Chapter Text
Every time an omnic dies, another voice is silenced.
Never again will a new one take its place.
Every omnic’s existence is precious, a finite resource. It's a fact not often remembered. A truth humanity has decided to toss aside and spit upon.
They're the ones who made it that way. Stopped all production of the omnics’ interchangeable parts and held the ones already created at a steep ransom, too high for any dis-homed, disemployed, disenfranchised robots to pay.
Any break, and crack, in an omnic’s mechanics might as well be a death sentence, though slow, and creeping, and manageable until almost the end. A faulty wire leads to a faulty circuit, leads to sparks, leads to a fire.
Omnics do not breathe.
Humans do, they require it to survive. Omnics fuel off of electricity, they don't need flimsy oxygen to move their limbs.
But, there are some with pneumatics — little canisters filled with gas — that pressurize the air and use the leverage generated to bend and lift: Hundreds of pounds with the ease of a penny. Those omnics' chests rise and fall with the motions of their mechanics, giving them the illusion of breath.
Perhaps that was mans’ motive? Relish in the irony of giving their ‘less-than,’ unalive creations the cruel lie of an unreal breath? Give them such human qualities, just to turn around and push them back down into the mire?
Ramattra is one of those omnics. One of the very last Ravager units. Built for strength and war. His chest rises and falls much like a human’s does,
and he hates every second of it.
Perhaps, then — in a roundabout way — this predicament is somewhat of a blessing. Only the canisters in his left side rise and fall, while the right side lies dormant, metal blown and shattered. This means his right side has been rendered non-functional. His arm hangs limp at his side. His leg drags behind him in the snow.
He's luckier than the rest.
They had damaged Core Power units. Central Processing. RAM.
They had all been smaller in size than he and in turn, held less internal warming. If they didn't give out due to their injuries, they had succumbed to the cold.
The storming of the Nigerian Omnium shouldn't have been this disastrous. The troops were determined. As in-tune as they could be. They rallied behind one another and fought like no one before them. So why had it all crashed and burned so badly?
It wasn't the same after Nameless and Zera left.
It wasn't the same with Lanet gone.
Nevermind that— The pain aimed at their loss would be better spent fueling this mountain climber’s determination, instead.
At least, it wasn't a full loss.
Ramattra’s most trusted had led the able bodied back to camp, it was up to Ramattra to guide the injured through this snow.
Snow.
Because the only place they could have gotten the help they needed is on the very top of a snowhead mountain.
Shambali Monastery.
It's only Ramattra headed there now, a trail of omnic bodies and ash trailing behind him.
His processor is slowing with each step, not enough in his reserves to keep his conditioning system running.
The strain of dragging himself by his void accelerator is proving to be far too great.
Just why does my dear brother insist on holing up in a sanctuary so high in altitude?
Natural defense, yes. That's a given. But Tekhartha Zenyatta had led the Shambali monks in forging peace with humanity. He’d offered the benefits of omnic healing and in turn been given access to sealed-away stores of omnic parts and maintenance supplies. The path to the monastery still being this difficult to traverse could be read, in the wrong circumstances, as a passive declaration of aggression.
The path is narrow, filled with smooth stones paving the way more than tractable gravel or dirt.
The rock has been locked in ice, sliding the stones from smooth and traversable to slippery
and treacherous. Cold radiates off the ground almost as much as seeps in from
the wind whipping down the mountain’s crags. Ramattra’s toes have
ceased individual function. His balance, already weak from his
inoperable leg, falls even further into disrepair. The
computations whirring in his head have
slowed to one string
dragging
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Snow passes over a dormant husk, only feet away from the soft orange glow of temple lights.
.
.
.
"Brother?"
.
.
Mechanics whir into operation behind Ramattra’s faceplate.
.
.
.
His head lifts up.
Before him floats the golden figure of his sworn brother, Tekhartha Zenyatta.
It seems he’s mastered his ability to levitate. His feet don't even touch the ground.
Instead he sits, as if meditating in midair.
Ramattra attempts to sit up, to mirror his seated position, but gets caught up by multiple variables. Chiefly, the damages done to his right side, but also the non-responsiveness of both limbs on that very same side.
He repositions his left arm to take the brunt of his weight. It holds, allowing him to drag himself to an upwards position. The warmth of the monastery's inner chambers has loosened his metal fastening enough to be load-bearing. That, Rammatra considers a victory.
What Ramattra doesn't consider a victory, and in fact considers a great loss, is the absence of both limbs on his right side. Arm and leg missing from either socket.
“.. Brother.” Ramattra acknowledges, lost for words, limbless and ashamed, in the presence of the one he so long ago failed, then departed from like a coward.
“Your injuries were too extensive to treat here at the monastery. However, we’ve sent down the mountain for help, and a mechanic should make it up here within the next few days. There is still hope that we can get you new limbs to walk upon, dear brother.”
Ramattra dips his head, “So I'm bedridden for a few days.”
Zenyatta laughs, serene and patient, he responds, “I have used The Iris to stabilize your failing systems, but I have high doubts I could keep you bedridden, either way.” His head dips. “One cannot fight against Fate.”
Ramattra, himself, chuckles. He studies the stone-brick wall across from himself as he responds, “At least you know not to stop me.”
That gets Zenyatta to sigh, watching the wall behind Ramattra’s head.
“... What of my brethren?”
“We have retrieved the bodies of most of your comrades from the mountain. Most are unsalvageable. Some show promise. They’re being kept under heat until the mechanic can see to them, too.”
“Do you think any will survive?”
Zenyatta evaluates for an answer.
“—Do not be cruel to me, brother. Give me the truth. Plain and cold.”
“It seems it is the truth that is cruel in this situation. Only one shows any signs of promise.”
Ramattra hangs his head, makes a wounded noise.
“But, if there is anyone who can save them beyond our beliefs, it would be the mechanic we’re sending for.”
“And who , exactly, is this mechanic that can bring back the defunct ? ” Rammatra spits.
“A young individual. She was made with talent for her line of work and with great resolve, has sharpened her skills to that of an arrowhead.”
“Even the straightest arrow bends in the wind.” Ramattra counters.
But Zenyatta is not so easily beaten on the stage of philosophization.
“In the hands of an amateur, all arrows will miss their mark. In the hands of a master, even broken arrows can strike true.”
Ramattra sighs. “Ever the optimist, you are.”
“Why fear failure, when you can look forward to success?”
Ramattra looks over to Zenyatta, studies his face, then looks back to the opposite wall.
“We both know that even the greatest masters can’t stop a broken arrow from snapping a bowstring.”
“Perhaps you have simply not witnessed great enough masters.”
Ramattra glares at Zenyatta. “What, and you have?”
Zenyatta dips his head. “You get to know many masters when you stop to appreciate their arts.”
Ramattra looks away again. “ As if I have the time .” He spits, which quiets the room.
“You could.” Is Zenyatta’s only response.
Ramattra makes a noise as if cursing him, but doesn’t verbalize any rebuke.
The room falls into an uneasy silence. The whirring grind of Ramattra’s broken pneumatics the only sound accompanying the omnics’ mutual quietude.
It’s Zenyatta that breaks the silence.
“It's been a long time, brother.” He says, not a hint of hesitance from the tension in the room.
Click click .
Ramattra opens and closes his left hand as he ponders his answer. Click . “... that, it has…” click . It jumps to either position as if newly manufactured. Restored by The Iris, presumably.
Ah , The Iris. An old friend.
Under Mondatta, Ramattra and Zenyatta had studied it. Zenyatta had resolved to learn its healing properties. To stay in the backlines and piece together that what gets broken. Ramattra, on the other hand, had dedicated himself to strength and barriers. They had a pact:
Zenyatta would heal the sick and injured.
Ramattra would protect the vulnerable.
Except, Ramattra had failed to protect Zenyatta, small and frail, and Zenyatta struggles in healing himself.
Zenyatta had left that disaster, innocent and hopeful as ever, but someone had to return to the dirt.
Click .
click .
Someone had to become grounded in reality.
Better a beastly R7000 than the tranquil Tekhartha.
The guilt of twisting The Iris into The Void pales next to the anger it satiated within Ramattra, the satisfaction of getting restitution for his martyred brethren.
When messing with his hand ceases to be stimulating, Ramattra gropes at the destruction marring his side. A hinge of fractured metal, razor thin, scratches his fingers as they feel the shrapnel and melt, adding another jagged line to his hand’s already mottled paint job. Omnics can, in a circuitous way of ones and zeroes, feel pain. But, it’s been reported by those monstrous things galavanting around with their stolen parts, calling themselves ‘cyborgs , ’ that it is far dulled to the human experience. It only serves to tell an Omnic when to let up and where to seek repair. It doesn’t interfere as humans’ pain does.
But, pain is still pain. No matter the size — an entire side or just the pad of a finger — it’s not something Ramattra wants to endure.
“Are you not done treading this path which destroys you, dear brother?” Zenyatta asks.
To newcomers, it would sound even. Detached. Without a shred of bias. But Ramattra knows a plea in his brother’s voice when he hears it.
Regardless, cold irons close around his core beliefs. Pinning in that one line of code, written and ran by his own computations:
The demand to himself to keep on fighting.
“ No .” Ramattra declares, without a glance the Tekartha’s way.
Tekartha Zenyatta sighs, but he does not press the issue.