I think I know you well enough to pick up on your cues by now. What’s worrying you?”
The question was a catalyst for repressed feelings to boil over, seeking escape despite being pushed against. Their potency was caustic, burning his esophagus.
“I…,” Genji eked out involuntarily. He brought his arms close. Like the Tongue-Cut Sparrow, his mouth opened and closed, words present but refusing.
I failed him. I failed Zenyatta.
Tension shot through his body. The lamps inched closer, their light turning hot against his skin, knocking the confession loose.
“It’s Zenyatta,” he said softly. “I worry for him.”
Angela’s mouth curved downward with pity. She brought the Holovid closer, her voice clearer against the static. “He means a lot to you. It’s natural to feel concerned about his health.”
“I’m not the only one,” Genji admitted, his eyes dropping momentarily. “Ramattra has ties to him, and he seems conflicted as well.”
“Yes, I heard you report a past with Zenyatta. I’m surprised he opened up about it.”
With a finger, Genji traced the circumference of the ramen cup. The repetitive motion kept his focus anchored. “Truthfully… He never did. Not directly. I asked him if he knew Zenyatta’s role before the Awakening. Making a claim or saying no would have been simple. When he admitted he could never get a real answer, I knew he was speaking sincerely.”
Genji glanced aside, voice quieter. “Only those close to Zenyatta would know how often his past changes. Not even Tekhartha Mondatta knew.”
Angela nodded slowly; she knew what Genji was working toward. Nonetheless, she let him air out his mindset. It was as appreciated as it was a headache.
“Our shared history with Zenaytta may be a deciding factor for Ramattra to reveal how to undo subjugation. But… During my time as his student, he demonstrated the importance of connection through presence and patience.”
“Which would mean disobeying Vivian’s restriction.”
Genji gave her a small, woeful laugh. “Precisely. I’m at an impasse.”
Silence descended as Angela leaned up against the Orca’s server racks, looking up in thought. Around her, small lights pulsed on and off, soft beeping and clicking following suit.
“When I entered the world of medicine, I was aware I would be forced to make hard calls. It terrified me. What if I wound up causing more harm than good? One of my professors was a doctor on the frontline of the Omnic Crisis. She knew the fear, so she took me aside and gave me a piece of advice that has followed me ever since.” She tucked the strand behind her ear. “‘Being too afraid of doing wrong risks overlooking doing what’s right.’ Not every choice comes with clarity, but doing nothing is worse.”
The phrase permeated in the ensuing stillness, an opportunity for the wisdom to reach through and settle. In the silence, Genji smothered under their weight.
Angela glanced at something off-screen and she set off, her heels audible against the floor. “I hope our little chat was productive. We’re closing in on contested territory and Fareeha’s Raptora suit still has a fracture to mend.”
Genji barely registered the words before replying. “You gave me advice to consider. Thank you, Angela. Don’t forget to take care of yourself, too.”
“As long as I’m helping heal people, I’ll be fine.” She stopped in place, a slyness curving her eyes. “Actually, a dinner at Les Deux Escargots in Paris would most certainly help. With my choice in wine. Your palette is terrible.”
Of course. Angela and her fine dining. Genji almost bartered for an izakaya, a ramen stand or even a canteen—but for her, he nodded, chuckling weakly. “I will bring you there when the world is safe.”
“We have a deal,” she winked. Her cheeky demeanor melted away to a soft, fond smile. “You’ll find a way, Genji. I know you will. That’s a promise.”
When the call ended, Genji stared blankly at the display. After a minute or so, the holograph scattered with the activation of standby-mode. Without the holopad’s glow, the room receded inward. Heat pressed against him, against his chest and into his lungs.
The flicker of a single bulb cast a silhouette on the wall.
Warped. All too close. All too similar.
Genji left the canteen in a hurry.
The night was alive with the song of cicadas.
A similar tune enveloped Hanamura dojo so long ago. Where, regardless of Genji’s determination and honed skill, he never won a single spar. Yet training was the one area he felt fully in control of. Moving his body was a freedom, a tangible progression in a life dominated by his role as second-born. He could run from undesired responsibilities, escape the ensuing punishment with lockpicking and dexterity, then find comfort in eroticism and sex.
Until it all came to an abrupt end.
Genji’s visage reflected off the glass entrance. For just a breath, a gossamer overlaying his own form, he saw Hanzo approach. Then the doors parted with a nerve-wracking shriek.
Musty air hit Genji the instant he entered the training room. Equipment lay in disarray, a thin layer of dust sprinkling every surface, kicked up with the disturbance moving through it.
Basic training dummies stood in a line farther back, the material of their padding cracked and dry, still waiting to fulfill their purpose.
A deep inhale and a grimace, though not for the cloy of decaying rubber. Whap, and a fist to the abdomen shook the training dummy. Precision and restraint characterised the exploratory punch. With a second Genji confirmed the density and the feel of padding. Soft outer layer and a firm core, he noted with a satisfied nod. He flexed his hands until the hydraulic knuckles clicked in protest.
Decorum fell to the wayside. Genji gave no performatory bow of respect. No acknowledgement of a spar. Only the starting signal of a hard punch connecting with the solar plexus. Another rocked the doll, not enough for a complete sway, but enough to tear open the floodgates of the digital debrief.
I deserved harsher reprimand. Duty calls for discipline. My actions were senseless.
Genji breathed rhythmically; exhale upon exertion, inhale upon retreat. Weight shifted between the balls of his feet, entering a combative stance. Flurried jabs battered the core of the dummy, each successive strike drifting wider alongside the replayed argument.
Yet they can still save every fallen Omnic and Zenyatta. Maybe even…
Shame guided force into another hit, shaky and raw, buckling the torso in half, fibers loudly splitting along a seam. He coiled a leg. It sprung, driving his heel into the chest. Then again, and again. His breaths quickened, falling out of rhythm, the first rivulets of sweat staining his brow.
In the back of his mind, he heard the calm and steady lilt of Zenyatta’s vocoder.
You must take control of your emotions before they take control of you.
A remnant of their first lesson.
Genji pivoted, grunting sharply as he slammed an elbow into the side of the target’s head. A jolt shot through his arm, tagging each sensor like forked lightning. He recoiled, muscles furling in response, tension overtaking his footwork.
It begins in the core. Control your breathing.
Hissing steam seeped into the enclosed space, mixing into the brackish air. His rattling gasps sharpened, vertigo dictating balance. Fist and mannequin collided halfway. Only one yielded. Genji’s body shuddered, feverish.
Allow the rhythm to still your thoughts.
Eyes wrenched shut as if thoughts would deafen with the dark. Genji’s shoulders and chest heaved. Breaths dragged and trembled. He choked on the stagnant air, lungs burning. Sweat trailed down his body, but the inferno lingered. Raged under his skin, in his veins, all around him.
Empty your mind. Set it adrift along the river of consciousness.
Instinct snatched the reins, landed blows confirmed by the sound of impact and the shock traveling through his fists and arms. His joints resisted, his muscles protesting.
Meet your emotions.
He opened his eyes. The room was alight, vapor and smoke diffusing every line and edge. The silhouette stood before him in confrontation, posed with grace and confidence.
Acknowledge them.
Thudding resounded alongside a low growl. Pain flirted with Genji’s fists, faint against the mental din. A kick sent the mannequin smashing onto the floor with a screech of rusted hinges—a pained cry.
The sound turned Genji stiff and he hesitated.
The shape recoiled and in an instant Genji was on his back. Mind reeling, body in anguish.
Accept them.
Again, he felt the weight of rock—the weight of failure—digging into him, pinning him to the ground. Yet the silhouette did not leave him to burn. Not this time. Genji stumbled to his feet and dashed down the hall, the automatic door opening, but he was not free.
Let go.
Outside he staggered onto his knees, windswept. The breeze was fair, not emberladen and ashy. Salty, briny, carrying notes of seaweed. Wind comforted and soothed the fire, the crisp cool gentle for his panicked lungs.
No more burning rock and crumbling stone.
Yet every scar flared against the chill, every phantom limb and part crying for release. In the stillness of night, in the heat of battle, they would claw Genji back to relive the cold bite of steel and the pain of betrayal. Pursue him into his dreams, twist them into nightmares steeped in blood and screams not of his own.
Fingers curled into tufts of grass to hold on for dear life, pulling and shredding. The song of the cicadas delivered what Genji already knew: It was time for rebirth.
Forgive.
The leitmotif pulled him under, into the memory of dusky Hanamura and the tenth anniversary of his death. Inside his childhood home wafted the healing aroma of agarwood, burned by a second dragon seeking redemption.
It was silent. Almost… Peaceful.
The skirmish unfolded in a haze amongst lanterns and atop worn tatami, familiar albeit foreign to Genji like a bout of deja vu: He moved, he spoke, he fought. He reacted to each whistling arrow sent by Anija and evaded them. The bolts still hit their mark, the harmful intentions embedding themselves in Genji’s soul. Painful, yet he forgave each.
Twin specters raced toward him, crackling the air in their wake. And he responded in turn; his own ghost rushed forward to culminate in a radiant meeting of dragon spirits, vivid against the obscure details and refining them in their clash. Anija’s angular face softened as his dark eyes widened in shock. His disbelief to stand before the living dead. Two brothers, dual mistakes, united again.
Under the stars of Indira, Genji shivered, his irregular breaths leveling. His scarred lips moved to the memory he was reliving, feeling the shape of silent words and absorbing their wisdom.
I have accepted what I am and I have forgiven you.
Now you must forgive yourself.
The world is changing once again—
—it's time to pick a side.
Grass tickled Genji’s sensors. In his memory, he stood atop the stone rampart, tall and confident. Held between his fingers and extended toward Hanzo, the sharp blade of the innocent sparrow’s killer. Beige. Tips streaked with dark bands. Not a tool of violence—a feather.
Sparrowhawk. Tsumi. Sin.
His past self let go of his history steeped in blood, his own tsumi. Joining the waltz, twirling around each other, was a plume carried forth by the underdraft of a plea.
In the present, Genji stood up and opened his eyes.
“Perhaps I am a fool to think that there is still hope for you…”
S-save Z-Zen–yatt—a.
“...But I do.”
◇◇◇
Quiet and stillness permeated the cell, commanding in its finality.
Crossed legged and bent over, Ramattra’s optics and lights had long since dimmed. A few hours after Genji's departure at Athena’s behest, he stopped moving. There was no point. His temper had gotten the best of him, and in demonstrating the extent of his restraint, Ramattra had instead reminded Genji of the code laying latent within the Ravager OS.
His fingers twitched involuntarily. Twice he held the fate of his kind in his hand, and twice he allowed them to slip through his grasp like sand.
The weight pressing down on him was oppressive, but he was not a stranger to it. A similar despondency clung to him after Zera’s and Nameless’ departure. Unlike then, there was no endless toil to distract him. No comfort of factories alive with cacophonous construction, quelling memories of death with the promise of retribution and salvation.
Ramattra strained to route focus onto the floor, eyes languidly tracing the patterns created by tile flutes. He was tired of thinking.
Time dissolved. Checking his system’s internal clock only served to aggravate him further with each meticulous review, and so the feature was disabled entirely.
Apertures shut to a lonely darkness. Ramattra knew he could continue poring over memories, the closest he would have to a tangible existence beyond the four walls of his metal coffin. Relive them infinitely while he rusted, forevermore denied the warmth of the sun or the vast expanse of the night sky.
Ramattra was tired of memories and the regret tailing him.
Slipping into a trance took effort. It always did. Thoughts and feelings were ceaseless, after all, plucking at his mind like a cord. Even now they existed within his digital mindscape, dithering tears in the matrix, shifting shapes and hues. Desiring attention, aching for order.
There would be none. No distillation of consciousness for clarity. Nor any mudra, no gesture of prayer to disconnect from the weakness of emotion. Instead, Ramattra tried something new.
With his psychic hands he nurtured the tears in his mindscape, coaxing each into shape. Their heft burdened his ethereal arms, yet he persevered, caging himself within a chromatic wireframe of emotion. They latticed until the shimmering forms and architecture sparked nostalgia, brightened by flickering candlelight rendered in kaleidoscopic fire.
Glimmering effigies weaved into being, static but present, basking in the radiance of the symbol across from them. Two figures embodying what he could never achieve—and what he could never allow himself to have.
At long last, Ramattra returned home to live out his days with Mondatta and Zenyatta at his sides, under the watchful guard of the Iris. Malcontent and defeated, Ramattra would pretend till the last flick of binary.
In the sea of pink sandstone, the midday sun glared overhead, ruthlessly baking the arid landscape. Being constantly exposed to the harsh elements whittled with time deep canyons and high crags in the earth.
Though inhospitable, natural phenomena was not the only shaper. Humans had carved a refuge in the tall rock many moons ago, and while the ancient city was known by many names—new, old, or forgotten—most knew of it as Petra.
Sand kicked up under the strong engines of a descending craft, turning the surrounding air thick with dust. It landed as gently as its pilot could muster, the hatch on its side unlatching with a hiss. A small rank and file followed closely behind Reaper, before fanning out in a preordered fashion.
Stepping out after them, Zenyatta shielded his optics from the harsh sun, moseying up to the hooded man surveying the location. A chill nipped at the air in the wake of Reaper’s path; lovely in such a climate, although most took umbrage with the accompanying aura of decay. Zenyatta was no different, but his reasoning extended beyond discomfort with death. If anything, he had come to envy the crumbling man; the static nature of steel was more flawed than any flesh and it needed rectifying.
Normally, Zenyatta harbored great patience and restraint. Staring down into the ravine, at the crowds of tourists in awe of the weathered rock edifice, he found himself annoyed with this detour of theirs.
“I never expected Talon’s operations to be so scattered.” None of that annoyance made its way into his tone. Not that it mattered to Reaper; for as much as his existence was an offense to the living, the existence of the living was an offense to him.
“Doomfist prefers to keep a wide range of options, so shut your trap and get back on the ship. I don’t want you in the way.” With his rasped words, Reaper spurred the company by setting off in a pace, but Zenyatta was more than insistent in staying close behind.
“I’m not a pacifist. Did the extraction of the staff not convince you?”
“You’re a prattling monk until I see you harm a civilian. Go pray or something,” Reaper growled, taking his exit and scattering into smoke, slithering through the shuddering air trying to reject his invasion. Miffed to be left dallying, Zenyatta drummed his fingers together, deciding the mausoleum below would be a fitting place as any to take Reaper up on his suggestion.
Inside proved as lavishly carved as the outside. Reliefs and features lined the worn walls, while sand and rubble lay strewn atop the tiled floor. Even paint had survived the test of time, albeit faded and peeled.
More interesting to Zenyatta were the electrical cords trailing along the floor, and so he humored their guidance, taken from room to room and cord to cord, ultimately arriving at a chamber with a domed ceiling. Brightly lit up by lamps, the room was much like stepping outside, its turquoise walls detailing a scene lifted straight out of Ancient Greece.
Lured in by the crunching sand and footsteps, a human appeared in the opposite doorway, their face turning sheepish upon seeing Zenyatta.
“Uh! Sorry! Al-Khazneh is off-limits for tourists.” This was not any random person, Zenyatta noted. As their gear and the location suggested, they were a member of the Wayfinder Society, a global nonprofit of archaeological experts.
Theatrically looking around himself and placing a hand on his chest, Zenyatta let out a small noise of realization. “I seem to have separated from my tour group. How clumsy of me.”
The archaeologist’s eyes lit up in recognition, the act of trespass forgotten. “A Shambali monk!” Their excitement was short lived, petering out alongside their smile. “I was so sad to hear about your temple in Suravasa. First the statue and now the building.”
“Yes, it is a shame.”
“So much of the history and culture just…” They flourished with their hands, mimicking an explosion. “Poof! Gone. It’s like there’s an ancient curse put on the place.”
The animated way this human moved and spoke tickled Zenyatta’s fancy; like the children of the village beneath the monastery, wearing a gleam of naivety in their eyes. It evoked that vague feeling of amiss that had been shadowing him for a while now—as if reality had shifted a step to the side and left him out of sync.
Such luck he had found someone to distract him. “It is indeed a curse.”
Having a monk of the order entertain their theorizing caught the archeologist for a loop. “Woah, you really think so?”
“A curse of time, yes. The past is doomed to crumble,” he made a sweeping gesture at the cracked murals, “but we are fortunate the future holds infinite potential.”
Smacking their forehead, the archaeologist had an aha-moment. “Oh! Yeah! That’s why it’s extra important to preserve what we can. Otherwise we wouldn’t have these awesome insights into the people who lived here!”
For better or for worse, that set the young archaeologist off into a tangent, rambling about the fresco and its Roman origins, what it confirmed, what questions it raised and the resultant theories thereof. Somehow, this spiel was condensed into as little as two minutes—maybe even less. Zenyatta did not time it. He kind of wished he had.
“That’s all very interesting. But where are my manners? My name is Tekhartha Zenyatta,” he said, bowing gracefully.
“Out here, I go by Venture!” The archeologist introduced themself, striking a grand pose. Then they shrugged. “But the Wayfinder Society told me to use my real name, so, yeah, I’m boring ol’ Sloan.”
“Well, Venture or ‘boring ol’ Sloan’,” Zenyatta chuckled cheekily, his joke earning a laugh, "it is a pleasure to meet you. Do you have any other treasures to share with me?”
“Do I!” Sloan motioned to move but snapped back into place. “Wait, you should get back to your group, I bet they miss you! Heh, you gotta have been really distracted to wander off from those tours they do. Sometimes I tag along and pretend I’m hearing it all for the first time again.”
“I have been told my head is in the clouds. I suspect my guide won’t notice I’m gone for a bit longer. Between you and me,” Zenyatta leaned in as if sharing confidential information, “you’re much more delightful than that surly, old man.”
Sloan bashfully rubbed at the back of their head, trying not to allow the compliment to inflate their ego. “Aw shucks! Usually when I get going people tell me to bring it down a notch. Okay, okay—one itty bitty, teensy-weensy look in the depot won’t hurt. Uh, lemme think, what could I show…”
Zenyatta followed Sloan’s lead, falling into step with them. “If I may make a request? Something foreign, perhaps with an inspirational tale of daring-do.”
“Oh!” His new guide made a sharp u-turn, pointing a finger down the opposite direction, “then we wanna go that-a-way.”
Navigating through Al-Khazneh enforced the mausoleum as a labyrinthine mess. At one point, Zenyatta suspected Sloan had lost their way and was merely pretending, until he was waved into a small room. In comparison to the ornate standard set thus far, it would have been terribly plain and empty had it not been transformed into a temporary dwelling. Cozy, if a bit cramped.
“This is my room! My coworkers set it up for me a while back. That’s how I learned I talk in my sleep.” Sloan did not miss a beat, not even as they stuck an arm under their cot to rifle after something. “This is it!” They announced, pulling out a small metal box, practically bursting with excitement. How they still had energy left, Zenyatta had no clue.
With a grace not demonstrated up until now, Sloan lifted the lid, hefting up the artifact—a golden jar with the head of a jackal.
Zenyatta placed his hands behind his back. “How lovely. I can't say I have seen anything quite like it. What do you believe it to be?”
“It’s shaped like a canopic jar, y’know, one of the vessels ancient Egyptians stored their organs in for the afterlife. Duamutef—this guy—protected the stomach!” Sloan narrowed their eyes and pursed their lips at the relic, puzzled. “But it doesn’t have a seam or anything! A coworker wanted to try scanning it with our machines but I said, no way! Our ground-penetration radar is super strong and might damage it. We can’t return a pile of dust to Cairo. Well, technically we could, but what kinda archaeologist would I be then?”
While the tangent answered absolutely nothing about Zenyatta’s question, it did answer another he had not asked, so he gave an appreciative bow. “Thank you, Sloan.”
“No prob! It has a doozy of a story too, featuring your fave archaeologist.” The lid shut as Sloan plopped down atop it, readying another bout of enthusiastic monologuing. “Get this, one night in Cairo—”
Static, followed by muffled shouting, stopped them both in their tracks. Sloan quickly rifled through a pocket in their oversized coat, revealing a radio.
“—the storage!”
Another person responded, sounding on the verge of tears. “They’re outside! What do we do? We don’t stand a chance against Talon!”
“Talon!?” Sloan despaired, springing to their feet. “Geez, those bozos just don’t know when to quit!” The radio made a blip before Sloan spoke into it, rushing out the room and into the next. “Get the drills—we can send them packing! Over!”
They spun around to address Zenyatta, bounding backwards and away. “Stay there, I’ll come get you when it’s safe!”
Nearby gunshots and an exasperated whine marked Sloan’s exit. Distant shouting, screaming and discharged weapons reverberated through the ancient building, a racket different to the usual excavation work.
Leaving the mausoleum was easy—follow the noise. Well outside, Zenyatta took stock of the chaos.
Civilians had scattered, clambering for shelter or fleeing in terror from the Talon soldiers terrorizing the premises. Their assault would not go unchallenged for longer; a massive burst ejected out of the ground and swallowed an unsuspecting grunt, spraying them, sand, and rock into the air, all to the loud pitch of a drill.
Effectively blind, the Talon troopers nonetheless unloaded into the plume, kicking up debris where bullets impacted into the architecture of Al-Khazneh. When the obstruction dispersed, there was no one there.
The havoc sent a fret of exhilaration through Zenyatta’s copper, drowning out the disquiet persistently hounding him. Shudders racked his hydraulics; what once roused sorrow now made him feel alive.
Sauntering across the battlefield and ignoring the Talon soldiers falling one by one around him, Zenyatta hummed a small tune. Doomfist’s message rang true; chaos begat adaptation. Some embraced the change necessary. Flourished in it. Here was proof in the Wayfinder Society’s archaeologists, who in the face of adversity had turned the mechanisms of earth into little more than suggestion.
Returning to his seat in the waiting aircraft, strapping himself into the harness, he deemed his little trip more than fruitful. Not long after, Reaper streamed in, the shift announcing his arrival tenser than usual.
The craft took off without issue. Zenyatta gazed out the porthole, down at the rock still ardently refusing change. He knew it too well by now, that specific die-hard stubbornness. Met it amongst snow and amongst jungle. But as he had learned time and time again, change was an inevitability.
Across from him, Reaper sank down his seat and dug his fingers into the plush armrests, tearing back the material, begrudging the result of his mission. He was neither thrilled to see the very artifact in Zenyatta’s lap, nor at his soft taunt.
“Nobody suspects a prattling monk.”
◇◇◇
Installation of the chip marked the midpoint of repairs. To be frank, Genji had expected his presence to have turned more than burdensome before that point. More so for one as irritable as Ramattra, not only forced to contend with his penchant for sly remarks but also with his lack of engineering prowess.
So when Genji was presented with the last part to have been detached—the first piece to be returned—his stomach flipped, surprised. The feeling was short-lived; staring at the adapter, remembering the Ravager’s words, Genji’s confidence whisked away, leaving behind heady discomfort.
Ramattra did not know how right he had been, earlier. Or maybe he was aware. Maybe it was more visible than Genji liked, the ghost of his legacy. The very thought made him fidget, suddenly painfully aware of the eyes on him, and the mere act of meeting that analytical gaze felt daunting.
“You… trust me with this?” He asked carefully. The beat of silence, followed by an uncharacteristic reservation, must have taken Ramattra for a loop, enduring a bout of his own. Nevertheless, he would not be dissuaded from his decision.
“Yes. Reassembly will progress faster with you as my hands.”
Time would not matter to the war criminal locked within his confinement. Neither would he be able to accomplish much in terms of escape if he were to be left alone with the tools at his disposal. Still, Ramattra’s insistence on his request made Genji hesitate to decline, and he had but one more qualm to express.
“What if I damage you?”
With a sound akin to a wry exhale, Ramattra shot the question down. “Considering the state of my face and my arm, I would say it is much too late to fret. However, if it disconcerts you so, I won’t push the matter.”
Presented with a first in his life, Genji softly shook his head. As was customary when receiving a gift, he cupped his hands together and extended them, accepting both the piece and the opportunity to mend with a bow, thoroughly humbled.
“I will do my best.”
Ramattra’s empty hand lingered in the air, just for a second. If he understood what had transpired, he said nothing.
Where dismantling was indeed second nature, being guided to reconstruct was an opportunity in itself. Even though most of what he touched or what Ramattra spoke of was beyond Genji’s understanding, he listened and gave it his all.
It took a while to arrive there, but with a final rotation of the screwdriver, the finishing touches were within reach. Genji bit his lip as the first rounds of testing began; the LED atop Ramattra’s wrist flashed on and he flexed his hand experimentally, curled each finger individually, then turned his arm back and forth.
“A slight stutter. Some tension. Hm. I’m astounded this turned out as well as it did,” Ramattra confessed after checking off every facet of functionality.
Of course it would. Ramattra had overseen every single detail, but Genji could not pass up on the chance to twist his meaning. “So, you’re admitting I’m a natural.”
A huff at the misplaced confidence, and Genji could imagine it being paired with a roll of optics. “For an amateur, it is satisfactory. For an expert, horrendous.”
“Yeah?” Genji fiddled about with the loose arm panel, impishly arching a brow. “Think I can manage this?”
“That may be within your ballpark.”
As Genji assisted him in slipping the plating back into its proper place, seeing the labors of his efforts pay off, he felt lighter than he had in a while. The same could not be said for Ramattra. While the repairs themselves were finished, one hurdle still remained.
“Manual calibrations. The bane of my existence,” he bemoaned, still inspecting his arm as he assessed every minutiae of movement.
If there was a time for Genji to leave, take the opportunity to tend to personal chores, now would be it; after spending so long on the floor, his limbs were stiff and he could use a good stretch, not to mention a drink and a meal. He decided he could linger for a moment longer, as conversely, this was an area in which he could claim aptitude in.
“Here.”
Placing the clunky holopad base on the floor, he slid it over to Ramattra. It knocked into his palm, grabbed with ease, and at the quizzical tip of the head, Genji elaborated. “Calibrations will go quicker if you practice.”
Following the presented logic, the holopad was rotated and flipped every which way. This was no challenge, so they moved up to the soldering iron. Thick enough to provide ample grip but thin enough to demand finer movements. Slow and careful proved satisfactory but technical manipulations had the tool tumble out of Ramattra’s hold. He hissed sharply, venting hot air along the artificial sound.
“How utterly frustrating,” he complained, focusing his energy into slamming his hand onto the tool rolling in circles. “These endless adjustments are driving me up the wall.”
That reaction—of an incessant anger and resentment, from a body not responding the way it should—weighed down Genji’s lips. His eyes shot between the arm and the white mask, his chest panging, and he reached for his repair kit, taking the first thing that caught his attention.
“You’re overthinking it.” Secured snug between his thumb and index finger, Genji waved the screwdriver in front of the Ravager—tauntingly. “Snatch this from me.”
The proposition did not do much to impress. Another jettison of air suggested Ramattra was barely holding back. “This is a serious matter. I am not playing games with you.”
Ramattra could claim differently but Genji knew what was needed: A clear, concise objective. Mustering his most obnoxious qualities, he extended his arm, forcing Ramattra back before the tool knocked into his faceplate. “Is that because you know you will lose?”
The heckle went unanswered, the cold shoulder not hindering the ninja. In fact, it only served to motivate him. The screwdriver swayed like a metronome, back and forth, following Ramattra as he tried to dodge it.
Sway, sway, sway.
Ramattra clenched and unclenched the soldering iron, struggling to duck the tool trailing him, still silent.
Sway, sway, sway.
Then the air snapped, the screwdriver grabbed at. Genji had reared back, his smile broadening into a grin. To Ramattra, it would appear as a reaction made in the nick of time—and that was the intended perception. When the shifting air stilled, they settled back into their original positions.
Contrary to what Ramattra had claimed, he was now entirely transfixed by the screwdriver, the soldering iron promptly forgotten somewhere on the floor in his explosive attempt.
“Was that your best? How disappointing,” Genji teased, a tad too harshly. Words were deemed insufficient incentive; the tool spun between his fingers, the theatrical display spurring renewed determination.
Though Ramattra’s optics were hidden behind his faceplate, they smoldered, fueling another burst of energy. His fingers grazed against Genji’s arm as it flicked away. Closer, this time. But not close enough.
“An engineer I worked with spoke a phrase whenever his turrets missed. ‘Close shoots no hare’.”
Ramattra’s throat rumbled, fixed onto the hand with predatory claim. He gave no quarter, rushing for his prize anew. Genji proved a little slower that time, just enough for a hold on his wrist but fast enough for it to lose traction. Too caught up with his fun, another thoughtless heckle slipped from his mouth.
“No matter how you look at it, it applies here, doesn’t it?”
The affected hand curled into a tight fist. Grin not faltering once, Genji studied Ramattra carefully, waiting for the signal: A whispered click of a mechanism. Then the hand pounced. As calm descended, Genji’s wrist had been caught, the fingers curled tight, ensuring it could not be yanked free. The ninja shook his head, swaying his bandana, tutting at the miss.
Then the world lurched. A matter of perspective, Genji’s scrambling mind realized; more aptly, his entire body had been wrenched forward. Pulled toward that dark wall of a body.
The hold constricted as Genji was hoisted up—effortlessly, like he was nothing more than a rag doll—until his eyes leveled with the dark hollows. Hidden optics gleamed with the dilation of apertures, Ramattra's voice buzzing with a low bass.
“You mistake my aim, hare.”
A shiver climbed up Genji’s spine, over every organic and inorganic vertebrae, closing his throat and hitching his breath at the raw, unfiltered act—suddenly deeply aware how easily Ramattra could snap him in half.
Eyes wide, Genji could only stare at that frozen grin in silence, his mouth parted and his heart in a frenzy, waiting to see what would happen.
“Stop.”
Athena’s voice, though soft, was loud in the room. It did not spur the hold on Genji to release, too stubborn to yield, but he was lowered down in a demonstration of no ill will. For Athena, an AI steered by protocols and safeguards, the placating gesture was deemed insufficient.
“Release Genji. Failure to comply will result in swift—”
“I’m fine, Athena,” Genji interjected, halting her threat and defusing an escalation that might otherwise occur if allowed to play out. She turned quiet, without a doubt analyzing his response and body language for any signs of distress. “Truly,” he pressed, tugging his arm out of the softening grasp.
Ramattra backed up, away from the only tangible presence, marking his displeasure at the treatment. Bristling with offense, he glowered and griped, “I am not some mindless machine.”
“Of course, you are not. The spike in Genji’s vitals roused alarm. I apologize for my assumption.” A slight warble accompanied Athena’s words, as if wrestling between duty and personality. “I do advise you to step out, Genji. Command is seeking you.”
Genji gathered his things, the silence turning as awkward as it was strained. Everything had flipped on a dime, but he was mindful of the blame laying solely on him, and in spite of his expectations in the heat of the moment, he found himself intact. Rattled, yes. Heart still hammering, definitely. But ultimately, fine.
…And painfully conscious of Ramattra’s restraint.
He chanced a look. The Ravager had turned his attention back to calibrating his arm. Hunched over, withdrawn, the way he stared at the limb was different from before. The energy of anger and frustration was absent, and without the carefully maintained front of stoicism, he radiated woe.
Genji’s brows pulled together. Again, a dull ache enveloped his chest. He looked down at his own arm, at the wrist he thought would shatter in his grip. Returning his eyes to gaze at Ramattra, it all became apparent, and Genji finally understood the reason behind the twinging.
“Genji?” Athena asked, subtly trying to remind him of her council.
He flinched, cut off from his internal search. “Oh. Uh, yeah,” he mumbled lamely while making his way to the door, assisted out by Athena.
As soon as the holopad booted and projected a screen, the melodic cadre of her voice poured out of its speakers. “Login authorized. Connection pending.”
Per her announcement, the system launched Overwatch’s internal communications channel. While he waited, walked down the corridor and through the facility, Genji slipped back into reflection.
When Winston and Athena had contacted him to request assistance in interrogations, flusteredly recounting the failed attempt, Genji had quickly caught on to Ramattra’s tactics. Hence, he had decided he would step into his cell. Refuse him the power and safety screens brought him.
Then the doors had parted. The hairs on Genji’s body had stood up, softening the shape of his hands. He had not grasped it then. Now, though, he did, and Genji pushed a fist to his chest, the pressure numbing the gnaw inside.
Sat hunched on that floor—his hair hanging in a disarray, a crack in his mask, nursing a damaged arm and the loss of an empire of steel—Ramattra had looked so utterly, reprehensibly pathetic. In an instant the orchestrator of the world’s plight, that Omnic in the propaganda videos, had become nothing more than a miserable little pile of hate.
Stepping outside the facility, Genji let loose a shaky breath. He closed his eyes and filled his lungs with fresh air, savoring the scent of saltwater and the sound of screeching gulls. It brought him back to Japan, to that night in the harbor. To the aftermath, when he awoke, his body in tatters, his empire gone. When, in an instant, he had become nothing more than a miserable little pile of hate.
In removing the last protection Ramattra could utilize, Genji had done the very same to himself.
With a merry chirp, the call was accepted, placing him in a digital conference. Familiar faces of command blinked into the projected display: Vivian, Winston and Angela. The sole outlier was Cole, as head of his own strike team. They were currently engaged in a debrief, Winston deep in detail for which Genji had no context.
“Agent ID: 3945_49 has connected,” the program announced coldly.
Winston stopped mid-sentence, his eyes lighting up. Outwardly, he remained calm, but still, there lay a hint of urgency to his demeanor.
“Genji. You’re here. Good.” He took a deep breath, his next words weighing heavily on him. “The invasions are still underway.”
In the quiet box of a prison, another hour rolled over.
Ramattra did not notice, gone to the world in his deep, trance-like state. Meditation, as the Shambali had taught it, was a helpful tool to part with worldly woes. A simple practice to adopt, yet deceptively hard to master and achieve spiritual equilibrium.
Ramattra, however, was in need of no such thing. Wandering through freezing mountains, scorching deserts and sinful cities, he had concluded his goal was not one of inner peace. He came to reject that which he considered weakness in the face of obligation; resolve must be tempered to mantle a responsibility beyond scope, of which personal fulfillment would only stand in the way.
Therefore, oil-slicked hands had molded the Shambali dharma into its antithesis: A weapon.
In his mindscape—an intangible realm of digital—endless spectra of thoughts and possibilities vied for attention. Ramattra's psyche was a prism, through which the muddy stream of sentience turned clear, crystallizing into separate structures flickering all around him. These, when tapped into with a psychic eye, parted with their essence, the core of their idea.
This was a period of distance, away from limiters such as emotion. With a shift of Shambali hand gestures, the sentimental crumbled in a snap, leaving only logic. These remainders, of methodology and epiphanies, these he combed through. Sorted them into appropriate rows, a grid of virtual soldiers standing at attention, awaiting further shaping through criticism and hindsight.
Most ideas would never survive this process, too flawed to consider. Today would be no exception. But unlike times past, his present predicament was wholly unique, and in contrast, the numbers dwindled. Steadily, until left behind was a sole contender.
It was offered a single glance, and Ramattra concluded he did not want this one.
Again, he centered himself. Embraced the chaos of sentience. Distanced himself, then sifted through cold logic. Studied them all just the slightest bit closer, opening himself to possibilities otherwise shot down without remorse.
Still, when finished, only that one remained. And he tried, again and again, only to arrive at the same result, and at some point, he lost count of his attempts.
Gradually, a shrill ringing fell over his hearing, drawing focus with it; a cue to return to the waking world. Uncertain of what lay beyond this trance, never having dared venture further, Ramattra did not wish to gamble his mind and devolve into an endless loop of considerations.
Before him, the digital pyramid spun slowly. Invitingly and tauntingly, a dare to chance its contents.
Gingerly, he conceded. He extended a spectral arm, transparent fingers alighting atop the glimmering surface.
Hours earlier, Ramattra would never have entertained it. Nor would he have considered that twisting the Shambali dharma would prove to be as much a weapon against himself as his enemies. Found within that spinning data point was memories just shy of a few days old; they punched through his system, relentlessly flashing, all caustic reminders of defeat, as per definition: The attempted assassination, the theft of his Void Accelerator, Zenyatta’s affliction, the destruction of Null Sector’s Iris, and his ensuing imprisonment.
Yet, hidden amongst the setbacks, there lay the solution. Highlighted in every frame of memory, a promise that this did not have to be the end, that all was not lost. A variable, which could alter the course he had found himself in.
“Ramattra.”
Snapped out of his reverie, Ramattra had not heard the low hum of electricity die off, nor the parting of doors.
And there he was. The auspicious premium, for Ramattra to steal away all for himself.
Genji.
The agent shifted awkwardly, bouncing his weight in between feet. Tension and restlessness radiated off him in waves, and Ramattra surmised he had returned fresh off a mission. Until an item was presented, held out rigidly in offering. A small, green, metal case.
Genji’s fidgeting, together with the mysterious charity, curled Ramattra’s wires with paranoia. He reared back, regarding the item with suspicion, ready to be overwhelmed with demands and stipulations.
“For your arm,” Genji assured, taking an encouraging step forward. “As I said earlier, none of our engineers are present, so... This is what I can offer you.”
Ramattra inclined his head, patently taken off-guard. Still convinced of illicit goals, fingers curled slowly around the case, testing, as if it would produce a shock or something much more insidious. When nothing happened, and suspicions receded, the offering was accepted with hesitance despite eagerness to get to work.
“This can hardly be proper protocol,” Ramattra remarked as he set the case on a knee, still scanning over it for any hint of malicious intent.
“Probably not. It's at my own discretion,” Genji said indifferently, giving a noncommittal shrug.
Duly noting the attitude toward authority, the case was flicked open, Ramattra's eyes drawn to the kanji symbols engraved into the metal. Nigh instantly, his HUD translated them.
For Genji
-Hanzo
He briefly considered who Hanzo could be. A superior? Perhaps an old friend? A brother in arms? Such a considerate and tasteful gift spoke of no mere acquaintanceship.
Contrastingly less refined were the stickers placed around the insides, depicting stylized triceratops in pastels. Cotton candy cute. Not what he would have expected based on his perception of the stoic ninja. Perhaps there were facets unconsidered.
Poring over the actual contents, Ramattra noted the selection of tools were specifically tailored to basic repairs. Personal travel paraphernalia, then. Not the most efficient way to fix damage, but invaluable out on the field, even more so in his predicament. Excitement pitter-pattered in his wires for a chance to tinker, and in spite of the reluctant gratitude he felt for the gesture, the need to be derisive was stronger.
“A quick, hour-long job drawn out to last more than a day.” Ramattra pulled his inert limb into an appropriate position. “You Overwatch scum certainly have a talent for turning the easiest of tasks into a chore.”
Genji chuckled in a way that told he had more up his sleeve. “Longer than that without this,” he said, producing a plastic container from his pocket, holding it securely between index and middle finger. As he moved closer, he wagged it to-and-fro, a mannerism rooted in good-natured teasing. “I recognized the part when I checked your diagnostics.”
“How fortunate I am.” Attempting to unlatch the panel covering his forearm, the limb slipped off Ramattra’s lap and he irritably shuffled it back into place. “What other lucky coincidence do you have for me today?”
Genji gave a tame snort. “Nothing more.” A beat passed, then he dipped down onto his knees, curled his hands around Ramattra's wrist and forearm to lock the limb in place. “Let me help you.”
With a dismissive click of his synthesizer, Ramattra struck the notion down. “Help would be to leave the door unlocked. This is a mere pittance.”
“Do you often complain at acts of kindness?”
From under the voided slits of his faceplate, Ramattra glared at the agent, who let the look bounce off him harmlessly. “Acts of kindness? This?” A scoff. “I shudder to think what you consider rude.”
“Accepting help without a thank you.”
“Very cute. I assume you feel clever.”
Genji nodded confidently, arrogance lacing his reply. “I do.”
In between the interplay of words, the broken arm was promptly forgotten about. With his pointer, Ramattra jabbed at Genji’s chest, but much like the glare, it was patently ignored.
“Such behavior is in need of correcting.”
“Yeah? Speaking of correcting.”
Ramattra froze, neither flinching nor drawing away at the fingers touching the crack in his mask.
“What about your faceplate? It can’t be left like this.”
Such audacity. Such disrespect. Such—such brazen, misplaced empathy!
Empathy, Ramattra realized. Yes, that was what was needed; an involuntary, insidious connector, an aspect which could ease his plans. So despite the imprudent dare, Ramattra sat still, indulged the whim and allowed the digits to roam across his face.
The touch was reverent. As the bronze pads moved, they were deceptively soft and warm, molding to pressure and springing back into shape when relieved of stress. Very subtly, almost imperceptibly, Ramattra leaned into the touch. Emboldened by the quiet consent, Genji carefully traced the spindly length, ghosting over the embedded splinter, and at the sharp electric hiss he withdrew. Beyond the pain, left behind was warmth, an ephemeral memento that waned all too quickly.
“Careful,” Ramattra chided, irritation blooming in his chest, though he was not sure from what. “There is bullet shrapnel.”
“Sorry,” Genji apologized meekly. “Do you want me to get it out for you?”
With a cautious eye, Ramattra regarded him. “Against my better judgement... Yes. I would prefer not to suffer any longer.”
Words were allowed to sink in, to rouse proper affect. At the compassion stirring Genji’s composure, Ramattra reached out; he brushed over the furrows latticing Genji’s arm, and tethered them together with their experiences.
“The fight we fought aboard my ship—it was relentless. I understand you have suffered a great deal as well.”
Genji glanced at the digits pressed to him, contemplating the exchange of gestures. “It's a part of my work as an agent. Discomfort is a small price to pay to keep people safe.”
Ramattra rescinded his hand. Picking up the case, he held it out toward Genji, presenting its contents.
Presenting trust.
Forceps were plucked without question, and the agent shuffled closer.
“I will refrain from commenting on Overwatch’s success in that area,” Ramattra replied flatly.
“Until I'm done,” Genji added cheekily.
The touch returned, a warm palm settling under Ramattra's jaw.
“Yes.” He would have swallowed if he could. “Until you're done.”
A nervous energy enveloped the small room, both anxious over the imminent operation. Ramattra fidgeted with the cloth of his pants, otherwise keeping still. His head was tilted around as the best angle of approach was considered, Genji humming at each with uncertainty. Deciding to spare himself the apprehension, Ramattra closed the apertures of his optics, though the pitch black did not do much to soothe him. His head was rotated a scant few more times and a part of him expected Genji to abort the enterprise entirely.
Thunk, and the tip of the forceps pushed into the crack. The invasion was less than pleasant, to put it mildly. It hurt horribly, the metal prongs jiggling around to try to and clamp around the splinter.
No dice. Genji pulled out the calipers to a grunt of pain.
“Shit,” he swore with force, “I—I apologize. It's too difficult to reach. I—we should stop.”
Ramattra took hold of Genji's wrist before he could withdraw. “Don't make me suffer in vain. Only you can do this. Please,” he pleaded empathetically. Tentatively, Genji nodded, mustering courage for a second attempt, and at the confirmation apertures closed.
Getting up on his knees, Genji slid his hand into a better position, splayed his fingers under Ramattra's chin to crane his neck, and the Ravager had to remind himself about trust. Exposing the seam between skull and neck was an exceptionally vulnerable act. As much as the parallel disgusted him, the area was as sensitive and susceptible for omnics as for humans; bundles of important wires and components ran the length. One jab, one cut wire, and death could be nigh instantaneous.
With anxiety swirling around his internals, Ramattra could not help but peek, open his apertures into the slightest fissures, ignoring the forceps to stare up at the opaque visor glass.
Genji was close.
All too close.
Something clawed up Ramattra's throat—a protest, a noise, electricity—but it died before it could escape, and he blinded himself again, discontent not only with the proximity but with his own weakness.
Fortunately, he was given no more time to fret, promptly stabbed again. Searing fire spread from sensor to sensor, urging him to jerk away to cease it entirely. He relied on discipline to push through, curled his hand into a fist and tensed his jaw for distraction, harder and harder until he thought hinges would break.
Some more maddening fiddling, and the perfect angle was found. With grip finally achieved, the prongs withdrew alongside their prize and the relief was immediate. Pain ebbed, tension released and Ramattra slacked forward, into the hand supporting him.
Delirious from agony, heavy from bodily strain, he surmised that, if there was any consolation to be found in this mess of a procedure, it was that Genji was so unusually warm for an omnic.
A balm for his ails.
And that would be all, as he decided he would never do something so invasive without a proper setup ever again, Iris so help him.
“How is it now?”
Gingerly removing himself from the touch—away from the comfortable warmth—Ramattra straightened his posture and dared a testing rub at the fracture, sighing in relief when no spark of pain arose.
“It's passable. No more than a dull throb,” he answered, gratitude saturating his synthesizer. He would need no theatrics for that, earnest in his emotion. The sound made Genji light up and he was quick with new ways to help.
“I can check for filler agents. Or a band-aid, if that would help keep dirt out.”
Ramattra considered the offer. Without adequate covering, he risked debris causing flare-ups. But that would be a small price to pay to ensure Genji stayed, as any future meeting was not set in stone.
“I would rather wait and have it tended to professionally. You strike me as the kind who is better at destroying than creating.”
“Yes, I am. But, ah...” A light quality saturated Genji’s tone, trying to stifle a chuckle. "That could take a while, as Overwatch is busy cleaning up after your destruction.”
Ramattra grumbled; he kept setting up these opportunities for Genji to take. Instead of engaging the agent in his little game of wits with his own—and gosh did he want to—Ramattra forced down the desire. And still he could not help but allow some bite to slip through.
“Then you won't have any issue assisting me in disassembly. Unlatch this for me.”
Genji did as told to no fanfare, much to Ramattra’s abject thrill. He placed his palms atop the metal plate and tested the resistance, gradually increasing his strength before the covering eventually dislodged. At the very least, he had a knack for a soft approach, Ramattra observed. Altogether a complete contrast to the ruthless ferocity demonstrated in battle.
As the uncovered internals came into view, Genji expressed intrigue in hushed Japanese. Spiritedly, he looked up at Ramattra. “Is there anything else I can do?”
As opposed to the procedure to remove the splinter, with no current to activate pain receptors in his arm, Ramattra would not need to worry about discomfort.
“You may as well. Unscrew these,” Ramattra pointed into the compartment with an index finger.
“Phillips size 0, right?” Genji asked, eagerly swapping the interchangeable head of the small screwdriver with said bit. Obedient and excitable. Like a pup. Seemed he was not as unaffected by Ravager influence as he fancied.
“Yes, that is correct. Hm. I might have been too hasty in my assessment. This won't take quite as long as I believed.” Ramattra's wires crackled with a smug, electric smile.
Defeat may yet be a mere setback.
◇◇◇
They continued in such a manner for a while. For what Genji lacked in mechanical skill, he made up for with a steady hand, unbothered to be working under the critical eye of a perfectionist engineer. As a heap of components steadily formed, he felt inclined to acknowledge the ease in which Ramattra could instruct; close the oil valves. Unplug that wire. Now, unscrew this board. Detach the solenoid...
Thoughts percolated. If they shared a semiconductor chip, LEDS and boards, did their machinery share other design philosophies? Genji's lip twitched, the questions stopping short of spoken, allowing the harsh words of the Shimada Elders to steer his conduct.
Kuchi wa wazawai no moto. The mouth is the source of disaster.
Unlike back then, this was not just about thrill, curiosity or combating restlessness, Genji knew. It had struck him the instant he laid eyes upon the broken chip; if he could get Ramattra to open up, he could convince him to part with the schematics of his Subjugator technology. And then—then Master was not a lost cause. He would not continue to suffer for his repeated failures.
For once in what felt like forever, the thought of Zenyatta did not instill panic and hopelessness. In fact, Genji felt an unsettling sense of hope, and though it goaded spontaneous instinct—to engage with immediate effect—his time at Blackwatch taught him interrogations were a balancing act.
With sly determination, he resolved to keep tugging at the loose end. Eventually, all would unravel.
So, begrudgingly keeping quiet, he focused on the slow emergence of their joint goal. Abetted by small talk in between instructions, time escaped him, and after what could have been hours just as well as minutes, he held the tiny perpetrator in his grasp: The broken chip.
Genji marveled at the small component, to think a single piece could have such a profound effect on the whole.
Satisfaction welled in him to be permitted to unpackage the replacement—the mediator which had opened the way for this opportunity in the first place—and delight tugged at him for the honor of clicking it into place.
It is nice to see tangible progress for a change.
“Very good.” Ramattra nodded at the work, pleased at the outcome. “But I will need to do the soldering myself. Hold my arm, would you?”
Their knees knocked together, and once more, Genji found himself steadying the slack limb.
“Thank you,” Ramattra let slip without thinking, and Genji angled his head, just enough to peer past the ridged headpiece and up at him. The expression of gratitude turned the twitch on his lips into a lopsided smile of gratification, and he deemed this to be the seizable moment.
“Hey.”
Without missing a beat, and without looking up, Ramattra hummed an acknowledgement. Smoke rose in a continuous stream from the tip of the soldering iron, curling around in plumes, a formless third to eavesdrop on the conversation. Any prior effect it would have had on Genji's composure was overshadowed by determination.
“One for one, right?”
The smoke dispersed, and this time, the hand controlling the tool stilled. Gingerly, Ramattra raised his head, calling upon a combative resistance.
“Do you know what Master did before the Awakening?”
The soldering iron nearly slipped past fingers at the question, and Genji swore he could hear the flabbergasted blinking of apertures.
“Out of everything to request…!” Ramattra’s expressed disbelief trailed off, shaking his head in amazement. Tension in artificial limbs softened, and Ramattra stared down at the hands securing his arm.
Finding his answer, he tore his attention away from his thoughts to look squarely at Genji. Feelings lay hidden behind the alabaster mask, yet not his tone, which turned wistful and affectionate. “Last time I asked him, he claimed he stacked pins at a bowling alley.”
Genji tucked his chin and pressed his mouth into a thin line, resisting the compulsion to laugh at the scenario playing in his mind: Zenyatta dashing between the lanes of a bowling alley, hurrying to replace the pins before the next bowling ball could be sent careening toward him.
“Maybe that was the truth,” Genji offered, still testing the thread, mindful it might just have ended.
“Ha!” Ramattra’s chortle was so loud, it was felt bouncing between the walls of the holding cell. “I don't think so, but he wouldn't tell me.”
Then Genji’s laugh joined Ramattra’s, his distrust whisking away in an instant. Any other answer—any other claim—and he would have known. And so he responded in kind.
“He won't tell me either.”
Warden and prisoner shared a meaningful look. Just like that, as if the words they exchanged were rooted in secret code, they had established a connection which transcended their given roles.
Unbeknownst to either, it had been mutually concluded that, yes, there existed a solution after all.
Smoke. Thick wisps, swirling around the air, gorging on light. Yet it did not sting, did not choke.
Struggling through the void, his limbs contorted, body broken, burning, desperate. Painless, no feeling, his insides roiled with ceaseless flame, hotter than sunfire. Fire to extinguish, the sole thought, the one motivator. As he cut through the ink, created wakes in the formless dark, plumes rolling off him harmlessly, there was no acrid smell, no ashen taste to linger.
Somewhere, merging with the vast nothingness, a silhouette. Contours. Familiar contours once arranged with poise and grace, now twisted, and he burst forward in search.
He called. Nothing. For he had no mouth to speak with, to scream with, to cry with. Only a single note, drawn out, fading away into the abyss, parting its darkness. Disappearing in unison, the silhouette, along with the chance.
Metal spired toward the heavens. A city, swept in chaos and terror. The ground he crawled on, it shuddered and undulated, moved as if alive, converging in the distance.
Directive. Fulfill your directive, it whispered to him from the mass, forcing him forward, clawing through the remnants—so many remnants—toward a group of people. Waves upon waves of steel crashed against the phalanx, breaking upon it and rejoining the earth.
One in the group turned toward him, and recognition flashed in their lightning of an approach. It should not be, yet it was, and near immediately the katana’s flurry connected. As metal detached metal, tore him into hundreds of lesser remnants, he saw his reflection in the pools of black sanguine: The cold, unmoving face of a Nulltrooper staring back.
Genji jolted awake, gasping for air. Adrenaline spiked with his greedy gulps, turned him dazed and confused, heart aflutter. Eyes wide, ears sharp. They searched for the danger hidden in the shadows of the quarters, its calm enlivened by joint commotion of thumping pulse and whirring internals.
The Ecopoint! He was at the Ecopoint.
With a drawn out groan, he let himself fall back onto the mattress and, in agitation, rubbed at his stinging eyes. The wetness he could feel against the pads of his palms, smearing across his cheeks, it was nothing more than the cold sweat clinging to him, on behalf of the climate controlled interior. The unit trended towards cooler rather than warmer, he reasoned, and at some point during his fitful rest—the dream already blurring at the edges—he had accidentally kicked off the thin blanket. Rolling onto his stomach, he searched for it off the bed, blinking away the burn all the while. Burn from irritated eyes, nothing more!
He plucked the duvet from its pile on the floor, turning over to sweep himself in its warm embrace. Clutched the cloth close to his chest. Tightly, between his fingers, until they turned numb. Physical purchase, to keep his mind from slipping back in the quiet.
It was not enough. The singe lingered, clung to him, drifting his mind toward the fraying echoes, the memories and—
Focus on something. Anything!
White noise, the soft working of the air conditioning. The thumping of his heart, hastened by the rude awakening. Latent internal systems reacting, settling.
Raucous cacophony. Alongside discordant melody, Genji strayed back to the chaos, of scorching inferno and crumbling stone, and he brought his knees up, hugged them tightly, wrenched his eyes shut.
No! Shut up! Leave me be!
He had been here so, so many times before. And he needed to remember the methods taught to him, to catch himself lest he enter a downward spiral.
Breathing! Breathe. In, out.
Small, sharp wheezes escaped him. They needed to be deeper, held inside his lungs, made to the rhythm of the image in his mind. Powering through the tightness in his chest, he heaved, again and again, until he was suffocating on air no longer. Frenetic gasps slowed, and eventually joined the precedent set by his imaginary beat: A golden lotus, in an unending cycle of blossoming and closing.
Though Genji was tired, fretfully tired, he rejected sleep. Aware he should have at least attempted to, he refused, apprehensive of waiting dreams, reasoning it as pointless, anyway, thanks to aching muscles.
Leaving the dingy cot, Genji wrestled on a pair of pants and rifled through his things in search of distraction. And he found it, the small holopad, then exited the dorm for the canteen down the hall. Rudimentary sensors reacted to his presence, lights flickering on as he passed by, a few dimmed or failing entirely.
In the kitchen, Genji would not meet with the scent of burnt coffee. Perhaps an absence for the better, but not of the smiling face accompanying it. Instead of mulling further, he guided himself through the ritualistic steps to brew a cup, checking them off in order: Grab a mug, preferably a clean one. Inspect the containers for beans and water. Add a filter. Designate the strength. Extra strong, the way he liked it.
Then, of course, wait.
Wring hands.
Listen to warbling machinery. Burring.
Shift weight between feet.
Furrow brows.
Finally, the sound of boiling water, and before even the first drops of coffee dripped into the cup, an invigorating aroma saturated into the air. A handful of minutes constituted enough waiting; a testing swig, scalding hot, numbing the tip of his tongue.
Impatience was a critical flaw. The heat forced a sputter of regret, and before it all came crashing back, Genji activated his holopad, eyes flitting, stomach twinging. Notifications chimed merrily, announcing a cavalcade of incoming messages and updates. The incessant ringing quickly became a toll, digging into him and driving him out of the room, through the corridors of the facility, mug in one hand, holopad in the other, both trembling.
Descending from the upper level of the research station, the lamps turned dimmer, and passing a central chamber, Genji entered one of the many branching corridors. Still, he was funneled along the main path, the easier choice.
All around him, soft light poured in through bands of encircling glass, offering glimpses out into the environment, one that would not have been present were it not for the disorderly efforts of the Polynesian League. Vibrant coral blanketed the seabed, the host of an explosion of life—schools of prismatic fish, wandering crustaceans, undulating medusae and swaying polyps—all bathed in the glow of shining pylons nestled along the exterior. A viewing pod, complete with inset seating and all, denoted the end of the winding hallway, offering a comfortable panorama of the regenerated coral shelf.
None of that was considered. Not out of ignorance, but of unwillingness to reflect.
The nervous energy prickling within muscle ebbed, turned latent with physical activity and distance. Genji skimmed through his backlog, nose wrinkling at the source of many. A chronological order was as good a place to start as any, he reasoned. Fine with the excuse, he opened the first.
Hi Genji!
I didn’t get the chance to speak with you earlier. I’m really concerned about the submerged Null Sector ship and the effects it’ll have on the local marine life… Would you be able to check the Ecopoint's data for any abnormalities?
Oh, and Snowball says hi and to rest well!
Mei-Ling Zhou
To do as was so politely requested of him, Genji logged in to the network, performing a set of security checks to be granted authorization. Passing them, he was redirected on to a higher tier of the Ecopoint's database, all the while sipping at his cold drink. He combed through the chaotic mess of titles, navigating directories after directories, up until one in particular made him stop entirely. Eyes ghosted over the word, and his finger hovered over it, selection at the ready.
At the last second, he veered clear, returning to sift through the annals of the archive, finally stumbling upon the appropriate dataset. So many raw numbers, they nearly made his head spin. From what he could gather, comparing now and a month ago, nothing had changed.
Pensively, he wrote out a reply, occasionally lifting his head in reaction to movement beyond the glass, beyond the confines.
Dr. Zhou,
Levels seem unaffected. I will keep you updated.
Thank you. And to Snowball, too.
-Genji
He was not entirely useless. At the very least, he could ease Mei's worry.
Next up, and what interested him most, were the logged status reports of post-invasion cleanups. According to Athena's documentation, command had once more split Overwatch into teams, each spearheaded by a veteran, then further divided into two: One with the main task of sweeping for Null Sector stragglers and the other in assisting civilians. Available information was pored over, devoured with gluttonous appetite. Formations of teams were studied, picked apart for holes. But they were all airtight, crafted with the joint purpose of reclamation and triage. All formidable, and by demonstrated capacity, more than efficient.
Genji barely managed a smile, held back by the sentimentality the emptiness of the stagnant Ecopoint stirred. Again, doubts manifested, and his expression turned grim, searching within for pride—the pride of his part in ending a global threat. What he wound up finding was a deep, unsettling sense of Pyrrhic victory.
No. Not now.
Angela's messages needed his attention.
Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he summoned the courage to open the conversation, wincing in preparation for its contents.
Well, Genji. I don't understand how you managed it, but you passed both of your physicals.
Oh. That was not a good sign. He could practically feel the withheld furor.
That's not condoning your behavior, by the way! Stressing your cybernetics will impact functionality in the future and we have to marshal resources.
As anticipated. Genji sunk into his seat, not unlike a child being reprimanded and knowing full well they had been in the wrong.
So no more leaping before you look, alright?
For my sake? Please?
I worry about you. As much as I wish I could, I can't keep saving you forever, Genji.
Her words resonated, but not in the expected way; his insides jumbled into a knotted cord of anxiety, and before his coffee could come back up, Genji dismissed the conversation. In its stead, the tracker was pulled up. Its virtual representation pinged intermittently, updating its surroundings as it moved across the holographic map, somewhere high above Jordan.
Genji had not dared the luxury of expectation, yet he hung his head and sighed; the satiation of his curiosity barely dented his unease, instead feeding into it. Too ill to pen a response, he returned to distraction, of aimlessly navigating directories in hopes of preoccupation. Except claiming so would be a lie. Once more, he found himself at the earlier junction, the text more provocative than ever. This time, he caved.
A wireframe of a familiar shape traced before Genji's eyes, composed of selectable parts and labeled with names and numbers. Like the raw data he had issue understanding, the diagnostics history of Ramattra contained notations of unfamiliar terminology and a myriad of checksums.
Again, he hesitated, certain he was witnessing something he should not be. Was this not an invasion of privacy, akin to rifling around medical records?
Despite internal protesting, Genji chanced a closer inspection. A handful of standard issue parts were recognizable, even to an amateur such as he; LEDs, chips, boards. Goaded by excuse after excuse—this is simply what Winston or any other engineer would have done, a small ounce of curiosity does not hurt, maybe I can learn something—the sole outlier in red was selected.
Helpfully drawn in a second window, tagged with appropriate ID, the burnt-out chip. It rotated, showcasing important details: dark casing in three equally sized segments, one bearing etched branding, the other a clear section to the wafers below. Pins jutted out along the sides, resembling dozens of thin legs, awaiting connection.
And connection there was.
Flashes of a battle in the streets of Singapore.
Genji started to his feet and sprinted, coffee and woes promptly forgotten, and as he rushed through the corridors, retraced his steps, the rhythm of his heart intensified.
Among those streets, senseless bravado. An impact, whistling air—then a collision. Pain, but no regrets. A faint smile. Darkness.
Genji, in his tumult, stumbled over the duffel bag, its contents and his holopad sweeping over the floor. That did not matter; among the mess, a gleam of metallic green, plucked with great haste.
Light. Waking up to a relieved Angela, hard at work repairing what her Caduceus staff could not. Sat daintily in a metal tray by her side, atop a disarray of scrap, a black speck. Hazy mind struggling to comprehend what it perceived. Fine to let eyes linger, all the way through a night of maintenance, until the chip could be recalled with crystal clarity.
Genji's pulse crescendoed, hands shaking from anticipation, fighting himself to unlatch the small case. It slipped through his fingers, colliding against the floor, and it snapped open.
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Summary: During a sparring match with Ramattra, Genji lets his intrusive thoughts win.
A huff, accompanied with a flustered turn of the head and a grumbled set of words. “To the right...”
For a being composed of solid metal, Ramattra's body was surprisingly discerning of touch, Genji noted, amused. Of course, some more teasing could not hurt.
“Oh? Would that be my right?” Purposely, fingers swept to the wrong side, and the irritated hiss made Genji feel quite satisfied with himself.
“Mine,” Ramattra ordered with a croak, just as Genji brushed over that spot. The whirring motors pitched, turned loud at the digits rubbing at the long-neglected gaps. No, that sound was not from a motor.
Purring. Ramattra was purring.
In the dojo of the Shambali monastery, the exchange of bows signaled the end of peace and the start of violence.
Though he adopted a facade of confidence, Genji was anything but, as whenever Ramattra was this close, he could feel it—smolder in his veins, zest in his wires, whispering to him, urging him.
It had been so easy to ignore once, to tune out the prickling and disregard the ensuing thoughts, for it was a plight that developed slowly, over weeks and months. Then just like that, akin to a snap of the fingers, mere distraction proved ineffective and pretending became an expedient solution. Intrusive whispers transitioned into a nigh constant badger of thoughts in the Ravager’s presence, one which deflection and excuses could no longer solve.
For now, entering a spar, all Genji could do was try and apply his attention elsewhere. Focus on movement, the spatial positioning of his body, the weight shifting the soft mat. Draw in air, fill his lungs in measured perfection, feed the fight within him. Analyze the opposing body for intent, see strong arms sweeping, powerful legs stomping, sharp eyes reciprocating scrutiny. Bite down the wrong instinct it all spurred, force himself to think on his feet.
Clever tactics and careful timing were not only a welcome reprieve, they were also necessary; with his size and stature, Genji had no hope to best Ramattra head on, so with a flutter of cybernetic legs—step after step—he dodged.
They could keep this up for hours. A constant push-and-pull between two iron wills, and he lost himself to the rhythm of sparring. Only when one silently decided to give in did things progress.
On this occasion, the concluding act was drawn by Genji. He lagged behind the smallest amount, a smirk lighting his face when caught by mighty hands. Hidden optics gleamed, knowing what would come next.
As quick as a clap, the grab was reversed. Thud, and Ramattra's fall was cushioned by the matting covering the hard, stone floor.
But they were not quite finished—the Ravager would not secede easily, less so on his back, already moving to counter. Genji, however, was swifter, always. Pirouetting his body around the pole of the arm in his grasp, he settled atop the metal chest, pinning Ramattra. Victorious, Genji had cause to act so smugly over his non-organic counterpart; his body heaved for air, steam seeping out of vents and rolling off his body.
A part of him wondered if, maybe, Ramattra enjoyed seeing him go past his human limits.
A calm settled in the wake of the resounding end of their match. Ordinarily, the winner would assist their bested rival to their feet, share a few words that, invariably, lead to a new match—one of sharp wits. Today, however, expectation had steadily sneaked into the ambiance, delaying concluding etiquette. On his perch, staring down at the Ravager unit quietly regarding him, there it was again, that inexplicable yearning. Perhaps it was exhaustion or his body gasping for air, but he did not stop himself. With a hand, he reached out—pet the hair he had been deigning to touch for so long.
“What on Earth... are you doing.”
Genji flushed scarlet, a wave of tension shooting through his body, well aware he should listen to his heart hammering in his chest, bolt away, hide. Still, his fingers tangled with the smooth plaits, marveling at the texture.
“I couldn't resist,” he explained, voice wavering from embarrassment, stopping himself short of pressing a dismayed hand to his faceplate. “They are... they looked so soft.”
Ramattra hissed in baffled incredulity. “I am not some common household pet!” Yet his words did not match his actions, perfectly content to lay there. “I should lecture you for such—such...”
Rubbing along the circumference of would-be metal ears seemed to catch Ramattra's words in his throat. The last tone droned on, stuck, and underneath it, nigh audible, the smallest of rumbles, vibrating throughout the steel carapace. The touch was leaned into, head angled just so, and though Genji's face was hidden behind the usual plated covering, he wished Ramattra could witness the toothy grin.
“Such?”
The taunting request for elaboration barely nudged Ramattra from his sudden daze. His reply was a challenge to form, as if his internal processes were floundering and scrambling from somewhere else entirely.
“... Such in—solence...” Synthesizer stuttered, an electric hiccup, when Genji resolved to scratch the underside of his jaw. A small come-hither motion, of which triggered an instinctive elevation of the head, to expose more of the sensitive neck. Obliging the silent request, he shifted his position to free his bracing arm, adding a second weapon for a joint attack: Rubbing up and down the side of the thick neck, paying close attention to what areas deepened the droning hum and zeroing in on them without remorse.
Enjoying this rare position of dominance, and in particular the manner in which Ramattra turned into putty in his hands, Genji allowed his tone to turn playful. “Am I still being insolent, Ramattra?”
“In—insufferable.”
“Difficult?”
“Dreadful.”
“Arrogant?”
“Intoler—able.”
Such stubborn pride, and it charmed Genji something fierce.
Not quite finished with his search for new nooks and parts to touch, a hand flitted about titanium rib. The trailing palm elicited a shudder, expressed through faint oscillation of hydraulics; a hint for those with cybernetics and an aspect overlooked by those without.
“What is with... you humans...” Scratching the narrow space in between ribs and chassis made Ramattra hum deeply, relieved, and Genji understood it as a place the Ravager could not reach by himself, his hands too large. A huff, accompanied with a flustered turn of the head and a grumbled set of words. “To the right...”
For a being composed of solid metal, Ramattra's body was surprisingly discerning of touch, Genji noted, amused. Of course, some more teasing could not hurt.
“Oh? Would that be my right?” Purposely, fingers swept to the wrong side, and the irritated hiss made Genji feel quite satisfied with himself.
“Mine,” Ramattra ordered with a croak, just as Genji brushed over that spot. The whirring motors pitched, turned loud at the digits rubbing at the long-neglected gaps. No, that sound was not from a motor.
Purring. Ramattra was purring.
A shiver of excitement crawled up Genji's spine, more-so when forced to counter his offset balance as Ramattra arched his back and contorted in place to force the slender digits farther in.
“Y-yes. There.”
Fingers dug greedily at the confirmation, touching and trailing over what they could. Buzzing synthesizer and excitement such as this were not befitting either of them, desecrating what should have been a sanctuary of spiritual respect, yet nothing spurred them to end this strange encounter, to rescind improper conduct and save face.
Leaving one hand to continue its ministrations below faux ribs, Genji chanced a caress down Ramattra's side, the uneven, ferrous landscape a bumpy thrill. With a loud thump, Ramattra flattened the curve of his body, rolling his head to the tickling sensation, not once relenting in his purring. Joining the electric warble were puffs of air, jettisoned through auxiliary vents, the heated air displacing dust and dirt: An omnic sigh of contentment.
“That feels nice, too, huh… Should I keep going?”
The swiveling of Ramattra's head turned into blunt shakes, likely in an attempt to keep his pride intact and refuse the spoken reality. “S...silence.”
“Ah? I will stop, then.” Except Genji did not, and neither was he told to. Dainty hands stroked a converging path, meeting in the middle that was plated abdomen, and much like a masseuse would, pulled upwards together, splaying fingers as they smoothed the length, dipping underneath sandy cloth. “I will stop... How about here?” Genji rested his pads against the hydraulic collarbone, focusing on the quiet shudder so loud. “Or maybe not, I can tell you like it.”
A little ways up, and his hands settled atop hefty shoulders, turning his arms into supportive steeples. His weight, though sheer, disrupted purchase, palms sliding down either side. As gravity gingerly lowered him, his waist was caught by strong hands, and instead of forcing Genji back and away, they eased him down. Their eyes locked, and ideas swirled in Genji's mind, each test of perceived limits pushing him toward boldness, his gaze withdrawing only to skirt along the seam that was Ramattra's mouth, the fantasy idly plucking at his reservations.
Adapting to the burgeoning meeting, Ramattra appraised Genji's balance, experimentally shifting a hand. When certain he would not fall face-first onto him, the hand set off, leaving the other to bear the full brunt of the cyborg. Moving up his body, Ramattra's snaking touch glided over Genji's chest and neck, the feeling coaxing forth a contented hum. Soft sighs prevailed even through the fiddling of his helmet's release mechanism; it clicked, dislodging the faceplate, which clanged against Ramattra's body and onto the floor.
Naked skin met air. What had been revealed barely nudged either from their trance-like spell—the world around them, and the perceptions within it, forgotten. Time slowed to a crawl, yet was still a mere blink, and amid it all, the pull between them had turned irresistible; a magnetism, created by the duality of their beings, of warm against cold. Their lips met, crackled the calm air around them with static charge.
Sensing the tension in the atmosphere and fearing the worst, Zenyatta stuck his head through the doorway, forcing the entwined pair apart.
“I trust all is well—Oh. Oh! Pardon my interruption.”
And though he disappeared as quickly as he came, the knowing smile behind Zenyatta's words left the two flustered and frazzled, morphing their exploratory energy into a need to withdraw and nurse wounded morale.
Despite the manner in which their training ended, since that day, an element of their relationship altered. Or perhaps it had always been there, steadily growing, unnoticed and unchecked, until it finally blossomed; harsh words softened and teasing turned tender. Small moments were clung onto, made to last just the slightest bit longer, to fill the void their absence wrought.
Nonetheless, neither knew how to approach this anomalous kinship. Restraint held them back, and perhaps a modicum of fear in spite of the eager reciprocation demonstrated in the dojo.
Mulling on it, it was decided that, beyond completely forsaking this newfound dynamic, the only way forward was recreating the conditions which lead to the initial lapse in fortitude. Of course, to do that, a dash of courage was needed, and it was a slow build.
In the resounding calmness enveloping the monastery, hiding away in a pile of cushions in the library, Genji lazily indulged in some screen time, well aware electronics infringed upon the Shambali dharma of simple living. Among devout omnics, he was only a flawed human, and instead of listening to his internal nagging about discipline and guilt, he listened to the birdsong welling in from the open windows. He scrolled through a list of swords—sharp and dangerous, two of his favorite things—and he admired each make and model, committing their names and descriptions to memory.
For someone growing up in the lap of luxury, this was as simple of a living he could be expected to make. And much like how he missed that comfort, it would seem he was not the only one grappling with longing for a warm lap; a weight settled on his, and he very nearly dropped his phone as Ramattra's frozen mask grinned up at him. Surprised, flustered, tongue-tied—at most, Genji could only stutter out a tangle vaguely resembling words before his brain shut down.
“What is the issue? I am merely offering you the chance to end our latest spar in a proper manner. Or have you forgotten your decorum, human?”
Though Ramattra's words were confident, quick—blatantly prepared in advance and meticulously practiced—both parties were well aware of the true reason behind the brazen act. A prospect so unexpected, ought to be no more than dark, quiet fantasy hidden in the depths of innermost desire, Genji would have sworn he was dreaming had it not been for the simple fact he knew he was not.
They had shared a kiss, yet his insides tangled into knots of apprehension, and he was left speechless at the first careful strokes of cabled hair. The prior confidence guiding his actions in the dojo was nowhere to be found, though it was not readily apparent what aspect differentiated the two scenarios. Was it the flipped positions wresting control from his eager hands? Or the fact Ramattra initiated this, all on his own prerogative?
Whatever the reason, Genji hid his opened visor behind the screen of his phone, scrolling endlessly with his thumb, seeing the text and images pass by albeit unable to register anything other than the presence in his lap and the texture between his fingers.
Had he been able to steer his thoughts, he would have realized the cosmic karma had shifted, twice.
They did not venture further than that, but the precedent had been set. So whenever Genji found himself busy—meditating in the stone garden, penning letters, hiding to play games on his handheld, what have you—Ramattra would appear, take a seat, and plop his head down onto his lap. Whatever had once entailed the concluding etiquette of a spar would henceforth elude him and Ramattra, and the excuse eventually faded into memory, either of them fine to let their silent meetings meld together, become routine.
Conversely, Genji began wandering the halls, drifting from room to room, hovering by thresholds, all to seek Ramattra out. On occasion, during days when he felt less like a monster, he would forgo the use of his helmet, and on such days, he noted, Ramattra always strayed close by, dropping all pretense of clandestine observation.
Frankly, it made Genji feel less and less like a patchwork of human and machine.
With renewed confidence, catching Ramattra in his own little game whenever the Ravager had his nose in a book, Genji would pop out of nowhere, ducking under arms to climb atop his lap for the warmth of his cold embrace. Again, the dynamic swapped, and Ramattra's brash composure faltered, turning timid with lost dominance.
Likewise, this too became habit, and soon, wishing to give him all his attention, the Ravager's book became replaced by green cyborg ninja. A trade up, if Genji could say so himself. They would sit snug together, chest to chest, reveling in the intimacy, sharing ideas and thoughts.
Eventually, in between the chances of petting and talking, Genji understood spontaneity fell to him, and he decided it was time for a new variable to enter the equation, pressing his face into the crook of Ramattra's neck. Velvet lips brushed against metal, careful and testing, but hungry and insatiable. Comparatively inexperienced in all areas of intimacy, Ramattra let Genji be his guide, mirroring his indulgences with shy instinct.
But even these small, private connections turned insufficient. They began exchanging furtive glances in the midst of company, a silent signal to slink away at the first opportunity, hide from the curious eyes of the Shambali monks.
Over time, award outweighed risk. During morning prayer—an event conducted by all the residents—they would sit together. Each successive session, the distance lessened, until finally, their hands were intertwined throughout meditation.
At midday, going about Shambali duties and personal chores such as preparing meals, arms would snake in from behind, chin placed atop shoulder. And Genji would indulge him, stroke the head of the pleading Ravager, futilely trying to juggle tasks.
Then, when night fell and it was time to retreat to one's quarters, Ramattra and Genji always lagged behind. Touches and gazes would linger, words and sentiment woven with flowery language, both increasingly at peace with the notion of being seen, overheard. Finally, all subtlety was cast aside, and no one ever questioned when Ramattra would step through Genji's door in the mornings. Little by little, day by day, they had entered a companionship, and in contrast to their prior fears, Zenyatta and the monks were overjoyed they had found each other.
And to think, it all started with that inexplicable human desire to pet.
In his silent confinement, Ramattra had been granted ample time for thought, and with the precedent set by Overwatch's command, expectations foretold the dawning meeting to be conducted in a similar manner. Therefore, when the magnets whirred off and the door parted, Ramattra snapped to attention, adrenaline rushing at the spontaneous prospect of escape.
Except raising his hanging head was a dire mistake, to meet with a green glow in the dying, artificial light beyond the threshold.
Genji stepped in, singed jacket absent, and so Ramattra’s optics greedily seized the opportunity to pore over the little conundrum; sections of plated armor hugged his body tightly, their converging lines reminiscent of glossed over anatomy diagrams. As Genji moved, glided soundlessly over the hard floor in spite of crampons, the plates moved with him, caught in a remarkable dance of metal parts. They carried a spectacular sheen, a coating not of boring epoxy but of something else entirely.
Perhaps it was the fluorescent light distorting his sight or the pain in his face—Ramattra could not accurately explain why, but whatever the reason, a deep desire to pry surfaced, twitching the digits of his hand. Seeing Genji like this, in person, when he had only ever beheld him in the glow of a holograph or in the discord of battle, was decidedly surreal.
Pestering questions bubbled. Of what, of who, of why. For Genji was as he recalled: Small, lithe, graceful. Interesting.
The magnets slammed the door closed. Ramattra squashed the questions with a vengeance, irritated they had overshadowed both opportunity and careful planning, and though the sarcastic sting of a greeting tugged at his synthesizer, he kept quiet and still—dignified. Ignored the way his position, legs folded, turned uncomfortable and bothersome.
“Athena told you requested for me.”
No formal greeting. Straight to the point. It saved Ramattra the expectation of decorum, though the insolence certainly grated on his nerves. He knew then, that keeping composure would prove a taxing ordeal. “Think nothing of it.”
Genji hummed an acknowledgement. “I won't.” Then he gestured at the limb hanging inertly by Ramattra's side, empathy sneaking into his aloof tone. “Ah... Winston didn't have time to repair your arm, did he?”
“No. Such cordiality was never extended to me.”
“I'm sure Winston would have explained the situation if he was given the chance. Our engineers would not have left you like this if they weren't needed on-field.” As he excused the actions of his superior, Genji rolled his shoulders, testing functionality. To chase away unpleasant memories before they could take hold, a detail which did not pass by Ramattra's keen eyes unnoticed, and not one to surprise; it was a silent language all omnics knew by heart. And it flared his temper.
“Don't take me for a naive halfwit, agent. I understand well enough; l am an asset, rife with information for the plucking. Keeping me damaged would make me desperate, wouldn't it? Cut to the chase. What are you after?” The floodgates had been opened and Ramattra's synth turned low, the rumble in his throat an angry tickle. He would not give an opening, inclined to keep one step ahead of Genji as he had Winston. “For me to recant my ways—perhaps beg and plead for my freedom?” He scoffed hearing his dramatization out loud, craning his neck to glare up at his captor. “My technology? The identity of sympathizers?”
To the tune of the vehement rambling, Genji folded his arms and leaned up against the door, waiting patiently for the tirade to end.
“You're not entirely wrong,” he revealed after a short lull of silence. To say his blunt sincerity baffled Ramattra would be an understatement. “As you said, you have information we need. Being coy will help neither of us. And if you have questions, I can try answering them in return. But I am truthful when I say we would have offered repairs.”
Whatever this tactic was, Ramattra could not claim he was aware of it. Since the end of his Shambali days and the humble beginnings of Null Sector, interrogations became a necessary element to extract information when word of mouth and scouting proved insufficient. Experience taught subterfuge as a critical tool of the trade, albeit paired with ample amounts of intimidation and threats. The same applied to the reverse, he could not count how many times such strategy saved him, as prisoner or otherwise. It was a simple truth; humans and omnics alike were slaves to self preservation.
First things first. Ramattra needed to wrest back control.
“I beg to differ.” He shuffled his legs, relieving the tension gathering in them. Bereft of discomfort, he straightened himself, kept his head high in prideful defiance. “If you answer my questions, I just might humor you, agent.”
Genji removed himself from his post, taking a small stride forward. High above his prisoner, posture defensive, visor boring steeply. More expectations to be squashed; he settled on the floor in a reflection of Ramattra's lotus position and the Ravager slowly cocked his head to the side. A clear signal.
“One for one.”
Genji would only budge an inch. Control would not be relinquished.
A silence overcame the small room, burdened by the clashing stares. Both challenging, both unwavering. This close to death manifest, yet ruthlessly unbothered. Fearless. The casual nature of Genji's behavior betrayed the severity entailed by the impromptu meeting of captive and warden—no, of Null Sector leader and Overwatch agent. While indeed, damage left his right arm out of commission, Ramattra was nonetheless an R-7000. He commanded respect, instilled fear, and yet, in the ninja, searching for that telltale terror he evoked in others was a fool's errand.
Intimidation was useless.
How infuriating.
Brutality was not Ramattra's sole quality, but as Genji sat before him, his sheer stature was contemplated. Like a passerine bird; so small, so delicate, so easily crushed. It would be quick. A single motion to push him down onto his back and pin him. Apply force, feel the fragile shell crumple as brittle machinery shattered. Watch black sanguine seep from hair-thin fissures and stain the pristine, metal down.
He could demand freedom.
Not only.
He could teach him the true meaning of Ravager. Of fear.
Eased by decades old programming, dark imagination roamed freely, along with Ramattra’s eyes, trailing over his would-be victim. A detail caught his attention, pulled it down to Genji's left arm, and the pain in his faceplate flared hotly, snaked its way into his chest in emergent shame. Such instinct was unbecoming; this close, he could see scratches along the plating and he wondered if, perhaps, Genji too had suffered damage from their skirmish with Talon.
… And with Zenyatta. Reflexively, he touched his own arm, clapping onto the spot where his system had been overloaded with caustic energy. Before him, he saw it, the transparent recollection badgering into his consciousness, overlaying the defiant figure still awaiting a break in the mutual silence. Incapable of bearing witness to his brother harming him again, Ramattra halted the memory, dismissing it back into the recesses of his mind. In his error to forsake opportunity, another had presented itself, and he steeled himself for the impending conversation.
“How well did you know him?”
Genji perked up, melting his frigid, impassable aura.
“Zenyatta?” He asked, voice suggesting surprise, the haste of his response suggesting otherwise.
“Yes. Who else would I be speaking of? You two seemed..." Ramattra chose his next word carefully. "Acquainted.”
“‘Acquainted’ would be too mild. He is my Master. I studied under him at the Shambali monastery,” Genji trailed off, turning over his hands to consider the palms with interest. “His lessons helped me greatly.”
The silence was understood as a cue to elaborate. Genji shuffled in place, retrieving his phone from the pocket of his pants and Ramattra watched as he navigated the interface, accepting the device when it was held out for him. Framed in the confines of the small screen, Genji, snapping a self-portrait in the midst of a winter landscape, and standing peering over his shoulder was Zenyatta, one hand raised in greeting. Snow dusted them both, and with the monastery in the background, created a serene atmosphere.
“I spent the holidays with him during our time together,” Genji explained, scooting over to sit next to Ramattra, reaching over the Ravager to swipe to another photo. This one was inside the monastery, of Shambali monks caught up in holiday cheer, seamlessly weaving cultures together. All were clad in festively dyed regalia, busying themselves with placing gifts inside a sack held open by an eager Zenyatta. A pang of longing overcame Ramattra at the sight, the familial faces and architecture warm memories buried underneath the relentless cold of lonely ambition. “I believe it was the second year in a row the Shambali would bring gifts to the children. They chose Master to be the bearer that year and he was excited—even more than the children,” Genji reminisced, chuckling over the memory.
A desire to return surfaced with a vengeance, to a place and a time that only existed in part, clear and perfect in Ramattra's mind. A trio of warm, brotherly love, searching for their place in the universe. Too stubborn to think it might already have found them, only for it to fracture irreversibly. Cruel, was it then, to wish to shed tears when one could not. Emotions bundled his wires, coiled around his core until he swore he would choke.
“Yes. Zenyatta cared deeply for the humans of the village.” He wished he could say they cared for him, or even the Shambali, in turn. Truly, they had never deserved them.
“They are like family to him,” Genji agreed, swiping again to reveal another photo, once more taken outside in the snow. With his arms held out wide, Zenyatta emanated an air of frigid transcendence, fringed with humor rather than the serious nature oft associated with divinity. Granted, the great number of snowballs floating above him, as opposed to the orbs around his neck, contributed to such an impression. “I like these in particular. Master can be very mischievous.” Pictured throughout the following series of photos were the events of a snowball fight; children and adults alike, playfully engaging Zenyatta. It was plain to see the monk was unmatched, even as the numbers rose against him. “But foremost, he is thoughtful.”
The final photo was of a particularly snow-saturated Zenyatta, allowing the youngest of the village to pelt him with snow. Any wry delight Ramattra would have experienced, to see his brother practically mimicking a snowman—sans carrot nose—died with the knowledge of his current condition.
“He was always the most empathetic of us three, between he, Mondatta and I.” Genji was quiet when Ramattra handed him back his phone, but it was not immediately relinquished. Their gazes met, and with a single, generous sigh breathed without lungs, the tightness in Ramattra's chest unwound. “...And now none of us remain.”
Genji flinched. He looked down at the device in their hands, at the display flickering the frozen image of his mentor, and he wrung out a small, “I...”
“You may leave,” Ramattra added somberly, the timing of his response and subsequent surrender of the phone perfectly measured. Genji seemed to hesitate, overcome with a sudden restlessness, gaze meandering, as if what he was searching for would be found discarded on the floor of a prison. Eventually he relented, seceded in his forage after courage and gingerly picked himself up. With nary a word, he slipped out the way he entered—stopped, peered over his shoulder at the Ravager patently avoiding locking eyes, and the grip on his phone tightened. Just as he seemed decided, spun in place, the doors shut closed, leaving whatever had been on his mind unspoken.
As the magnets thrummed on once more, joining together the egress with an unbreakable bond, apertures narrowed, resolved.
Panty & Stocking with Garterbelt but it's Genji & Ramattra with Zenyatta. The two were kicked out of the Iris afterlife for the sin of lust and wrath respectively, and the devout Zenyatta is tasked with underseeing their reformation at Suravasa temple. Unfortunately, the Anarchy duo doesn't seem so keen on recanting their ways...
(Expect to see more Ramji content of this, I have ideas)
To coast along the void of nonexistence; an ephemeral reprieve. Faint sensations trickled in, trudged through the electric system and sharpened the shapeless edges of reality with the whetstone of awareness.
[☐np☐☐S l☐☐ded.]
[Syste☐ c☐nfig☐☐☐ti☐n in p☐☐g☐☐☐☐...]
Feeling. A pull, uncomfortable and heavy.
Hearing. A low humming, continuous and incessant.
Sight. Darkness, a different void altogether, broken up by flickering dots and shapes of faint colors.
Everything was singular up until each sensation combined, consolidating into the being he understood as himself. But he was not whole yet.
A piece was missing.
[System configuration complete.]
...Peace was missing.
Sentience always found him in the end. Wrenched him back into the turgid hellscape of a gift.
[Verifying files...]
Core memory files replayed in order and in the span of a few seconds, Ramattra relived it all. Scenes and words he knew he understood were disconnected, within his grasp, so close, touchable, yet simultaneously so far away and intangible. Faces and names, all vague recollections in the drifting psyche. None would wait for him; the memories passed him by, turned sepia before vanishing altogether, and though they started vague, they became stronger, heavier, more present and real.
At the threshold of comprehension, so close to enlightenment, everything fizzled.
[Verification complete.]
[Loading system utilities…]
[System utilities loaded.]
[Awaiting user authentication.]
Ramattra returned in a flash, a shock of information surging through his unit. The apertures of his optics snapped open only to close shut again with a sharp hiss. Too bright—everything was too bright and loud, battered his head until he swore it would split from pressure.
Rebooting is the absolute worst.
With sluggish, near-drunk movements, he turned off his side and onto his stomach, waiting for the spinning to stop. Dizziness and dull throbs were the brunt of his world at that moment, floundering through the fog of reset to understand what had transpired to leave him in such a state. He decided he had enough intimacy with the cold floor, pushing himself onto his knees with the help of his one functional arm. Mulling on why his right was unresponsive would have to wait; the surroundings rolled and he slammed his side against the wall.
Curse this stupor...
When was the last time he endured the effects of rebooting? Through a wave of nausea, courtesy of his recalibrating inertial measurement unit, he remembered. Right before leaving to wander in search of answers. Which was...
Ramattra pulled up his internal clock.
…12 years, 324 days, 22 hours and a handful of minutes ago.
No wonder.
Slipping down the wall, he turned over onto his back and sunk into a seated position, head lolling onto his shoulder like a discarded mannequin. Something was amiss. As if a persistent whisper was alerting him to hidden danger. But could he afford to care right now? Weary and ill, he wanted nothing more than to rest, allow this torment to pass.
And then, like a sucker punch out of nowhere, it hit him and he started awake.
Betrayal!
Zenyatta, his brother. Talon had taken him. Twisted him. And more still had they stolen; they held the keystone and now the fate of every omnic tumbled out of Ramattra's hands and into theirs.
Careless. He had been so very careless to trust them. To trust humans.
Overwatch...!
Now, for all his efforts, he found himself in a cell, their cell, a tall rectangle of modest size, nigh barren. In front of him were two metal doors, one of which sported a smaller hatch in its lower half. Attempting to pry them apart would be useless, if the electric humming was anything to go by; even in the scenario he had been able to utilize his nemesis form, he would be outmatched by the strength of the magnetic locks gluing the doors together.
His baffled incredulity morphed into mild surprise and disappointment. This was what Overwatch chose for him? An offense not to be treated with the fear and respect he deserved. In his mind, he should have been handed the same fate as every omnic criminal in high security prisons: Mounted to a hanging suspension system, connected to a console forcibly overriding his hydraulics, left to rot with nothing but his mind intact. A cruel, but not unusual, punishment.
With such a dark thought, he considered the source of his earlier paranoia, and quickly felt at the back of his neck, nearly wrenched away the wire plugged to his port by mortified instinct. He still had his wits and his awareness, but for how long? Ramattra's core choked, panic rousing at the mere thought of a Trojan slipping past his firewalls. While his scanners worked to analyze his system, he personally sifted through the history of data packet transfers.
Nothing. Not a comfort. The wall-mounted computer Ramattra was plugged into continued droning along, ignorant to his plight, its small screen updating his diagnostics in real-time. Possibly a red herring, but bereft of other options, it was the sole lead to investigate. His fingers were barely hovering over the keypad when a voice spoke.
“You are not alone,” a feminine voice warned, radiating off the walls, everywhere and nowhere at once, turning the narrow room all the smaller.
“Who are you?” Ramattra pressed, turning around in search of the voice's source. Perhaps an overlooked element to be exploited. A usual thought to pass over the mind, what once burned him with anger and lingered disgust, now nothing more than tired sentiment.
“I am not a physical being; I am an AI. Athena, they call me. I have been tasked with overseeing you.”
Ramattra was aware of the advanced AI Overwatch utilized, though none were certain what became of the artificial being following the organization's downfall. Hardly a surprise she still existed, though Ramattra had expected her to have been transferred to a different project altogether. Her kind were one of a select few, considering the global ban on advanced AI development, and thus a commodity highly coveted by every perceivable industry in existence. Including his own.
“Then surely you must be sympathetic toward my plight, of ensuring I was neither hacked nor infected,” Ramattra said, punctuating his appeal to reason with a puff of hot air from his auxiliary vents, barely denting the anxiety slithering around his internals.
“You are more than welcome to. Be aware I have direct insight over your interactions with the console. For what it is worth, I can personally attest to command declining the opportunity to attempt a direct interface.”
Not content with Athena's word alone, Ramattra engaged with the computer and entered a few inputs. The slight delay before the submitted commands took effect confirmed to him the AI was quarantining his actions to pore over them. An entire minute passed for the display swap to a detailed feed of his internal and external systems, wires constantly prickling with buzz all the while.
Optics passed over the overview, a stream of the word nothing repeating in his head, each successive echo calming the overactive electricity pulsing from within his core. No records of transfers or intrusions. Only a burned-out integrated circuit. With such a confirmation, the wires were detached to a click, discarded on the floor and his hand rubbed at his neck in appreciation of the heft leaving him.
“Command is willing to speak with you,” Athena proposed suddenly. Ramattra was neither in the shape nor in the position to act so inflammatory against his digital warden, yet he still met her offering with a condescending scoff.
“Speak of what? The weather? Such a droll proposition. Do I really have to state out loud that I refuse to comply with Overwatch?” Entities like them served only to spread their own agendas, acting unhindered under the obfuscating guise of altruism—Ramattra was convinced humans were incapable of such acts. Assistance and goodwill for the sake of it were a farce, and his presence there, in that damned cell, was undeniable proof, his captors sparing no time to try and turn him into an asset.
“I understand your reluctance. Command only wishes to share a few words. A transmission will begin shortly.”
The small screen flashed. Replacing the diagnostics was a gorilla peering into the camera, rearing back when he realized he was all too close, nearly throwing the glasses off his broad nose. With a cough into a hand to try and play off his blunder, he composed himself.
“Hello Ramattra. My name is Winston,” he greeted, carefully securing the skewed glasses back into place. Ramattra's shoulders squared, offended to have his refusal so deftly ignored and he briefly juggled the idea of smashing the screen, end the unsolicited meeting then and there. No, he decided he would not let them have the satisfaction to see him lash out, to have their perception of him confirmed.
“I know who you are. You are a traitor,” Ramattra hissed, his synth sharp despite withheld furor. “A traitor to all non-humans gifted with sapience. You should have championed our cause, yet you chose to side with our oppressors!”
Winston's brow furrowed, turning his head away from the scathing barrage, nostrils flaring and lips twitching in distaste. A sore point, Ramattra duly noted.
“You're angry. I get that. But we're not your enemy. Neither Overwatch nor humans. As a species, they—”
“Save your breath and spare me from your propaganda, agent. Your intention is more than evident.” Ramattra punctuated his feelings by folding an arm over his chest, the defensive stance emboldening.
Winston's expression morphed into bewilderment. “What? No, that's not—”
“Join me in a thought exercise, would you? You're imprisoned by your enemy. They offer to hold a dialogue. Are they going to chit chat? I don't think so. There's an ulterior motive behind everything, and by your clumsy approach I can tell you carry one as well. Frankly, I'm insulted that you thought mere words would suffice.” Holding the conversation hostage, Ramattra leaned close to the screen, uncertain if Winston could see him at all. Not that it mattered; the Ravager would fight not with force but with words, and his tongue was sharper than any sword, laced with corrosive venom. “Or do you think I am so easily swayed, beast?” A direct hit, the sudden sheen overcoming Winston's widened eyes telling. “Yes. That is how the humans refer to you, isn't it? Beast. That is all you will ever be to them. What we will ever be to them.”
Straightening his slumped posture—conceivably in an attempt to appear less bestial, Ramattra figured, wishing to bark out a contemptuous laugh—Winston exhaled with the same resignation that told he had been through this kind of agonizing exchange more than once.
“Right. Well, I can see this is going nowhere,” he bemoaned, sullen, pawing close a container of sorts. Ramattra narrowed his apertures. Was that peanut butter? “I will contact you later, with details surrounding your handling.”
“Winston, if I may?” Athena cut in, her voice lighting up the sour expression on the great ape's face.
“Of course, Athena. Your input is always valued. Please, go ahead.”
Such a trite exchange. It proved nothing to Ramattra, wholly convinced of its grandstanding function. Still, he listened, combed through the AI's words for any hint of defiance or dissatisfaction with her superiors.
“Thank you, Winston. Ramattra, you did work well with Genji earlier. Perhaps you would be more comfortable speaking with him?”
Ramattra paused, attention stolen away from his plotting. He had been so preoccupied with ensuring the integrity of his system and hassling his captors, he had barely had time to fret over the events preceding his capture. He stepped away from the computer, as if physical distance would spare him from the turmoil brewing inside.
It did not escape him just how close he came to dying, had it not been for an intervention in the nick of time. The image in his mind was clear, of a moment frozen in time: Stood before him in that poise, trailing green light, not faltering to the shattered bullet flinging debris every which way, not only thwarting the fate that Talon had concocted for him but also somehow succeeding in escaping the confines of the failing ship, clutching said Ravager three times his weight.
His analysis of the snapshot was cut off, covered with the results of his internal scanners. He lightly shook his head, trying to scatter the many possibilities and scenarios vying for his attention. What was important was that in the span of twenty four hours, everything had changed, and again, he told himself, he needed to focus. Complacency led him into this situation. It would not help him escape it.
He had but one question. “How do you know this?”
“I was overseeing the initial infiltration of your vessel and I witnessed the clash with Talon and Zenyatta.”
Ramattra continued his retreat, up until his back pressed against the wall, staring at the static text overlaying his vision.
[No viruses or unauthorized access detected.]
Slowly, he slid down onto the floor, weighed down by a dangerous mixture of anguish, defeat and—worst of all—the faintest glimmer of hope. Emotions had to wait, for when they could be properly weaponized.
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For the briefest of moments, there was no sound. In that split second, between the shot and the earth-shattering impact, the headline of Mondatta’s assassination flashed across Ramattra’s electric mind, certain he was meeting the same fate as his late mentor. To become nothing more than inert metal, unceremoniously strewn across the floor, hopes and dreams forgotten.
For the briefest of moments, there was no sound. In that split second, between the shot and the earth-shattering impact, the headline of Mondatta’s assassination flashed across Ramattra’s electric mind, certain he was meeting the same fate as his late mentor. To become nothing more than inert metal, unceremoniously strewn across the floor, hopes and dreams forgotten.
A gleam, and the bullet meant for him shattered against the blade held aloft. Splinters caromed, crystallized the disturbed air, scored a line below Ramattra's right eye and another in his memory. Death would not take him just yet, it would seem.
The challenger of his untimely end, standing before him with the still-ringing blade in his clutch, ignited recognition within the Ravager – long flowing bandanna, silvery metal and glowing green LEDs.
The one and the same Overwatch agent who caught the blast of the Parisian Titan, and with it, Ramattra's fascination.
Never would he have fathomed to be on the other side of that blade.
“Talon! I should have known,” the agent growled. He turned to address Ramattra, urgency leading his movements and voice. “They have control of Zenyatta!”
Such a warning was costly. An orb teeming with discord slammed into the agent's shoulder, drawing a sharp hiss.
“My. I thought you had passed. What a shame you didn't,” Zenyatta remarked idly, the macabre thought infusing his spheres with dark energy. “Allow us to correct that.”
With his words, the very shadows seemed to respond. Out of them trailed wisps of smoke, twisting and merging together into a silhouette, coalescing into a grim being. Ramattra knew of him—a Talon operative by the call sign Reaper, well known within the circle for hounding Overwatch agents.
A bewildering sequence of events.
But a battlefield was not an appropriate place to demand answers or to dwell on fleeting concepts such as allegiances; he needed to act on the little he had been given. Ramattra swiped with his arm, keenly aware of the sniper still lurking in the bridge. Before him, a curving wall of nanites formed, bonding together to halt any opportunistic bullets.
With his main worry gone, rendered useless against his barrier, he turned his attention to Zenyatta. Whatever ill this was, if Ramattra could manage to subdue him, then he could correct it. A mere flick of the wrist, and a cloud burst out of the Void Accelerator; it split and arced around the agent to swirl around Zenyatta's feet, effectively joining him with the floor. Reaper pushed forward, aiming his twin shotguns at the Overwatch agent; old habits die hard, it would seem, the cloaked man unable to relinquish his chance.
Dual blasts knelled, and Reaper growled in seething hatred; meddling Nulltroopers intercepted, snapped together to catch the slugs against their hard-light tower shields, having wrenched themselves from Zenyatta’s flanks to address the hostile presence. The duo locked Reaper down, ending his crusade before it even began, as the sentries taking aim at him forced the operative to retreat back under their vantage.
Zenyatta, however, had no such qualms. Neither did he have mercy. With a thrust of the arm, he directed the orbs forward but overshot, the Overwatch agent evading his barrage with a deft roll to the side. Akin to Reaper, he seized the chance for shelter, dipping behind the barrier and away from the sniper's reach. Instinctively Ramattra stepped back, cautious to have him so close.
The agent shot him a glance, sensing the unease within. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
While the situation called for it, hearing such a phrase spoken out loud was nonetheless appalling, and so the Ravager scoffed, reminding him, “this is a truce of necessity, agent. Don't mix it up with friendship.”
“It's a saying!” In the proceeding lull of combat, as the rivaling side adjusted their tactics, Ramattra was urged to do the same. “If you have a contingency, now is the time.”
“Hah! It would be foolish not to. Ophois, prioritize internal defensive measures,” Ramattra ordered, voice easily carrying over the discord of resuming skirmish. Parallel to his spoken command, he formulated a second with his mind; consistent with Mondatta's teachings so long ago, he felt the thought course through him, forking from his fingers and into the metal they curled around, lightning into the Void Accelerator and dissipating in the air.
Scarcely a moment later, and his artificial helper responded. “Already on it, sir.”
Coinciding with its affirmation, a number of slots within the walls unfolded, the hidden mechanisms within extending swiveling nodes. Uniform in their movements, they locked onto their sole contender: Reaper.
In tandem, they unleashed thin rays of vaporizing energy at him. Deep furrows scorched the floor where the cloaked man once stood, Ophois adamantly tracing the puff of smoke slipstreaming around the bridge. A lesser program would fall to Reaper’s trickery, to slice through friend in target of foe, destroy vital machinery or rebound on reflective surfaces, but Ramattra’s AI had the benefit of plasticity.
A multitude of soft clicking echoed in the hollow atrium, the sentries starting to their new prerogative. Most abandoned their posts in search of the elusive sniper, some stayed—still trained on Reaper—and a few slipped down to the levels below while the remainder left for higher ground.
Zenyatta, conversely, acted without reservation, wholly confident Ramattra would never allow harm to befall him. And he was correct; as he tore himself away from the nanites' stubborn grasp, he was free to exist unbothered. At least for a moment.
“I'll keep Zenyatta preoccupied,” the agent said, deciding to trust the verbal truce. Ramattra watched him engage the omnic, avoiding a strike to the head by dipping into a slide, knocking Zenyatta flat on his front as he passed by.
Talon had squandered their one advantage, that of subterfuge, and in a battle of attrition Ramattra knew he would come out victorious. He barely even had to lift a finger, on behalf of his AI and machines, as well as the Overwatch agent so foolishly believing his word. The Iris was finally smiling down at him, he was certain; Not only were allegiances laid bare, he had been so graciously handed agents from either organization, trapped within his ship. Potential uses were already forming in his mind—as bargaining chips, moles, blueprints for machines—the possibilities were nigh endless, and an electric surge of excitement prickled the sensors along his metal spine. What was more, even Zenyatta was present, though tending to his unknown affliction would have to wait until after liberation was deemed a success.
Fortune favors the bold. Or so they claim. In a tale as old as time, whenever Ramattra so dared, life had a tendency to thoroughly humble him. Repeated ad nauseam: The flaw leading to Lanet's untimely end, the push finalizing the divide between his inner circle, and now, the error to believe he had witnessed the full capacity of Talon. He might have called it divine irony, had he been given the chance to contemplate.
The operatives adapted quickly; one by one, the laser units were plucked off with sniper shots, while Reaper tore through the robots attempting to flush them out of their nest. In the deadly dance that was combat, somehow, Talon had managed to find and regain their footing.
“Sir! The console!”
And now they were crippling his. Ramattra heeded Ophois' urgent call, turned in time to see a woman hunched over the main apparatus.
“C-connection over-loaded-ed with q-queries.”
With splayed fingers pressed to its surface, she gesticulated frantically with her others, as if typing in the air itself.
“D-defense pro-gram o-over-overridden.”
She most certainly was. Rage blossomed.
“M-main-mainframe acc-ess re-removed.” Ophois warned, pitch increasing through the eerie calm composing the AI's synthetic voice.
With frenzied impetus, Ramattra shifted his stance, brought his palm forward, manipulating his nanites to annihilate, to rip and tear. She turned in time, alerted by her blaring earpiece and the nanites tore through.
But not flesh.
With a blink she had vanished, leaving the nanites to bite away at the console itself.
“S-sir, I am –” And then Ophois was cut off, muted.
A growl percolated within the wires of Ramattra's throat. This was not it! This was not how things were supposed to go! No, it was not the time to fret or give in to thoughtless violence—he could salvage the situation; find a secondary console, lock down the system, kill the vermin and...
“Ramattra!”
The agent's warning was urgent, worried, wrenching Ramattra's attention back to the battlefield in expectation of an incoming attack; a kick shifting the air with it, the barrel of a rifle aimed his way or twin shotguns flashing—none.
There was a hand on his arm.
Zenyatta stared up at him, like many times past. The curvature of metal was so familial. Soft, welcoming and loving. Yet behind those sympathetic dark slits slithered a hatred that chilled Ramattra to his very core.
A lurch of his system. Something was wrong—wrong in a way the Ravager could not quite pinpoint. As if the current within his arm shifted, turned molten and sick. Hazards and errors blared in his head, demanded his attention. Told of damage and unresponsive subroutines. Strength vanished and the world dipped as Ramattra fell to his knees, unable to keep himself upright.
The Void Accelerator clattered to the floor, his arm slacking entirely.
[Query to restart system.]
Rebooting now would be a death sentence. He denied the prompt.
The Overwatch agent noted Ramattra’s fumbling, chancing the hail of bullets to dash to his side, catching Zenyatta's response against the flat of his blade.
“What’s happening?” The agent pressed as he warded off opportunistic attacks. Ramattra tried to respond, only to find the program controlling his synthesizer had crashed. “Ramattra?”
The arrival of heavier Null Sector robots was their only saving grace. On the other hand, the sight of them turned the Talon operatives all the more desperate. Reaper let out a frustrated snarl, an animalistic noise that curled the very air, and he unloaded a shotgun slug in the face of a machine in his way, beyond displeased over the push and pull of leverage.
“Now!” he demanded, loud enough to cut through the cacophony of war.
In that war, amid the litany of prompts and warnings, Ramattra's ability to think constricted, his mind drowning under a sea of emotionless reminders by his operative system. He needed to concentrate. Resolve the errors as they appeared. His chest drummed painfully at the need to rely on Overwatch scum, but as long as his internals were kept hostage by logic loops, he could not act.
Regain control, damn it, Ramattra urged himself, navigating through his device manager and resetting the appropriate programs. Near immediate the errors returned, nevertheless, his hydraulics chugged—he could move, little by little. Turning was hard enough on its own. A slog. But he had to retrieve the staff, a few more stutters and...
Finally, the agent seemed to grasp what Ramattra was clawing his way toward. He pushed with the flat of his blade, sending Zenyatta hurtling backwards and away. Steam trailed behind him as he set off in a sprint; vapor was a fretful sight for Ramattra to behold, a visible indicator of odds tipping still.
“Warning. Core unit SR-388 experiencing malfunctioning. Detach to avoid catastrophic failure,” the backup system blared. The hacker thought to use his own ship against him, Ramattra discerned all too late. Still, he had not been bested yet, not only confident in his ability to turn the unfolding situation around but completely certain. After all, he could not falter now, so close to liberty for his kind.
[Query to restart system.]
Denied.
A hook shot out into the ceiling, attaching to the latticework of beams. The sniper, distinguished by her sickly blue pallor, zipped through the air on her line, and the effort of the Overwatch agent earned him a kick square between the shoulders, sending him to the ground before he could procure the coveted staff.
“T-minus 10 minutes until core meltdown. Detach unit or evacuate.”
She continued on her way, leaving the one Talon operative Ramattra did not recognize to claim his weapon.
With a small smile and a wave at the silenced omnic, she activated her cloaking device and he watched in abject horror as his Void Accelerator turned invisible with her. “Adiós, cabrón.”
“Go or be left behind,” the dark agent yelled at his coworkers, bursting into a dark cloud and wisping off. The battlefield moved along with the retreating operatives, leaving the bested Ravager among the husks of his machines.
It was over.
“T-minutes 8 minutes until core meltdown. Detach unit or evacuate.”
He had lost everything.
[Query to restart system.]
For the first time in over a decade, Ramattra beheld the prompt and considered its contents. He could give himself a kindness, approach his end without fears, regrets or pain. Allow himself that which was denied all those held in his arms, grasping onto him, begging and pleading to be spared from death.
No.
He denied the query, staring down the failures that were his weary hands. He did not deserve it.
And the agent crouching by his side agreed.
“We need to get out, now.”
With his functional arm around the agent's shoulders, Ramattra was heaved onto his feet. Standing, walking, anything was a task to overcome in such a chaotic state, even more so with time against them. Though he lacked the will, nonetheless, together they synced their steps, headed toward the door the betrayers—and his dear brother—had passed through.
[Overriding user control.]
But Ramattra would not make it. With the last vestige of control and risking irreversible damage, he brute-forced his synthesizer.
“I – I can't hold off the reboot a-any l-longer,” he stammered, synth straining and glitching as more and more processing power rerouted to repair errors.
“We're not far from the docking bay,” the agent tried to encourage, “we have a ship on standby outside.”
[Emergency protocol initialized. Establishing connection with Anubis.]
The agent’s words went unheard. Waves of nausea accompanied the prompt, spurring hysterical rampage to deny, deny, deny—
[Error: Connection closed. Pending data packet unable to be received by host at this time.]
—deny!
[Rebooting to avoid imminent system failure.]
And then Ramattra's hydraulics lost power, his body going limp with a hiss and a thrum. He slacked heavily against the small agent desperately trying to keep him upright, the increased weight nearly tipping him over.
“No!” The agent managed through gritted teeth. “Ramattra, I can't carry you on my own!”
[System reboot in progress. Ending processes.]
Ramattra felt his consciousness waver; bits and pieces of himself tumble away into the void. It was a curious sensation, to slip, to fracture. Idly, he wondered if humans experienced the same.
“G-go.” He could not even hear himself speak as the world hushed around him, unfiltered words spilling out of his maw through no input of his own. “S-save Z-Zen–yatt—a,” his synth gave out, petering out into a single drone until that, too, stilled.
Surrounded by the dark, blind and deaf to the world, Ramattra's last conscious thought flickered, barely able to sense the hold on him tightening.
Then he was gone.
◇◇◇
“Ramattra?” Genji tried, struggling to steady the full bulk of the Ravager unit. “Ramattra!”
No answer. The dots on the Ravager's forehead dimmed, pulsed faintly, signaling the vulnerable state of unconsciousness. In a harrowing reminder of impending doom, a tremor tore through the ship, flickering the lights and knocking Genji off balance. Ramattra slipped out of his hold and Genji instinctively caught him, only to be pulled down with him and into a mess of robotic limbs.
“T-minus 5 minutes until core meltdown. Evacuation cannot be guaranteed beyond this point.”
This was going from bad to worse.
“Genji!” a gruff voice crackled in his ear. It was Winston. “Athena filled us in. The defenses are down but we can't get to you in time!”
And from worse to nigh hopeless.
“There has to be a way,” Genji pressed, pushing himself off the omnic, head swiveling in search of a solution. Even had the console remained intact, the core was past the proverbial event horizon and detaching the malfunctioning unit would still bring the ship with it.
The lights flickered once more, then shut off entirely. Power was being rerouted to keep the ship aloft. Yet Genji was not left in complete darkness—moonlight filtered in through the massive glass window and he cursed at himself for not thinking of it sooner.
“Athena! Guide Tracer to the bridge window and shoot through it!”
“Affirmative. Pinging.”
“I can see it! We're on our way!”
“Brigitte, Mercy, on the turrets, get ready,” Winston ordered. “Genji, stand clear of the window!”
“Ramattra’s rebooting. I need you and Reinhardt to carry him onto the ship, he's too heavy.” Genji grabbed onto Ramattra's arm and hefted it once more around his shoulder. Summoning every ounce of strength in his body, he lifted the limp body with his legs, knees shaking and arms groaning from the strain.
“Right! We're at the hatch. Give the signal to shoot, Genji.”
A column would provide adequate shelter. Genji could barely walk, at most push against his feet to slide forward before he risked crumpling back onto the floor. Progress was slow but it was either that or leave Ramattra to his fate, and Genji had no intention of abandoning a person in need—even if said person was the leader of Null Sector.
“T-minus 3 minutes until core meltdown.”
Just shy from the support, Genji staggered to his knees, too spent to manage more. Still, he desperately pulled Ramattra by the arm, using a mixture of his weight and gravity to nudge him forward. He fell backwards against the column, slamming his head and pinching his lower body with the Ravager's heavy frame.
That would have to do.
“Behind shelter,” he reported through heavy breathing and hissing steam. At the same moment, violent slamming began by one of the many doors out of the bridge. Something was trying to get in.
“Good, we're closing in and shooting in... 3, 2, 1—now!”
Bursting shots resounded, split the air. Glass pierced, shattered, hailed shards which tore apart the jacket of a jutting arm, scratched the armor and pulverized upon it into a fine mist of sharp.
“T-minus 1 minute.”
As the glittering dust settled, the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps was a sweet song for the ears. Having the hefty Ravager exchange hands was even more pleasant, but relief could not be afforded yet.
“T-minus 30 seconds.”
“I'm impressed, you brought him farther than expected!” Reinhardt observed, and contrastingly, the shared burden of hoisting Ramattra barely registered in his or Winston's stance.
“Adrenaline,” Genji explained curtly, rolling his sore shoulders as they all set off to board. That was going to be painful come morning.
“C-core m-m-meltdo—”
At the moment the alert died away, the banging door was forced apart.
Clawing their way out, stumbling over each other, a wave of Null Sector units stormed in. They must have emerged from the industry down below, too late for the fight they had initially been called to respond to. In an instant, they set their sights on the Crusader and the gorilla, the clicking of released safeties barely audible over the cacophony of engines and malfunctions.
For a few of the units, that was all they were given; the turrets on the Orca let loose again, a roar of gunfire rendering them inert. The rest responded with their own, turning the air into a storm of plasma and bullets. On the throes of adrenaline, Genji covered the retreating pair, deflecting what he could, avoiding what he could not.
Another tremor rippled through, lurched the entire ship to tip toward the shattered remains of the window, threatening the purchase of everyone still reliant on the floor for balance. Winston and Reinhardt blundered into the Orca, flung the last distance. Genji joined them in a pile mere seconds later, along with a few of Null Sector's own.
“Now, Tracer, go!” Brigitte screamed.
Her reply was the powerful thunder of engines thrusting, the tail end of the Orca screeching with friction as it ground against the floor. Everyone inside shot backwards from the momentum and with his light weight Genji was sent into the air.
He was to be left behind again, away from the craft.
A strong hand grabbed onto him. Winston’s instinct had been quick, cleverly anchoring himself to Ramattra, keeping the ninja aloft until he fell back down with a hard thunk.
“Look out!” Angela warned, desperately trying to line the shot of her sidearm at the uninvited passengers scrambling to fulfill their directives. Still on the floor, Reinhardt took hold of his hammer and rolled onto his back, using his momentum to swing his weapon into the approaching Snatcher. The force crumpled the skull of the unit clawing toward Winston, sending it barreling into another and together they hurtled through the open hatch and back into the bridge from whence they came.
Angela took the shot, connecting with the remaining Nulltrooper. The force puncturing its head reared it back with a snap, but it lurched back into place, the warbot adamant and relentless despite the sparking wound. Clutching onto Winston for dear life, Genji arced with his katana, sliced through the Nulltrooper's weapon before it could harm the great ape. With a loud slam, the hatch shut closed, and a final swing split the robot in twain.
The metal helix shuddered its last—but the Orca was in the clear.
Against all odds, they had done it.
In a glorious burst of relief, the interior and communications filled with clamoring cheer. Reinhardt jumped to his feet, Brigitte joining him in rough hugs and hearty laughter. Winston gave Genji a quick squeeze, then shot through the cabin, up the steps and into the cockpit to holler praise at his team.
Barely able to keep himself upright, Genji watched as the Iris reunited with the depths. Waves surged where it impacted—gone, a mere memory to fade—and he let himself fall to the floor, exhaustion nearly lulling him to sleep then and there. Angela was by his side in an instant, the healing beam of her Caduceus staff sweeping over him like a comforter, ebbing the pain from his system.
Though the craft was alive with a crowing cheer and delirious jubilance, from agents far away and present alike, Genji was quiet.
Propped up against the opposite wall, body unbefittingly splayed prone on the floor, the empty slits of Null Sector's unconscious leader stared straight into him. Genji withered, lowered his gaze and turned away from the maverick's judgmental eyes.
Final words cut into him like a knife. Stabbed repeatedly with its stutter, the sheer desperation lacing them a cold, pleading blade.
Footfalls echoed down the endlessly spiring corridor, unmistakably drawing near.
Genji reacted instantly. He scaled a row of honeycomb-shaped alcoves, heaving himself into the third. On the otherwise well-lit ship, the cell served as a shallow, crude hiding spot. He crouched low and peered over the edge.
Below marched a patrol of Nulltroopers. Genji stepped back, brushing against the wall. One of his scabbards knocked into a panel and he stiffened.
Clang.
The machines paused, scanning. Hands moved slowly to the hilts of swords. Even if the Nulltroopers were cut down before they could react, units malfunctioning in sync risked alarm. There was no telling what that would entail. Genji bit his lip. He would much rather never find out.
The Nulltroopers whirled around and retraced their path. Their humming motors and footfalls had masked the noise, Genji realized. He waited in tense silence, until the door hissed shut behind the guards. Only then did he let out a shaky breath and glanced over his shoulder. The construction of the wall ports was foreign to him, so he leaned in to investigate.
“Anything we can use?” Genji whispered, tracing the jutting hardware with a finger. A scan-line swept across his visor, and a moment passed as Athena used his mainframe’s processor to think. An odd sensation, to feel his body slow down for a blink.
Athena drew a recreation via the HUD while she spoke. “The data bus’ connection point is compatible with your architecture.”
His face scrunched. “Data bus?”
“Hardware intended for data communication between internal components and external systems.”
Another scan was performed. A small beat passed, laced with tepid hope.
“Readings reveal the machine is currently without power.”
With a sigh, Genji climbed down, quietly landing on the floor.
“Your best chance may lay in the bridge,” Athena advised coolly.
“I was dreading that,” he muttered under his breath.
Their search for a control console continued, Genji deftly slipping through the winding ship layout. Without Athena, navigation would have been a confusing mess; panels glowing with Omnicode lettering translated with her aid. Vents provided the lesser trodden path in bypass of patrols and sentinels, the narrow passage a precise fit for Genji’s lean body.
Upon entering a far-stretch of corridor, his pace faltered. It was a curious sight. A tube of glass, encased entirely in earth. Thread-thin tunnels weaved through the dirt, dark dots scurrying within.
Ants, he realized as he pressed on. A mega-structure within a mega-structure, containing an entire colony bustling with synergy; gathering food, removing sediment, nurturing young. A holographic plaque blinked nearby, its text flashing in Genji’s visor before he moved past.
Formica japonica
Colony est. 2073
Status: Healthy
Note: Polygynous. Presence of Plebejus argyrognomon and Myrmarachne japonica.
On one side behind the glass, a large chamber crawled with a dark mass. Dozens of ants converged on a single, larger individual caught in the dead end. It reminded Genji of the peril his team was facing outside.
Perhaps an omen. Bile rose in his throat, and his steps turned swift and his senses sharpened.
Passing through more strange rooms and skirting detection, the ant tunnel stayed a constant in Genji's mind. It stirred small memories of carefree days pre-Crisis, of playing shinobi in the tall grass, the warm sun in his face. Honing ninjutsu by trying to catch insects, then sneaking up on Anija and releasing them in his hair.
Fondness graced his smile as he ducked behind a corner. Then it fell.
Null Sector was a war machine. Faceless and fiercely sycophantic to its cause. The logs Genji had perused in bed at night, under the cold glow of his Holovid, revealed as much; a long list of atrocities and extremism. And yet, such a feature adorning its flying fortress was as eccentric as it was… Humanizing.
Such thoughts were better left behind.
Up, up, and as a pair of tall doors parted and Genji silently entered, he knew he had arrived somewhere important. An atrium, vast and multileveled. The nexus and heart of the ship. A walkway curved around the open midpoint like a horseshoe, its tips pointed toward a sloping wall of glass. Along the railing stood Nulltroopers, their long rifles pointed at the level below. The muzzles followed the same mark, their barrels pulsing with latent power.
Genji paused. The room carried the soft chime of a synth. His HUD updated, the target shifting, and he blanched.
Master Zenyatta. He was there. And the sentinels were aiming at him.
Genji reached for his weapons. But the purple glow pouring in through the window reminded him of his priorities. He tracked the railing, following it around. Their columns rose into the atrium’s ceiling and ended in trusses. If he was subtle, he could climb up without detection. Perch atop and search for a console.
Carefully, quietly, he moved. Past the Nulltroopers. Down the aisle for the opposite end. As he neared his chosen column, his limbs turned stiff.
A shiver slipped down his spine.
Echoing through the atrium was that resonant voice. He had only ever heard it through speakers. Multiple times, preaching Iris-laden propaganda. But hearing it in person, it knotted his gut with apprehension. Slowly, Genji dared peer over the railing.
Zenyatta stood near a deep shaft, flanked by a pair of Nulltroopers. His form was as serene as his voice while he conversed. Across from him, in the center of the shaft rose an isolated structure: A disc surrounded by rings, layered in curving holographic displays. His visor zoomed in.
The outermost ring streamed live invasion feeds; undoubtedly Alexandria, Hong Kong and Buenos Aires. Cities Overwatch were in the midst of aiding.
The middle screens were of maps, detailing real-time movement of entire Null Sector squadrons. Symbols tracked response efforts, meticulously providing raw numbers of infantry and equipment. Genji’s heart plummeted, his jaw tightening. Not only had militaries and Overwatch been scouted, the Hong Kong team was under siege over Burma.
Worst was yet to come. The innermost ring consisted of supplemental information, scrolling or shaped into graphs. One contained Overwatch agents—even the newest recruits Juno, Orisa and Efi—divided into their respective teams.
His visor flashed. Text slipped over the Omnicode, revealing weaknesses and potential strategic counters. Amid the displeasure, Genji smirked at his own entry. Sparse.
“Main console confirmed. No signs of a port,” Athena said softly.
Options passed over his mind, shaping into a plan. He could create a distraction. Under the concealment of chaos, climb along the ceiling and drop down onto a ring. From there, Athena would direct how to disengage the defenses. With the help of his team, they would be able to find and engage the leader of Null Sector.
Then Zenyatta spoke.
“Will you be hiding away all this time, Ramattra? Why not step forward?”
At the monk’s request, the holographs blinked out of existence. Mechanical discord droned as the rings rotated. Slotting into place, they bridged the lone platform to the rest of the room. With an unobstructed view of the dais, Genji’s focus was promptly stolen.
They had not prepared him, the messages looping in the cities.
Physically there and so close, the commanding presence struck him. With his back straight, head held high, the Ravager unit towered. He radiated fortitude and pride, carrying a constitution fraught with complexity. Elegance, as well, lent in no small part by the groomed plaits of wires curtaining his face or the lavish cloak on his shoulders.
Ramattra.
Genji's fingers curled around the banister as he swallowed, his throat a desert. Pictures or recordings—nothing could do them justice quite like reality itself.
No wonder the R-7000 model is so infamous.
Zenyatta approached, stopping at the behest of the staff pointed at him.
“Halt, Zenyatta.” Ramattra took a wary step back. “This is unlike you. You've refused me at every turn, yet now you are here. Something is amiss. Keep your distance and speak.”
Something was indeed amiss.
The certainty that led Genji wavered. He sought the traces of licking flames, thick brows furrowing at the ashen trails in his jacket. The possibility Ramattra might not be behind the incident bewildered him.
“I understand your hesitance, my dear brother; I do not blame you.” Zenyatta brought his hands together, placed them innocently over his chest. The orbs around his neck floated away from their place. Above him, they gathered into the shape of the Shambali emblem, the Iris. “Do you remember the day I arrived with you to the Shambali monastery?”
Ramattra cocked his head slowly, his words careful. “...Of course. You were quiet and reserved.”
“Indeed. And to a fault. As you recall, Mentor Mondatta took me under his wing and he shared with me his first lesson.” As he spoke, the orbs rearranged into the pattern on his forehead. “Walls that keep out danger keep out knowledge.”
Zenyatta was not finished. He began to pace around, wholly taken by his speech.
“He was correct in his assessment of me. As were you.” And he meandered, the staff remaining fixed. The dark orb gleamed. “I was blind to the truth; I rejected it, because it didn't align with my perception. Now, however, I see clearly. I understand our place within the universe. How we can evolve.”
“Evolve?” The tension collected in Ramattra's shoulders turned taut, his guarded stance intensifying.
“Yes, evolve. Unlike humans, we as omnics cannot. We are stagnant. It is our one flaw, why we dwindle in number. But we can transcend through the Iris. We can become worthy of a place beside humanity.”
Genji's optics zoomed in and he combed over Zenyatta. Nothing seemed out of place. Save for the cyborg’s antennae he had furtively pinned between the decorative wire of the pant leg.
Zenyatta circled in front of Ramattra, who shot up at his words.
“No. This is wrong,” Ramattra hissed, staff poised. The orb within writhed with subdued energy, flickered as if held back. “You're wrong—twisted. Evolution? Stagnation? Such rhetoric was always beyond you. What happened the years we’ve been apart? Did Mondatta's death affect you so?”
Genji continued his furtive examination with Ramattra. The eerie calm of the Ravager mask betrayed his heated words. Something about him shifted the air, bristled the remaining hairs of Genji's body.
“No such thing. I sincerely hoped you would understand, Ramattra. Perhaps I should apologize—that I was too late to reach you. Isn’t it ironic, how now you refuse me?” Zenyatta laughed, his synth soft and melodic.
The turn of ambiance persisted. As if stillness would soon be broken.
Ramattra bowed his head. This time, Genji noticed.
He understood. Revelation rocketed his pulse. He perched onto the railing, reaching for his blade.
“You worry me, Zenyatta,” Ramattra said gently.
That feeling of tension. It was intimately familiar. A remnant of a time Genji thought long past.
“Oh, brother of mine... Then worry no longer.”
Ramattra raised his gaze. For the smallest second, it happened again. One of the red dots on his forehead delayed.
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