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“Do we really need to stop here?” Genji looks up at the scrawl on the walls, the scorch marks, metal fragments littered around that nobody’s bothered to clean up, and feels ill at ease.
It’s not a particularly large town, but it’s unusually quiet. Nothing stirs except the wind.
“It is necessary.”
----
They find the remains of an omnic in a ruined house, the smooth face shattered by repeated, brutal violence. Someone has covered it with a blanket and tucked a doll into its battered hands.
Zenyatta lifts it, and it almost falls to pieces in his arms.
Wordlessly, Genji picks up the doll. It has a wilting flower tucked into the ragged hair. He looks over at Zenyatta.
For the first time, but not the last, he notices the way Zenyatta’s fingers tighten in their grip on the body, the way he bows his head and hunches his shoulders, like he is shielding it. It makes something knot in his chest, for no reason he can adequately explain.
Zenyatta spends an hour arranging the remains in a patch of flowers before they move on. Genji isn’t sure how to feel about it; if he’d been upset about death, he would have been upset all his life, but this seems different.
------
“Did you know them?” It feels wrong to call the body ‘it’, even though the omnic has presumably gone to a place where such things no longer matter.
“No. I did not.”
“Then why?” It’s not as if the Shimadas placed flowers on the graves of those they’d killed to advance their station.
(He wonders if Hanzo ever
he stops the thought. Anger, deep and ugly, throbs in that open wound.)
“They lived in fear, and died in pain. Is that not reason enough to mourn their passing?”
“It seems to be,” Genji replies.
He’s still not sure how to feel about it, himself.
------
Another day, another omnic. This one sits at the base of a broken wall, arranged to look like it’s merely resting. Flowers have been left for it, and on it. Bright blooms wave in the chilly winds of early autumn, splashes of colour in a dulling landscape.
Zenyatta ties together a floral garland of fiery oranges and yellows, tucks it gently around the omnic’s neck. It’s just one of many offerings.
He prays, briefly.
Genji bows his head, and is surprised to find himself doing even that.
------
They travel. They find more bodies, here and there.
Some look peaceful.
Some do not.
Some are...half missing.
Zenyatta recovers them all. Holds them in his arms. Prays for the peace of their souls with a conviction that at first almost embarrasses Genji and then captures him in its intensity. Lays them out and puts them back together as much as he can.
(Genji learns the prayer, and speaks the words along with him.
He knows Zenyatta’s body language by now. He thinks that he’s grateful for it.)
------
It’s night again, and getting colder. They rest in the relative shelter of a grove of trees. Genji listens to the wind blow, mournfully.
“Do you not get tired of this? Seeing...so many.”
There is a long, long pause.
“Of course,” Zenyatta admits, softer than he’s ever been since Genji’s known him, a waver in that calm voice that the cyborg has never heard before. “Each one of them could have been my brother, my sister, my sibling. But more than that, they were alive, unique. And now they are gone.”
(Genji tenses noticeably, at the mention of brothers, of siblings. Somewhere between fear and anger.)
The wind continues to howl in its sadness.
“Life is so fleeting,” the omnic says, with that wavering he doesn’t enjoy. “But it should not have been, for them.”
He is sorry that he asked.
He carries those sorrows, too, in the days to come. But in every broken body he reads another meaning, one much more personal to him.
(Sometimes he carries them. It’s a glitch, or some trick of the light, or his own strange weariness, that makes him briefly think
any one of these could have been you)
------
“There is a story,” Genji begins, hesitantly. The seasons are turning; autumn is well underway. “That was passed down in my family. It is about two dragon brothers...”
Zenyatta looks at him. No expectations, no judgement; just waiting.
Somehow, that encourages him.
“Would you like to sit?”
The offer surprises him, a little. It especially surprises him when the omnic actually sits on the ground, rather than floating, and pats the grass next to him. Looks up at him, expectantly.
Genji sits. His legs fold a little more easily than he would like them to. The knot in his chest tightens once more, but for a different reason.
He breathes, once, twice, even though really, it’s not necessary.
“Take your time,” Zenyatta says.
(It’s Genji who reaches out this time, hesitantly. Hand on the omnic’s
(his friend)
when Zenyatta wraps fingers around his and squeezes in reassurance, he’s more grateful for it than he can put into words.)
--------
Their quarrel turned to rage, and their violent struggle darkened the skies.
Until the dragon of the south wind struck down his brother
(his voice cracks, and he detests it)
who fell to earth
shattering the land.
The dragon of the south wind...
His voice is achingly hesitant, becomes more hesitant with every word, until he falls silent, unable to say any more.
He bows his head, and holds tightly to Zenyatta’s hand, the point of contact that - in this fragile state of mind - is more real and solid than anything else in the world right now. He expects the omnic to extricate himself, at some point or another; it’s practically a vice grip.
Zenyatta doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word. Waits, patient as ever, until Genji is ready to let go.
The cyborg’s fingers uncurl; loosen their grip. He moves closer rather than further away, opening up rather than closing himself off.
Genji leans against Zenyatta’s shoulder; accepts both of the omnic’s hands clasped around his own.
They know more about each other than they did before.
It’s a start.