#putridvodka

The bald-headed monk shifted again, once again rubbing the strange coating on his head as he began to shift around and let pressure out of his over polarized pneumatic joints. Causing them to hold a perfect locked position too long was bad for the seals and would cause him to require maintenance sooner. The last thing he wanted to do was spring a leak and start oozing mechanical oil through the pores of the skin. Zenyatta had been with the Shambali monks for nearly three years and he still wasn’t accustomed to being able to access a trained technician readily. Not only did he have a technician here at Overwatch, his original designer was here. Regardless, the humans barely trusted them to begin with--if he began to sweat demonic ooze through his skin, he imagined they’d shoot first and ask questions after.

Even the nature of the Shambali being here seemed like a dream, a nightmare, or possibly a curse. The UN had leveraged their influence to hand select two monks to come and become the religious and spiritual counsel for those who didn’t have a kindred soul in the already existing colorful cast around base. They’d requested Mondatta and him.

Why him? Zen had never been anything special. He was barely a monk. Barely anything--he'd only been off the line for only a few months when The Crisis had hit. Tucked into a dark and secluded alcove of an unused subway line, a freshly minted OP-816 had powered down for what he assumed would be the last time as the continued assault of voices had broadcasted through his mind. It had called, he had refused to answer. The chaos of Shanghai, fires and screams and the blood of innocents running like a river through the streets of the metropolis as the other Omnics became one with Shangti. Flames and corpses and whispers that only he could resist. He couldn’t run, he could barely resist, so he chose to power down with no promise that anyone would ever wake him up.

‘Come to me, Zenyatta. Come, join your brethren. Rise up and spill blood in my name… Join us--’ "Zenyatta.." A gentle voice called, a similarly synthetically skinned hand coming to rest on Zen's tanned shoulder, the one that wasn't covered in a golden sash, bringing him back to the present. It was so fascinating how these skins could pick up such subtle cues like the coolness of Mondatta's hands or the weight of the heavier-than-usual omnic hand contained inside. He allowed himself to focus rather on these small details than to let the pervasive memories seep into his consciousness. His eyes flicked up; Sweet, almond shaped and settled beneath six cerulean spots on his forehead. Few people questioned the glowing marks that all the Shambali monks had, as if being a monk from the mountains was reason enough to defy the laws of human biology. He was thankful for their oblivious ignorance. "Yes, Master?" "Worry not.." Mondatta’s gentle chide soothed Zenyatta’s invisible demons, his face at eternal ease as they swayed along with the helicopter making first contact with the tarmac. It was their internal gyroscopes function at their finest. The humans along for the ride surely assumed it was their unnatural ability to keep poised, however beneath the sweating, crying, feeling skin laid an AI and a lot of spare parts. Zenyatta looked down at his bare feet, gold painted toes peeking out from under his white linen pants and red sash. The feeling of worrying the fabrics together, provided by the new skin that the UN had forced them both to wear, was surprisingly soothing. This was just another step toward hiding what he was, who he was, and accepting that humans needed to be lied to for Omnics to be safe. He didn't like it--Mondatta liked it even less--but right now it was dangerous for them to try and live in a base full of Crisis veterans without them. "I will try, Master. I aspire toward tranquility always." "Aspire, my student, that is all anyone can ever ask of you." The older monk replied, offering him a gentle smile and pulling a golden bangle from his own wrist and offered it to the younger bot out of solidarity.

‘Join us.’

The skins could sweat, they could bleed, and, in rare instances like this, they could even cry. Zen would never get used to the feeling of artificial saline rolling down his cheeks. The Shambali monks had been the ones to find him nearly twenty years after he’d originally powered down. Mondatta’s faceplate had been the first thing seen his optics had fully processed and the man was his close friend and father figure. The person who had named him ‘Zenyatta’. "Thank you master." Zenyatta bowed at the waist respectfully, pushing the bangle onto his wrist and rubbed his face as the airlock blew open with a loud 'woosh'. His optics scrambled to adjust to the glare of the setting sun, struggling to increase their contrast until a pair of figures came into focus. They were standing just inside the darkness provided by the stone where the base was cut directly into one the historic Pillars of Hercules. His skin’s programming engaged and Zen’s left arm lifted to shield his eyes from the still circulating clouds of dust kicked up by the huge double rotors on the martial helicopter they’d just disembarked.

Two, one about seven or eight centimeters taller than the other. A shock of bright blue hair; red eyes behind a mask. They both seemed to have some kind of branding on their shoulders that he just couldn’t make out from this angle and distance with the dust in the wind.The more he squinted to really focus on the pair, the more Zenyatta felt their positioning specifically out of the bounds of human sight was strategic… and he’d already outed himself by straining to see them.

“Hello, hello! Sorry!” Zen’s attention had only been diverted to the blond jogging up to them for a split second but when he turned back the pair of watchers were gone. “Sorry I’m late, I got caught in a call.” The blond man smiled, leaning on his knees as he caught his breath for a second before putting a hand out to Mondatta for a shake.

“Worry not,” Mondatta replied, smiling a bit wider so the eyes on his skin closed fully to match the way his faceplate usually appeared, “We have not been waiting long. Are you Strike Commander Morrison?” He asked, taking the hand politely and shook it. When it was offered to Zen, the smaller omnic stepped closer to Mondatta but returned the shake. His hand was surprisingly firm but not strong enough to roll the joints together like some handshakes.

“Yeah, that’s me. You can just call me Jack.” Morrison replied easily, not allowing Zen’s obvious unease affect his sunny expression. He gestured with his clipboard toward the main portion of the base, using that motion to try and coax the pair of monks off the busy flight deck so that the helicopter could be serviced and sent back out. Zen gently pressed his fingers between his mentor’s shoulder blades to coax him into following after their apparent guide. The fear between them was nearly palpable but that didn’t mean they could afford to loiter here and cause a delay. The more compliant they were, the less likely people were to ask probing questions.

“Jack-ji,” Zenyatta’s called with a slightly tense timbre to his voice, watching for the blond to glance behind to ensure that they were both following. “We’ve had a long journey,” He said as the three of them passed beneath the shadow provided by that stone canopy. A quick glance around was all that was needed to ensure the watchers from before weren’t there as the neon-blue hair would be immediately visible. “Is there any way we could postpone the grand tour until after we’ve had time to rest and unpack?”

It wasn’t as if they had much to unpack or even a large need for rest like humans had, but they’d both benefit from time to power down and restart their processes. The servos were overdue for a cooling period as well. Mondatta had a joint that leaked hydraulic fluid; Zen needed to refill it and ensure that the skin wasn’t leaking or damaged. Maintenance.  

“Oh yeah, I--” Jack cursed under his breath in a way that the pair of them shouldn’t have been able to hear but quickly fixed another hospitable smile on his face and altered his course to start for the dorms where the monks would be staying. “I completely forgot. It’s been a busy day.”

“That’s fine,” Mondatta chirped pleasantly, walking along at almost a glide--In fact Zenyatta realized it was a glide. His master’s knee must have locked up. He continued pressing the other to guide his now hovering teacher behind Jack. It was lucky he was wearing long robes or the humans would have likely questioned the ability. “How are we so lucky to have you as our greeting?”

Mrs. Morrison hadn’t raised any kids dippy enough to not see that comment for exactly what it was: Zenyatta had already heard of him. Jack took it well enough in stride, smiling over his shoulder and then waved to the guard house beside the door so that it would be unlocked and opened. These large doors were a precaution against the huge storms that battered the Atlantic sea. Right here on the cusp of the Atlantic and Mediterranean, Gibraltar caught the brunt of both of them. 140mm of rain in November alone, on average. Zen shook his head, setting a reminder to purge his databanks of that sort of needless knowledge later when he had more time to sift through it.

“The dorms are right through here. They asked me how we should accommodate you both and I, honestly, wasn’t sure.” Jack explained, taking out a keycard to open the door manually. “The first passcode is Mondatta’s birthday. It’ll then prompt you to make a new one.” He explained, sliding the keycard back into his long, blue jacket. “Once you’re both situated, consider maybe coming out for dinner? I know there are a lot of people who are very excited to meet you.”

Zenyatta gently pushed the floating monk through the door and dropped into a quick half bow before rising back to full height. The American was an imposing 6’1”, according to the biography available on the PR page of the Overwatch website. As one of the major figures, he had an entire webpage dedicated just to himself as if he were some kind of superhero.

6’1”, 73 inches, 185.42 cm. Jack Morrison: Omnic Crisis veteran, SEP program, prefers Heavy Pulse Rifle and Sonic Missiles. Hometown: Bloomington, Indiana, USA. Projected Weaknesses: Close range agility, Immobilization, Knees.

Honestly, the fact that Americans were still hanging onto imperial measurement after all this time was astounding. “I will consult Mondatta after we have both had time to rest. I imagine that dinner won’t be a problem, though we do usually eat in our quarters at the monastery.” Mondatta wouldn’t have had the heart to lie; Zenyatta didn’t have the heart to get them both killed. That little voice that helpfully reminded him he wasn’t actually a monk was squashed with great prejudice

“Oh,” Jack’s smile faltered a bit and he fiddled with the lapel on his long jacket, “Is that some kind of religious thing?”

“Something like that.” Another white lie; another tarnish on his already non-existent honor.

“Oh well, I can send somebody to deliver your food. It’s not that big of a deal, I’m sure Lena would love to do it.” Morrison seemed more than willing to volunteer his subordinates.

“I appreciate the accommodation,” Zenyatta’s attention was stolen back inside as Mondatta quite literally dropped all of his steel-chassis onto the bed and caused it to groan and creak in protest. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Wha--” Jack stepped back a bit in surprise as the door was closed quickly in his face without even giving him the opportunity to respond. He finally allowed the cheerful smile to melt off his features. Honestly, his face actually hurt some from maintaining it for so long. Morrison worked his jaw, rubbing the muscles as he turned to walk down the hall toward the elevator to take him up to the offices.

“What do you think?” One of these days, Gabe was going to scare him directly out of his skin. It was almost as if he just metamorphosed directly out of the shadows into being.

“Honestly, I’m not sure what to think.” Jack frowned, watching Gabe push himself off of the wall he’d been leaning against and start to walk beside him. “I didn’t really even talk to them that much. They just got off a 14 hour journey and they wanted to rest… I can’t even say as I blame them but now thanks to your stupid idea, I look like an idiot.”

Gabe got these little crinkles beside his eyes when he was truly amused by something, a side-effect of time and age, and they were on full display now. “You’ve legitimately forgotten about travel time before. It wasn’t even my idea, it was Ana.”

Jack uncrossed his arm and pressed the clipboard into Gabe’s chest with an unamused frown. “Name one time that I’ve done that.”

“Aw, Capo,” Gabe grinned, doing his best impression of a Newark accent, “Ain’cha got any sympathy? I been on a plane fer 10 hours ‘n youse guys ‘r just gonna--”

“Alright, alright, enough.” Jack grumbled, shoulder checking the Blackwatch Commander with enough power that he had to fight to right himself before he became intimately acquainted with the wall. “So I forgot Max. That’s once. You’re terrible at that accent, by the way. Just so you know, don’t ever--” “Evah.” “--ever do that again. Particularly near Max. He’ll shit a kitten.” Morrison finished, finding himself smiling despite himself at the terrible mimicking of their resident hacker. The accent didn’t show up unless he already knew you pretty well but when it did, it came on thick. Nearly worse than McCree’s and that was really sayin’ somethin’. Jack winced and looked over as Gabe began to laugh loudly into both hands. “You thought something in his voice, didn’t you?” Gabe cackled, returning the shoulder check as they stopped to wait for an elevator. “You think it’s bad for you? I have to listen to him in my ear on missions all the time. You’ve never had him swear your mother into an early grave in Italian yet. That’s a fucking riot.”

“Sometimes I really worry about you.” Jack chuckled, conceding defeat as the elevator doors opened with a cheerful ‘ding!’

“Only sometimes?” Gabe asked, waiting for them both to get in the elevator and the doors to shut before he reached out to snag Jack’s hand in his.

“Only sometimes. The rest of the time I worry about the people who have to deal with you; chiefly me.”