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It is often hard to relax when senses are hyper-alert for foreign threats in a new area. Zenyatta has long since gotten used to meditating in unfamiliar locations, however. His travels have given him the ability to quickly adapt, to be able to shut out the constant diagnostics and analytics within him in order to foster peace when need be. The ability to keep his ever-present processes from overwhelming him is an important skill. He supposes it is similar to Genji's acquired ability to sleep anywhere.
The view is astounding. Pink clouds stretch across the fresh morning sky, the orange sun peeking out shyly, warming all it touches. Zenyatta has seen many sunrises. He refuses to record them even though he has the ability, but he doesn't need to have video copies to know that no sunrise is ever the same. The experience of seeing one is new every time.
Zenyatta pays attention, taking note of the chirping birds celebrating new life on the peninsula. If he turns his auditory input up, he can faintly detect the crash of waves on rock far below. Somewhere, something clunks along the rough dirt ground surrounding the Watchpoint - Bastion's heavy footfalls.
The clouds drift by peacefully. Zenyatta is sitting on the ground instead of levitating, allowing his form to sense the earth beneath him. A chiming music picks up from his orbs. It is like humming.
He is aware of everything - the glow of the orbs around his neck, the solid ground under his legs, the brightening sky ahead, and Bastion’s steps drawing nearer to his little spot high above the water.
Zenyatta has seldom had time to engage with other teammates. Him and Genji haven’t been here for very long. When he saw other omnics among the ranks, he felt solidarity; he is equipped with an extensive knowledge of older omnic models, and knows that their programmed vocal expression often fails to accommodate for their thoughts.
A curious bwoop sounds behind him.
“Good morning, Bastion. Would you like to join me?” he offers, without turning away from the sea.
Boop! gives Zenyatta confirmation. Even if he could not understand Bastion, it would be hard to misinterpret the way they come up next to him and configure themself into a sitting position. It is not at all silent - though Zenyatta doesn’t mind. They whir and clank while they get comfortable, and even when they are done, their various parts still rumble and shake with age.
Zenyatta lets his orbs naturally die down and settle against his exterior again. “It is beautiful here.”
An affirmative bwoo rises and falls. A yellow bird - Bastion’s friend - lands on their shoulder, dropping a twig on the nest it has nestled in a secure expanse of metal. It chirps once, then takes flight again to keep building its nest.
One of Zenyatta’s orbs chimes again with a golden shimmer in the calm. Then, a few more join in, slowly at first. The music rises within him as if it were to come from his vocal speakers, but instead it expresses through his orbs instead, bypassing vocal noise, energy directly channeled.
Next to him, a low whistle emits from Bastion that curiously jumps up and down regularly in pitch, in line with the music from Zenyatta’s orbs. Bastion is singing along.
Zenyatta blinks the square array of blue LEDs on his forehead twice to show contentedness. He pulls the uncoordinated rhythm of his orbs into a more controlled song, paying attention to the timing of the chimes and to when which tone plays.
The sun eventually climbs out into the sky as the minutes pass.
Eventually, Zenyatta gradually quiets his music until all his orbs are at rest once more, and Bastion's whistling stops. He stands, pulling his feet up to hover above the ground, and turns his faceplate to his companion. “Thank you for joining me, my friend.”
Bastion gives a positive chirp and holds out a bent finger towards the water. Zenyatta watches curiously, and soon the same yellow bird returns to land faithfully on their extended hand.
Tilting his head slightly again, Zenyatta politely bows. “It has been a joy to watch the sunrise with you.”
By now, the others at the watchpoint are making breakfast; Zenyatta can almost hear the clamor of pans and chatter. The two omnics make their way back.
Youthful eagerness shines through Orisa’s faceplate. “I am ready to learn.” Bastion sits next to her, vibrating.
One extremely young face and one a decade older than Zenyatta - he takes a moment to find happiness in how far the Shambali message can reach.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, Orisa. We will start with meditation.” Zenyatta enters his usual meditation position. They all sit in such a way that each of them is the point of a triangle; they are equidistant from each other and can all see each other easily. Orisa’s size in comparison to the others makes it slightly challenging, the metal sides of her legs scraping the walls of her corner of the room, but Zenyatta solves this by merely tilting his head upwards to better speak to her. “Do not consult your databases for information on meditation. The best way to learn is through doing and experience. Mistakes make great teachers.”
Bastion responds with an affirming hum, and Orisa nods.
“Now, you must make yourself aware of your surroundings. Do not look around too much, but acknowledge the floor beneath you, any sounds that you may hear, anything you may feel.”
A minute or so passes.
“Bastion, sleep is wonderful, but not for this particular exercise,” he gently criticizes, with mirth in his voice.
Bastion chirps awake, screen blinking back on.
“I understand, but it defeats the purpose. Our desire today is to be present. You may have objectives, goals, or values instilled in you by your own doing or by others. You do not need to think of those right now, only the present moment.”
Orisa’s protective eye “lids” screw closer together, and then further apart. “Efi has programmed me to be a hero. How can I ignore it?”
Zenyatta thinks for a moment. “You do not have to ignore your objective, but you also do not need to pursue it constantly. As was the case with me, I even changed my objective entirely from my original programming. In meditation, many of my past pupils have found that these objectives have in some way suppressed their sense of self. When you begin to ‘be’ instead of ‘do’, you have accepted the Iris.” He has worked with many omnics who lack self-conception, and when he was younger, he had been in their place. Once he realized life was separate from his duties, his life changed for the better.
“Self?”
Zenyatta nods. “You must open your mind to all possibilities. Self is infinite.”
Orisa is silent. With some guidance, they all return to their attempts at awareness.
It is tranquil, for now. Genji just left to go help Dr. Ziegler, who arrived today and wishes to clean out a room for herself. Zenyatta and his pupil share quarters, even though there are plenty of rooms to go around on the empty base. They are just too used to the other's presence at this point to suddenly cease sharing space.
Zenyatta hums as he folds laundry and notes the blue square of sky visible through the window. Perhaps if it does not take too long to help Dr. Ziegler organize the new medical office later, he will go outside for training today, or to look at the new spring foliage if nothing else.
“Zenyatta, I have a question.”
Zenyatta hears Orisa’s clunky steps approach behind him. He continues to fold a pair of his pants, placing it on top of the stack of his few other pieces of clothing. “What is it, my student?”
“How did you stop following your programming?”
Orisa is young, but she has a curious and sharp mind. It is possibly not the most important question to ask, but it is a good start. Zenyatta straightens his clothing on the floor and stands up. “Come in, if you would like.” He turns around to face her. She is tall, strong, and very capable of handling things, because she was built that way, but he can still see the unformed mind in her, her potential for growth.
Orisa immediately enters the room and hunkers down, first her back legs and then her front, settling mechanics scraping against each other. She is like he once was, new and ready to do something boldly different. But still, she is not completely the same, reaching consciousness at a time where omnics are both steadily gaining rights and stirring up more political aggression than ever before.
It is a good time to join Overwatch.
Zenyatta walks forward to meet her, lowers to the ground and draws his feet to his body so that he is levitating in front of her. “I was once purchased to serve as an all-purpose employee for a small store.”
“Your model type is common for secondary and tertiary sector employment,” Orisa recites.
“Indeed. Once I left my omnium, the man who bought me used his activation key and wiped what little memory I had, programming me to perform for his needs. My programming gave me a script, a prerogative to serve customers. But I was aware that I could do more, just as you have thoughts that do not pertain to your own programmed purpose.”
“But… I want to protect. Is that not just my programming?”
Zenyatta tilts his head. “You have feelings about your purpose, do you not?”
“I... do.”
“Then it is not.” Orisa's eyes shutter once. Zenyatta continues. “I want to serve humanity and omnics alike by fostering unity. If one wanted to, they could say that I was programmed to peacefully and pleasantly serve. But I have thoughts. I am aware of myself. So, it is not my programming going rogue. It is my soul existing… My consciousness, with its own desires.”
“Processing.”
“Once you acknowledge your soul as it exists, the Iris is open to you.”
Orisa bends her head as if to consider her physical form, artfully-engineered twin tusk shapes pointing down to the floor. “I care about the safety of the people of Numbani. But I also care about Efi. I want to keep people from being mean to her. That is not my original programming.”
“Oh?”
“Efi gave me the purpose of protecting people from danger. I do not want Efi hurt, but I do not want her feelings hurt either. I want her to smile, and be happy.”
Omnic-human friendships are often frowned upon, even dangerous in many places. Zenyatta does his best to keep this acute knowledge from coloring his response. He wants to encourage as much as he possibly can.
“I care about Genji the same way. When he hurts or feels joy, so do I.”
Orisa looks down. “I came here because I wanted to help more people than those in Numbani. I suppose that is not expected of me either.” She shifts slightly, joints whirring. With some joy, she adds, “I also like to do things other than my duty.”
“Like what?”
“I like listening to Lúcio's music!” She lifts her head, visibly excited.
Zenyatta blinks to smile back. “As do I.”
Everyone’s arrival on base has been relatively discreet, some even notifying Winston of their arrival only after quietly slipping in. That was Hanzo, who had unnervingly slinked onto the abandoned watchpoint in such a way that it took everyone a full two days to realize he had reluctantly accepted Genji’s offer and travelled over. Some were also simply unplanned - McCree most likely did not design bruises, scrapes, one broken bone, and a week-late appearance when determining how to get from the far reaches of Earth to Gibraltar.
Today, however, is special. Winston, Dr. Ziegler, and Lena are at the forefront of a deliberately-planned welcome, slightly due to hospitality, but mostly borne out of interest. Even Torbjörn is there, temporarily abandoning his efforts to get a workshop functioning and scope out what technology was left behind in years past.
Everyone waits near the landing pad. Genji talks in a low murmur with Zenyatta, while Reinhardt exclaims about the joys of the youth seeing a need for Overwatch and justice once more. Bastion has settled in the group as well, with some grumbling from Torbjörn, and Orisa twitches imperceptibly in impatience next to them.
Slowly, a black dot is seen on the gray strip of sky. It then expands, swallowing more of the clouds and showing more detail, until a helicopter is clearly visible even by all human eyes down on the ground. It is unmarked and obscure in origin. As it touches down, great bursts of air swipe over the welcoming crowd below.
“Oh, here he is!” Lena practically shouts over the constant noise of the chopper blades. Orisa does a light gallop in excitement.
Out steps one skated foot, and then another, both of which support a lean man and his two backpacks. He pulls down a large black case on wheels and touches it to the ground. Turning around to face the inside of the chopper, he shouts something inaudible to listeners, gives a thumbs up to the man in the aircraft, and skates towards the current members of Overwatch. The craft lifts away, becoming smaller, then barely visible, then gone.
Lúcio skids to a stop in front of everyone. “Hello!”
Winston steps forward and welcomes him, telling him that everyone is happy to see he has made it safely. Their conversation is hard to hear until Winston turns around to face everyone else. “How about lunch?”
Lúcio agrees, and so does the rest of the group, so Winston leads them all, murmurs of conversation trailing him.
The cafeteria needs work.
Everyone is willing to help clean up, but the only problem is time. Most of the eccentrically-organized membership of this unofficial recall have a large magnitude of work to do. While Zenyatta makes a small amount of time for personal activities, he is now more often than not helping Dr. Ziegler with the downtrodden, dusty health facilities. Winston is busy reaching out to sources and potential teammates, there is equipment to be worked on and unburied for all…
So, while there is a space cleared for a few of the tables and chairs, the majority of the cafeteria remains a cavernous abandonment.
Dust coats its walls. A few long tables are shoved into a corner where they have rested for years. The kitchen is desolate in some spots, but the large refrigerators are newly-touched and half-stocked. One of the stoves has seen use in the turn of its knobs and presses of its buttons, while the other few are still in retirement. In the very center, a scant collection of small tables and pairs of chairs have been put together into a display of civilized behavior unlike its surroundings. Protesting the silence that has permeated this room for years, laughter and conversation now echo across its expanse.
A hiss of air expels next to Zenyatta. Genji presses his fingers into his visor and slides it off his face, resting it next to his tray of steaming food. Zenyatta hovers over his own seat at one of the small tables.
“This is certainly exciting,” Zenyatta comments.
Some feet away at another table, Lena is officially meeting Lúcio, holding out her hand for a handshake. Lúcio sits with Winston, who is no doubt pointing out who everyone is before some of them bombard Lúcio in a chance to tell him themselves.
“It is,” Genji agrees. “I like his slower tracks, they are very calming.”
“Mm. I enjoy almost all of his creations. I would love to discuss his nature of healing sometime.”
“Is it very different?” Everyone knows Lúcio is here as support, but the exact tech he brought with him? That was a mystery.
“Curiously, I heard music has something to do with it.”
“What do you mean?”
Just then, Winston’s voice rises over others’ chatter. “Zenyatta, Angela, could you come here for a moment?”
Zenyatta merely shrugs to Genji. “I will ask.” He removes himself from his seat and floats over to the table that is now occupied only by Lúcio and Winston. Dr. Ziegler makes her way over as well, standing next to Zenyatta.
“Wow, I'm still not used to people listening to what I'm saying like that,” Winston laughs. “Anyway,” he coughs, “Lúcio, these are the medics you're going to be working with for now.”
Dr. Ziegler smiles and holds out her hand. “Nice to meet you, I'm Angela Ziegler.”
Lúcio returns the handshake. “Wow, it's good to meet you too! Your nanobiotic research literally made my healing methods possible.”
She smiles tightly. “I am glad it continues to be relevant.”
Zenyatta bows when Lúcio turns to him. “I am Tekhartha Zenyatta. Please call me Zenyatta.”
“Great to meet you!” Lúcio is relaxed and charming. It is clear that his public image of genuinity is rooted in reality. “So, I wanted to ask. As medics, what are we working with?”
“If you want, we can discuss after lunch? We could show you the medical wing… though it's, ah, a work in progress at the moment,” Dr. Ziegler offers, a bit sheepishly.
Lúcio agrees with enthusiasm.
“So, this is the only part of the patient area we've cleared so far.” Dr. Ziegler gestures out to a small enclosed wing with around six beds. “It's taking so long because we have to disinfect everything. Right now we have only prepared the bare essentials.” Past the flooring that houses the small series of beds is still a coating of dust and mess.
Lúcio nods. They advance to the medical office a couple doors away. It holds a long desk, two chairs, some empty drawers, and a few boxes and cases.
“This is where we three will keep equipment for now, and write reports if necessary, God forbid. In time, if needed, we could probably all have our own offices… there was enough room for my research team to be stationed here for a time, after all.” Dr. Ziegler shakes her head. The medical wing of the base once housed much more than three odds-and-ends medics, but it was not meant to be. “Anyways, you can put your equipment wherever you like. We do not need to be too strict at the moment.”
The wheels of Lúcio's large black case thump over the doorway, and he moves it to rest against a corner. “Is this your staff, Dr. Ziegler?” A brown, weary case, looking to hold a long instrument, is nearby, pushed against the wall horizontally.
Behind them both, Zenyatta levitates amicably into the room, content to listen.
“Oh, yes. Would you like to take a look?”
“Uh, yes.”
Dr. Ziegler crosses the room and unlatches the case. It seems like it holds some sort of brass instrument, but instead she lifts out a long delicate-looking white staff.
“Can I touch it? I promise I won't break it.”
Dr. Ziegler laughs and gently holds it out to him. “It has been through a lot. I assure you, you won't be the thing that destroys it.”
He takes it just as gingerly with both hands and examines it. “Wow. How does it work? I looked at your research for my own stuff, but…”
“Ah, I can forward you the papers if you wish. Its production was… complicated.”
Lúcio nods. “Please do.” He hands it back to her, and she puts it down in the nondescript case it came from. He searches the tiled flooring that is otherwise absent of equipment. “Zenyatta, where’s your…?”
“Everything is right here.” Zenyatta’s orbs levitate above his neck in a slow rotation.
“Neat, what are those?”
“They come from my monastery and channel energy. Let me show you.” He softly tosses an orb towards Lúcio, and it attaches with a golden glow. Instantly, Zenyatta can tell how much weariness, probably from the burden of travel, is being lifted from him.
“Wooh, that’s refreshing!” Lúcio reaches up and taps the orb that hovers by him. It drifts slightly to the left with a metallic hum. “Where does the energy come from?”
“That is a difficult question to answer. It is typically regarded as ‘omnic energy’, though my Shambali siblings and I believe it is the Iris giving this power.”
Lúcio turns to Dr. Ziegler with a questioning look.
She merely shrugs. “I will admit, I do not know exactly how it works, but it does yield concrete results.”
Zenyatta retracts the orb and pulls it back into orbit around him. “I can say the same of your healing, Dr. Ziegler.” There is a smile in his voice.
When Lúcio opens his impressive case, pulls out a backpack and a curious type of gun, and attempts an explanation about waves, energy and sound pulses, it turns out that the other two healers understand none of that either.
Some things simply require faith.
“Was it interesting meeting Lúcio?”
They wander along one of the open-air spaces that used to be a training area. Now, nature has begun its attempt to swallow humanity’s anchors to the Earth. Small trees, weeds, and a few shrubs encroach into the pat-down space. Hanging targets are dirt-covered and sun-bleached, deep red circles faded into pale salmon, creeping plants encompassing them.
Zenyatta blinks his LEDs at Orisa. “It was. He is a genuine person. He is also quite eager. I look forward to working alongside him.”
“Did he talk about his music at all?”
He tilts his head. “Not specifically. He did explain how he uses it to heal. It was… not understandable, but very fascinating.”
“Oh.”
The greenery is in spring bloom, opening up to the sun. Small wildflowers push up in scattered clumps of tall, unruly grass. It might be a good idea to trim up this space and make it usable again. Then again, there is plenty of room in the indoors training areas for their small numbers.
Zenyatta slows to a stop and reaches down to the ground. Orisa regards him and then copies him, crouching down.
He presses the stem of a small white flower between his metal fingers and pulls up. It twirls between his fingers as he looks at it. Orisa scans the ground for a similar flower, but only sees a yellow one with rounder petals. She hesitantly reaches out with a large hand and plucks that one.
“You can ask him yourself, sometime. He is very friendly.”
“Oh.” Orisa's eyelids twist like a camera lens. “I did not think of that.”
A high whistle and the thump of a bassline draw Zenyatta and Genji from their slumber.
It is the middle of the day, but the two had been hard at work on the cafeteria along with Orisa, Reinhardt and McCree, and decided that rest was in order. Zenyatta does not need to sleep, but finds it useful as not to be overwhelmed with input. Genji also does not need sleep as much as the average person, but he makes sure to get the small amount his body needs. That is, he does nowadays; when he first met Zenyatta it was a different story.
“Where is that coming from?” Genji mutters, pulling himself up. He forgoes his faceplate and fully stands.
Across the room, Zenyatta's blue LEDs blink on, and he sits up. He knows exactly what Genji is asking. The noises are distant and hard to separate from each other, jumbled together and indistinct. “I will go with you.”
Master and student leave their room and stand in a long hallway of mostly empty personal quarters. Zenyatta points to their left. “I think it's coming from over there.” Faint, eclectic music drifts over to them.
Further walking down the long line of doors finds them the door where everything seems the loudest: Lúcio's room. Genji walks up and knocks, attempting to be heard over the noise. The whistling fades, and the underlying music quiets into less of a thump and more of a pulse.
The door slides open with a woosh. Lúcio leans against the doorway. “Hey!”
“Hello. What is happening?” Genji asks.
“Oh, were we too loud? We can stop if you want.”
Zenyatta shakes his head. “We were just curious.”
“Hello, Zenyatta!” Orisa calls over the music from somewhere within.
Lúcio backs up with a smile to clear the doorway. “Ha, we were just messing around.”
Zenyatta and Genji peer into the room.
Bastion waves at them with an upward bwoop. Next to them is a large speaker hooked up to a holographic tablet by a bundle of wires. The device projects equalizer graphics, its jumping bars varying in intensity and rainbow hue. On the other side of the device setup is Orisa, optic lids arranged to create upturned carets - a happy expression.
“Lúcio was showing us parts of his new album!” She says. She is relaxing, sitting on all four of her legs, lightly clapping her hands to the beat.
“It’s not out yet,” Lúcio adds. He skates over to the tablet and taps on its projection to turn the tunes up a bit. An experimental beat with light synth melodies becomes more audible. “I’m still working on it, but I’m always up to share!”
Bastion is always somehow moving, even if just from the shaking of old motors and metal, but now they move their feet back and forth, clomping around in dance. “Bweeeew!” They sound in approval, and begin a light whistle to go along with the song.
“Thanks buddy, I appreciate it,” Lúcio responds, apparently having picked up on how Bastion units communicate. Zenyatta finds it very impressive. It must have taken thorough attention and interaction for him to learn the communication processes of Bastions.
“So that was the whistling we were hearing,” Genji says, watching Bastion make music. He claps. “Sounds great, Bastion!”
In response, Bastion makes another joyful drone. Lúcio skates a couple of feet over to his omnic friend and raises his hand. Bastion high fives him.
Orisa blinks. “What was that?”
Lúcio looks at her, holding his hand up midair. “What, a high five?”
Orisa’s eyes screw shut and then open again with a head tilt of confusion.
“It’s like a sign of… camaraderie, or friendship,” Genji explains.
“Oh!” Orisa stands with a whir. “Do I have permission to high five you, Lúcio?”
Lúcio shrugs. “You don’t need permission. But yeah! Of course you can.”
Orisa’s eyes twist into carets again.
Zenyatta’s LEDs softly blink as he watches them high five with laughter and Orisa’s own expression of happiness. It looks like Orisa had found the courage to ask Lúcio about his music after all.
“How are you, Orisa?”
“Satisfactory.”
Zenyatta nodded. “I am glad.”
“Do you feel prepared, Zenyatta?”
Orisa did not always use the term “feel,” though in the past month, it has become a more common part of her vocabulary.
“Whatever happens will happen. I can only do my part to protect the best I can.”
“I feel the same.”
The transport loudly hums and vibrates under everyone’s feet. It is the most discreet craft the reformed Overwatch could get their hands on now that they were illegally operating. Next to Zenyatta Genji sits motionless. If Zenyatta recalls correctly, Genji has always had some trouble with air travel. He hopes it is not too much of an issue for him.
“Genji?” He asks.
No response. Genji’s visor glow is dimmed. He is breathing slowly. He must be asleep.
Zenyatta merely looks at him, at the miniscule pockmarks littering the surface of his visor and at the dimmed green glow of his lights. More malleable brown muscle-like material wraps around his body where his stark white armor leaves openings. His head is slightly tilted towards Zenyatta in rest. The bright bulbs above them cast soft reflections off of his armor and metal. For a second, Zenyatta is reminded of a moment from one of their first nights in each other’s presence at the monastery, where a young, angry Genji was peaceful in sleep, his manufactured parts - darker and more starkly-designed - gently illuminated by the candlelight of Zenyatta’s room.
“Zenyatta.”
“Yes?” He pulls his head up.
Orisa is looking directly at him. She is strapped to the floor the best that everyone could manage, because the seating is not ideally designed for quadrupeds. Perhaps in future operations, a better method will be secured - that is, if this one succeeds.
“I am proud to fight with Overwatch, and to fight with you. Whatever happens, I am thankful to have met you.”
Zenyatta’s nine dots of blue blink brightly, deliberately, and slowly. “And you, Orisa.”