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“...and you know the problem with you omnic cunts!?”
Shuffling back to avoid another drunken swing of the ice-pick, Zenyatta considers his options. Three angry, implement wielding British climbers block the narrow mountain path between him and Shambali.
“Please, enlighten me,” Zenyatta says, retreating another step.
“Exactly this pretentious bullshit is what I’m talking about! Human Gandhi respected us people! He just wanted independence, you know? Britain for the brits and India for Indians.”
Mondatta was not omnic Gandhi. Gandhi did not support partitioning people by nationality. They are not in India. None of these seem promising lines of deescalation. One of the climbers drops below the path, making his way behind Zenyatta and the three laden monks in his charge. If they run, they would have to ditch life-saving supplies. And they would only end up in town, no doubt where these men are staying.
“And for that you intend to kill us?” he tries.
“You started it! Your robot Gandhi wanted to keep a little piece of India below King’s Row! He deserved what he got. You don’t see us come here and try and make a free state under New Delhi. Not that anyone would want to live under New Delhi, given the sewage situation…” the man grins.
The British had done exactly that, hence the need for Gandhi. Omnics were not Indian. They are still not in India. The climber comes up behind them. Zenyatta sets down his pack and the other monks follow in silence. In unison they settle into their open-palm guards.
“Whatever happens, just know you bots started it!” the leading man says, and they all charge.
Even after the war, violence astounds Zenyatta. He has never met these men before. Did they decide to fight the next omnics they came across? Did something about the omnics set them off? The casual brazenness of this attack, the lack of any justification, it really, well, ground his gears. But as the two men strike at him with their picks he is careful to use only necessary force. Wrenching the leader’s weapon free, he tosses it over the edge. This had always been Ramattra’s job. Although his presence alone made direct confrontation rare. The lead man was gasping and spitting as he swung his fists. He would break his knuckles if he managed to land a hit. Zenyatta could snap a tree trunk as thick as this man’s chest in a single kick. What would become of his flesh and bone, should he resort to such a thing?
As the omnic banishes these thoughts he sees a thin red line appear on the man’s neck. The human stops, surprised, puts a gloved finger to his neck, then dies in a spray of blood, as does his comrade. Zenyatta turns to see the other two omnics as surprised as himself, the man they were facing similarly dead.
As he turns forward again there is a figure kneeling just before him. He had come silently, even the billowing of his robes not seeming to make a sound. The man breaths, inaudible save for the soft mechanical whirring of artificial lungs. Then he speaks in a voice half meat and half machine,
“Master Tekhartha Zenyatta, I have come from afar and have suffered much. Please take me on as your student so that I may learn to be at peace with my own soul.”
He kow-tows so that his head is partially submerged in the snow. Zenyatta can see the shapes of two sheaths beneath his robes, one short and one long. The back of his straw boots are wet with blood.
“Rise,” Zenyatta says, and the man rises. A white mask coveres most of his face, but Zenyatta can see he is still young, though already riven by scars and burns. His eyes are lensed an artificial red, fiercely sad and fiercely angry. In body he is as much omnic as he is man. But not in soul. Zenyatta puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder, then,
“Close your eyes.”
The man does so. With his other hand Zenyatta punches him in the stomach with such force that he collapses with nothing more than a soft yelp. Unconscious.
“Leave the supplies in the snow. First we’ll take the bodies back to Shambali.”
The other monks look at him, still in shock, horror on their stoic faces.
“Now,” he says, “and I will take the living one.”