GENJI SHIMADA ONLY KNOWS PEACE IN A TINY, FREEZING TOWNSHIP in the Dolakha Province of Nepal. His body works to maintain its core temperature, running hot, but the sun is high, shining, and the gears inside him whirr like a tiger’s purr.
It is a small village. Quiet, the way nature is quiet. Genji’s sensors are thorough. There is a pot boiling over a hearth in the building behind him. He hears the crush of snow underfoot, careful and heavy steps----- five-hundred yards from where he stands, maybe less. There is a bridge which connects to the main roads, and it is the only traditional means of entering the village. It is here, now, Genji waits.
The figure is tall, wrapped in layers of wools and shawls and furs, and walking with a staff in one hand, poking at the snow-laden dirt with every step taken.
“Welcome to Dolakha. I am Genji,” Genji greets him, hospitable, polite. “Pupil to Tekhartha Zenyatta. I have been instructed to act as a companion for your journey to the monastery.” Genji supposes that isn’t entirely true. He was not instructed. He had volunteered, curious.
Omnics do not tire, do not require food------ but, surely, good company is rewarding, at least.
@theharellan (solas). ! start.
