Chapter Text

INTRODUCTION

On certainty

NULLA.

There are few things in life which are certain, particularly for those living in the wake of the Omnic Crisis.  One of them is this: safety is relative.  One of them is this: control is an illusion.  One of the is this: death is inevitable.  One of them is this: the future is uncertain.  And one of them, one of them is a bit different.  One of them is this: every person, be they Omnic or human, is born with a set number of words to speak, the total number of which is never to be exceeded in their lifetime.  The why of this is uncertain, but like so many other things, it has always been, and will always be, insofar as anyone knows.  Few dare to question the rare constants which exist in their world.

It can be difficult to ascertain the exact number of words a person will speak in their lifetime, but one can usually gauge, though speaking with others one loves, how much longer one might expect to live, for it is only when speaking with loved ones that the words begin to take on a character, become bright, light, and quick, or sharp, probing, and angry.  With the people one loves, there is a sense of the number of words one has left to speak with one another, felt in how easily the words come, and how quickly.  If it is difficult to speak, if there is little to say, then one can safely assume that, for whatever reason, their dialogue with the other party will be ended soon.

(Some curse this knowledge, the weight of dread that comes with it, the heaviness of inevitability—but is it not gentler this way?  Is it not kinder to know, to be granted this finality?  Is it not better to see the end, and to face it head on?)

Most often, this end means death, but sometimes it is as simple as a parting of the ways, as simple as a falling out, as simple as a promise, unfulfilled, to visit next time one is back in town.  For all the things which one may be certain of, there remains far more uncertainty in the world.

Before these uncertain endings, however, there must be equally uncertain beginnings.  Upon first speaking to a person one loves, or will come to love, one can gain a sense of their future, can ascertain how many words one will speak to them, and from there, how long one will be in their life.  For lovers, this is often important—how long will the relationship last?  If it is doomed to failure, then one might wish to avoid a serious commitment—and friends, too, prize the knowledge, but for none s it more important than for parents.  Not all parents can get a sense of their child’s words, at birth, and this is often cause for despair.  Either the child shall die before ever speaking, or there shall be no love between them—and who can say which is worse?  For most parents (or builders, should the person who made a given Omnic prefer the term), it is different.  There is a sense, immediately, of how many words will be spoken between parent and child, and this can be cause for great joy or equally great concern.  An abundance of words, considered preferable, is an indication that a child will likely live a long life, and a dearth is seen as an indicator of premature death.  Such is not always the case, but there are few enough exceptions, far enough between, that the general guideline has come to be viewed as fact, as is the case with many such things.

i.

When Angela Ziegler is born, approximately five years before the Omnic Crisis begins, her parents weep.  There are few words shared among them, far too few for a lifetime, or even a childhood.  Were it only one of them who sensed this lack, this want of words, the Zieglers might assume that it is not their daughter who will die, but one of her parents.  This is not the case, however, and, erroneously, the Zieglers believe that their daughter’s life will be all too short.

(After all, why would they assume that both of them shall die?  The death of the one seems more likely in a world which is still naïve, still unsullied by the Omnic Crisis.  It is a simpler time, and tragedy is personal, not widespread.  Personal, like the death of a child.)

Knowing, or believing they know, that their child will not live long, the Zieglers pray for her life, pray that a mistake has been made, pray that their god takes them, instead, and leaves their daughter.  It is a cruel wish, that their child be orphaned, and left alone in a world where no one who loves her might protect her, and it is a selfish one, that she and she alone might endure the pain of both of them, might suffer through loss such that they do not, but it is a sincere wish, and the only option they believe is available to them.  Theirs is not a merciful god, and always there is something which must be given, or at least offered, so that something else might be gained.  So it is that the Zieglers often the only truly valuable thing which they possess: their lives.

They pray until night passes into day and, when they are done, they take Angela home and resolve to love her as deeply as they can in what little time they have with her.

ii.

Five years later, across the Mediterranean, Fareeha Amari is born into a different world.  Three months prior, the Omnic Crisis began, and now an era which seemed so peaceful, so still, is thrown into chaos.  It is no longer certain who shall live, and show shall die, with each day more bloody than the last.

Among the soldiers with whom Ana has trained, words drop by the day.  They are not, most of them, long for this world.  On the Eastern Front, death comes swiftly, and often.  The squad to which Ana was assigned at the beginning of the year have all been killed, and Ana should be among them—would be, if not for her daughter.  This is the world into which Fareeha is born, all bright lights and loud sounds, death always lurking just around the corner.  It is nothing like Angela’s birth, in a quiet and peaceful village before the war, would have nothing in common with it at all, were it not for the crying.

Ana, too, cries when her daughter is born.

For months, her world has been filled with the sights and sounds of war, even if she herself has not been a direct participant.  Gruesome footage fills the local news, and phone calls to friends are interrupted by the sound of heavy artillery in the distance.  When she closes her eyes, she sees the war and part of her—part of her wishes she was there, and not here, waiting for her child to be born.  It has haunted her, has kept her awake and now, there is a moment of stillness, of silence.

She pauses, for a moment, in the instant after Fareeha’s birth, before she speaks her name and weeps.  Fareeha, she names her, happiness, and thanks Allah, for between Fareeha and herself there are many words, enough to last them both for a lifetime.

Fareeha will live, and so will Ana.  Together, they will survive this.  It is enough.