The journey to the human village below the monastery was supposed to be routine. Ramattra, Zenyatta, and a few other monks had come down to gather supplies for the temple—herbs, textiles, incense. The villagers had always been wary of the omnics,but for years, there had been an uneasy truce.

But tonight, that fragile peace was shattered.

The attack came suddenly. A group of anti-omnic extremists, masked and armed... Chaos erupted. The monks refused to fight, staying true to their beliefs, but Ramattra reacted on instinct. He blocked a strike aimed at an elderly monk, his metal plating taking the impact instead. He turned, deflecting another attack, but there were too many. Then it happened...

A club slammed into Zenyatta frame, sending him crashing onto the stone streets. Sparks flew from his damaged body, his core dimming, flickering weakly. For a brief, horrifying moment, Ramattra thought his brother had been deactivated. And around them, more monks falling. One, then another. Their bodies left broken in the streets, their voices silenced forever.

Something inside Ramattra snapped. For the first time, he didn’t just defend—he struck back. He didn’t kill, not yet. But his strength sent attackers flying, crashing into walls, groaning in pain. And for the first time, the humans looked at him not as a monk, not as a machine, but as something to fear.

Hours later, back at the monastery, Ramattra stood alone.

You find him at the temple’s edge, staring down at the village below. His hands clench and unclench, tension rolling off him in waves. His cloak is torn, his plating dented, still marked by the battle.

"We are waiting for humanity to change," he continues, his optics still fixed on the distant village lights. "But tell me—how many more of us must suffer before that happens?"