#yellow/green show up more early on and then it moves to more reds with Bishop's design change. But the EPF uniforms have always had red

[adelrambles]

On a small note, Bishop's designs do something interesting in 03 that I don't think I've seen anyone mention? But his outfits between the main series and Fast Forward utilize a light/dark motif that highlights how his character has changed.

His main design is black with hints of white underneath. An evil person with good motivations underneath it all. His Fast Forward design is a white dress covering black clothes underneath. A seemingly good person covering up an evil history. I just think it's neat.

Also check out the 1870s fit

[ohprettyweeper]

Reposted from my old blog. Prompts are bolded; translations from Google Translate.

Part Three | What Was Left Behind

Thirty Years Ago

The walls of Dema had never seemed so confining as they did the day that the Bishops arrested Sixten, and Nico had him executed. Carice’s tears fell silently; sobs threatened to escape but survival trumped her heartbreak and she managed to keep the cries at bay. 

The child within her flipped and turned. Carice longed to escape Dema, to escape the Bishops and her own fate. In the same moment this child breathed its first breath, she would breathe her last. 

The long hours of that first night without her beloved turned to days then weeks and months. Her belly grew, as the life within her did the same. When she began to show, the Bishops moved her from her regular quarters to somewhere more comfortable. For her safety, it was explained. There, the walls were white, her bed was cushioned, and the blankets were soft and warm. The food they fed her was fresh and filling -- some of the things they offered Carice hadn’t even known existed. The water was clean and crisp. 

In the first days in her new home, Carice would look out to the city below. Heathens and humans alike treaded the streets, doing the work assigned by the Bishops. Dema was not as it had been when Carice was born; then, all of the inhabitants inside the wall were native to this dark town. When the Banditos had begun to escape those many years ago, and the vampire experiments had begun, new citizens were stolen from New Dema and other places of which Carice did not know the name, and brought to Old Dema. Their memories were erased, and, soon, so was the pure bloodline of the original Banditos. She and Sixten had both been born here, grown up together. Their baby was the last of the pure Bandito bloodline. 

As she ended her seventh month, Carice was visited by the Bishop Keons. Her brow was furrowed as she sat on her bed, reading a book in a language only known within the walls of Dema.  

“The words trouble you?” Keons asked. 

Carice looked up; at the realization of the Bishop’s presence, she quickly dropped her book and stood, as she had been taught to do when the Bishops graced her with their presence. 

“No, Keons,” Carice replied, careful to speak clearly and not look the Bishop in the eye. “I find the content quite interesting, actually. The history of our dark town.”

Keons did not acknowledge her reply. Instead, he carefully but deliberately walked toward Carice, hands outstretched to her. When he placed a hand on either side of her belly, Carice stepped back; she appreciated the Bishops’ hospitality while she was in such a condition but Carice was under no delusions that her fate may change. Any relationship with a Heathen stemming beyond that of casual acquaintance was strictly forbidden in Dema. She had made the mistake of falling in love with one. With Keons’s hands on her now, fear of her fate arriving early tensed every muscle in her being. Her death now would certainly mean death for her child, and that was something Carice would not allow -- not before the child had a chance to live. 

Keons looked at her, not so much smiling but certainly with a more kind look than Carice had ever seen on the face of any Bishop. He assured the young woman that he was not out to hurt her or her baby, and once again placed his hands on either side of her belly. 

“Dytyna vseredyni vas vryatuye,” Keons whispered (Translation: The child inside will save you.). He looked right at Carice. “This child will be something different, something new.”

Carice frowned. “What do you mean?”

Keons’s hands fell away from her. “That’s the beauty of it. New life holds so many possibilities as it is, but this new life holds more possibilities than even we Bishops can dream. She must be protected but not guarded so closely as to stifle her. She must become what she is to become on her own — and that cannot happen here.”

Carice did not know what surprised her the most: that Keons was implying her baby would have to leave the walls of Dema, or that he had just revealed to her the sex of the baby. 

“It’s a girl?” she managed, tears watering in her eyes. If only Sixten could have been here to know this. 

Keons nodded. “Sit, my dear.”

Carice did as she was instructed. She listened while Keons told her about the Banditos — those who had escaped Dema over the centuries the city had been in place. These men and women had set up camps at first but now had developed a full civilization outside of the wall. Carice had heard tales of such a thing but the stories were always dismissed as myths introduced to their society by those who would be traitors to Dema. 

“They call it New Dema,” Keons informed her. “It’s where your brother is now.”

Another shock to her system. Her brother, Geir, had been long thought dead after his attempt to escape the Bishops’ tyranny. That he had survived the attempt had never occurred to her. Keons went on to tell her of the civilization outside the wall. There was light there, he said, and heat. The sort of accommodations she enjoyed now — and better — were the sort of conditions that were the norm in New Dema. 

“We have to get your baby to New Dema,” Keons informed her. “If your child grows up here, she will be used as the ultimate weapon against the Banditos. She will destroy all the good that has come from escaping this place.”

Carice took a deep breath. “Why are you helping me?”

Keons pursed his lips together. “The right thing cannot be done too soon, or too late. I will visit you again, and we will begin to plan.”

Carice watched the red-hooded figure disappear into the darkness, wondering what news and information his next visit would bring. 

The Bishop visited her seven times before her child was born, including that first visit. He told her what they knew of New Dema, how she would find Geir, and how to protect the child after she was born. Keons had been in touch with Geir, he said, who was sending other Banditos to come for the baby when the time came. Carice would have to trust that her escape would come later. 

Exactly on the date expected, Carice found herself groaning in pain in the wee hours of the morning. The baby was coming, and it wasn’t going to be a long process. Out of nowhere, Keons appeared, draped her in a red robe not unlike his own, and hurried her outside of the wall of Dema. 

It was the first time that Carice had seen the land outside of the Bishops’ rule. She looked towards the city of New Dema and, as another first, saw the sun coming up over the horizon in the same moment that Keons safely delivered her screaming baby girl into the world. 

Two men dressed in black pants, boots, and olive green coats with yellow markings took the baby before Carice could hold her. 

“Please,” Carice cried, “let me see her.”

The men exchanged a glance, then brought the baby towards the woman. She took the infant into her arms, wiped the fluids away from the baby’s face, and smiled. She wrapped the baby in a blanket made especially for her, then named the child, out loud. 

“Tell my brother she has a name,” Carice pleaded, handing the baby back to the men. “Tell him we would have searched for him if we had known he was still alive.”

The two men who now held custody of the baby exchanged a puzzled glance, then turned to walk away. Carice fell to her knees, sobbing out loud as she watched her child get further and further away from her. Any duration of time away from the last piece of Sixten she possessed was too much time. 

Keons placed one hand on Carice’s shoulder, as though to comfort her. “Your child is in good hands.”

Carice took several deep breaths, her head hanging low. “And what do I do now?”

“Now,” Keons replied, placing a hand under her chin to lift her head to meet his eyes, “you will go to meet your brother.”

The woman had only a moment to wonder over the Bishop’s words before his sharp, glass knife slid smoothly across her throat, her life pouring from the wound until it was no more. 

Present Day

She sat on the edge of her bed, unable to sleep though the hour was late. Memories that were not her own plagued her mind and prevented rest from coming. In a feeble attempt to quell the distress boiling within her soul, she reached into her nightstand for the small piece of paper that had been found wrapped in a blanket with her the day she was brought into New Dema. 

To whoever finds this message, they erased us. This is all that remains. Remember us, please. 

She looked down at that scrap of paper and wondered what her life would be now if her mother had been able to escape Dema with her. If she had not been adopted, had not become the thing she was today. 

A shrill ring of the phone brought her back to the late hour and reality. There was only one voice that could be on the other end, so she didn’t bother with a greeting. 

“We need you again. They’ve taken another one.”

 That short message, and then the voice on the other end disconnected the call. 

[cathygeha]

REVIEW

New Girl in Little Cove by Damhnait Monaghan

 Small conservative Catholic community in need of a teacher

Novice teacher in need of change seeks it in new community

Will she be welcomed?

Will she fit in?

Will she find what she needs?  

And how will the community react deal with this new person from away?

 Filled with community, culture, and so much more – this story drew me in, made me care, and hope for happy endings for more than one character in the story.

 What I liked:

* The setting – having never been to Newfoundland it felt as if I was making the trip with the main character.

* The writing: skillful, friendly, descriptive and immersive.

* Rachel O’Brien: newly graduated, early twenties, grieving, modern, giving, good friend, caring, kind, immersed in a new culture, grows a LOT during the story, someone I admire.

* Doug Bishop: teacher of science and phys ed, probationary teacher, from Little Cover, loving son, caring, kind, intelligent, intriguing.

* Lucille, Biddy and the rest of the hookers – wonderful, caring, giving, creative, strong, community minded women that provide social and emotional support for one another (and others)

* Patrick Donovan: Principal, knowledgeable, patient, kind, a good man, there for his teachers and students

* Students with their individual needs, problems, and potential

* The ways Rachel ended up connecting with her students and others

* The romance that slowly developed between Rachel and Doug

* Sheila: Rachel’s BFF

* Rachel’s backstory

* Feeling like I was becoming part of the community/story

* The music and art elements of the story

* All of it really, except…

 What I didn’t like:

* Thinking about the sadness and loss experienced by more than one character in the story

* Knowing that too often the best option for individuals is overlooked due to moral, religious, educational or societal values.

 Did I enjoy this book? Yes

Would I read more by this author? Yes

 Thank you to NetGalley and harper Collins-Graydon House-HQN for the ARC – This is my honest review.

 5 Stars

Book Summary:

 Take a literary trip to Newfoundland: the island of the world’s friendliest people, the setting for the award-winning musical Come From Away, and home of the delightfully quirky and irresistibly charming debut, NEW GIRL IN LITTLE COVE (May 11; $16.99; Graydon House Books) by Damhnait Monaghan! After being utterly scandalized by the abrupt departure of their school’s only French teacher (she ran off with a priest!) the highly Catholic, very tiny town of Little Cove, Newfoundland needs someone who doesn’t rock the boat. Enter mainlander Rachel O’Brien —technically a Catholic (baptized!), technically a teacher (unused honors degree!)— who is so desperate to leave her old life behind, she doesn’t bother to learn the (allegedly English) local dialect. Stuck on an island she’s never known surrounded by a people and culture she barely understands, Rachel struggles to feel at home. Only the intervention of her crotchety landlady, a handsome fellow teacher, and the Holy Dusters – the local women who hook rugs and clean the church – will assure Rachel’s salvation in this little island community.

 Buy Links:

BookShop.org

Harlequin

Barnes & Noble

Amazon

Books-A-Million

Powell’s

EXCERPT

Chapter 1

 September 1985

Little Cove: Population 389

 The battered sign came into view as my car crested a hill on the gravel road. Only 389 people? Damn. I pulled over and got out of the car, inhaling the moist air. Empty boats tilted against the wind in the bay below. A big church dominated the valley, beside which squatted a low, red building, its windows dark, like a row of rotten teeth. This was likely St. Jude’s, where tomorrow I would begin my teaching career.

“You lost?”

I whirled around. A gaunt man, about sixty, straddled a bike beside me. He wore denim overalls and his white hair was combed neatly back from his forehead.

“Car broke down?” he continued.

“No,” I said. “I’m just … ” My voice trailed off. I could hardly confide my second thoughts to this stranger. “…admiring the view.”

He looked past me at the flinty mist now spilling across the bay. A soft rain began to fall, causing my carefully straightened hair to twist and curl like a mass of dark slugs.

“Might want to save that for a fine day,” he said. His accent was strong, but lilting. “It’s right mauzy today.”

“Mossy?”

“Mauzy.” He gestured at the air around him. Then he folded his arms across his chest and gave me a once-over. “Now then,” he said. “What’s a young one like you doing out this way?”

“I’m not that young,” I shot back. “I’m the new French teacher out here.”

A smile softened his wrinkled face. “Down from Canada, hey?”

As far as I knew, Newfoundland was still part of Canada, but I nodded.

“Phonse Flynn,” he said, holding out a callused hand. “I’m the janitor over to St. Jude’s.”

“Rachel,” I said. “Rachel O’Brien.”

“I knows you’re staying with Lucille,” he said. “I’ll show you where she’s at.”

With an agility that belied his age, he dismounted and gently lowered his bike to the ground. Then he pointed across the bay. “Lucille’s place is over there, luh.”

Above a sagging wharf, I saw a path that cut through the rocky landscape towards a smattering of houses. I’d been intrigued at the prospect of a boarding house; it sounded Dickensian. Now I was uneasy. What if it was awful?

“What about your bike?” I asked, as Phonse was now standing by the passenger-side door of my car.

“Ah, sure it’s grand here,” he said. “I’ll come back for it by and by.”

“Aren’t you going to lock it?”

I thought of all the orphaned bike wheels locked to racks in Toronto, their frames long since ripped away. Jake had been livid when his racing bike was stolen. Not that I was thinking about Jake. I absolutely was not.

“No need to lock anything ’round here,” said Phonse.

I fumbled with my car keys, embarrassed to have locked the car from habit.

“Need some help?”

“The lock’s a bit stiff,” I said. “I’ll get used to it.”

Phonse waited while I jiggled in vain. Then he walked around and held out his hand. I gave him the key, he stuck it in and the knob on the inside of the car door popped up immediately.

“Handyman, see,” he said. “Wants a bit of oil, I allows. But like I said, no need to lock ’er. Anyway, with that colour, who’d steal it?” I had purchased the car over the phone, partly for its price, partly for its colour. Green had been Dad’s favourite colour, and when the salesman said mountain green, I’d imagined a dark, verdant shade. Instead, with its scattered rust garnishes, the car looked like a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Still, it would fit right in. I eyeballed the houses as we drove along: garish orange, lime green, blinding yellow. Maybe there had been a sale on paint.

As we passed the church, Phonse blessed himself, fingers moving from forehead to chest, then on to each shoulder. I kept both hands firmly on the steering wheel.

“Where’s the main part of Little Cove?” I asked.

“You’re looking at it.”

There was nothing but a gas station and a takeout called MJ’s, where a clump of teenagers was gathered outside, smoking. A tall, dark-haired boy pointed at my car and they all turned to stare. A girl in a lumber jacket raised her hand. I waved back before I realized she was giving me the finger. Embarrassed, I peeked sideways at Phonse. If he’d noticed, he didn’t let on.

Although Phonse was passenger to my driver, I found myself thinking of Matthew Cuthbert driving Anne Shirley through Avonlea en route to Green Gables. Not that I’d be assigning romantic names to these landmarks. Anne’s “Snow Queen” cherry tree and “Lake of Shining Waters” were nowhere to be seen. It was more like Stunted Fir Tree and Sea of Grey Mist. And I wasn’t a complete orphan; it merely felt that way.

At the top of a hill, Phonse pointed to a narrow dirt driveway on the right. “In there, luh.”

I parked in front of a small violet house encircled by a crooked wooden fence. A rusty oil tank leaned into the house, as if seeking shelter. When I got out, my nose wrinkled at the fishy smell. Phonse joined me at the back of the car and reached into the trunk for my suitcases.

“Gentle Jaysus in the garden,” he grunted. “What have you got in here at all? Bricks?” He lurched ahead of me towards the house, refusing my offer of help.

The contents of my suitcases had to last me the entire year; now I was second-guessing my choices. My swimsuit and goggles? I wouldn’t be doing lengths in the ocean. I looked at the mud clinging to my sneakers and regretted the suede dress boots nestled in tissue paper. But I knew some of my decisions had been right: a raincoat, my portable cassette player, stacks of homemade tapes, my hair straighteners and a slew of books.

When Phonse reached the door, he pushed it open, calling, “Lucille? I got the new teacher here. I expect she’s wore out from the journey.” As he heaved my bags inside, a stout woman in a floral apron and slippers appeared: Lucille Hanrahan, my boarding house lady.

“Phonse, my son, bring them bags upstairs for me now,” she said.

I said I would take them but Lucille shooed me into the hall, practically flapping her tea towel at me. “No, girl,” she said. “You must be dropping, all the way down from Canada. Let’s get some grub in you before you goes over to the school to see Mr. Donovan.”

Patrick Donovan, the school principal, had interviewed me over the phone. I was eager to meet him.

“Oh, did he call?” I asked.

“No.”

Lucille smoothed her apron over her belly, then called up the stairs to ask Phonse if he wanted a cup of tea. There was a slow beat of heavy boots coming down. “I’ll not stop this time,” said Phonse. “But Lucille, that fence needs seeing to.”

Lucille batted her hand at him. “Go way with you,” she said. “It’s been falling down these twenty years or more.” But as she showed him out, they talked about possible repairs, the two of them standing outside, pointing and gesturing, oblivious to the falling rain.

A lump of mud fell from my sneaker, and I sat down on the bottom step to remove my shoes. When Lucille returned, she grabbed the pair, clacked them together outside the door to remove the remaining mud, then lined them up beside a pair of sturdy ankle boots.

I followed her down the hall to the kitchen, counting the curlers that dotted her head, pink outposts in a field of black and grey.

“Sit down over there, luh,” she said, gesturing towards a table and chairs shoved against the back window. I winced at her voice; it sounded like the classic two-pack-a-day rasp.

The fog had thickened, so nothing was visible outside; it was like watching static on TV. There were scattered cigarette burns on the vinyl tablecloth and worn patches on the linoleum floor. A religious calendar hung on the wall, a big red circle around today’s date. September’s pin-up was Mary, her veil the exact colour of Lucille’s house. I was deep in Catholic territory, all right. I hoped I could still pass for one.

 Excerpted from New Girl in Little Cove by Damhnait Monaghan, Copyright © 2021 by Damhnait Monaghan

Published by Graydon House Books

   AUTHOR BIO

 DAMHNAIT MONAGHAN was once a  mainlander who taught in a small fishing village in Newfoundland. A former  teacher and lawyer, Monaghan has almost sixty publication credits, including  flash fiction, creative non-fiction, and short stories. Her short prose has  won or placed in various writing competitions and has been nominated for a  Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, and Best Microfictions. New Girl in Little Cove placed in the  top six from more than 350 entries in the 2019 International Caledonia Novel  Award.

 Social Links:

Author Website

Twitter: @Downith

Instagram: @Downith1

Facebook: @AuthorDMonaghan

Goodreads

[livingthedragonlife]

Wanderlust

fandom: overwatch

series: zenyatta appreciation week 2018

warnings: n/a

words: 1388

summary:  Zenyatta and Genji discover many things on their travels. Including themselves.

[ao3]

I.

“Look, there,” Genji whispered, pointing into a nearby tree.

Zenyatta followed his finger to see a beautifully colored bird, a yellow breast and head, with a black body and white spots. The sides of its face were red, with white spots, and black accents all around its eyes.

“What about that one?” the cyborg challenged.

Zenyatta folded his hands primly in his floating lotus position. “That, my student, is a Trachyphonus erythrocephalus. Or, by its common name, a red-and-yellow African barbet. By its coloring it looks to be male, as the females are not as brightly decorated. As the name suggests, it is native to –”

“Alright, alright, I get it,” Genji interrupts, waving his hand. The bird flies off at his gesture. “We’ve been playing this game all morning and you’ve recognized every single bird. How do you know so much about them?”

“There is only so much one can do in the Himalayas, my student. I took to bird watching, and then to research. It’s quite fascinating.”

“Did you ever pick a favorite?”

Zenyatta thought for a moment, focusing on their path through the lush forests of Tanzania. Birds chirped from all branches, and he could pick out their individual sounds and feather patterns and name them -- red bishop, African hoopoe, malachite kingfisher, purple-banded sunbird.

“It is difficult for me to pick a favorite,” he admitted, “but I do have a particular fondness for the painted stork.”

“Why’s that?” Genji asked, brushing a branch out of their path.

“They cannot make a sound. They can call for their mothers when they are young, but by eighteen months, they are nearly-voiceless. They do not sing like other birds to catch your attention, but they command it instead with a gentle beauty. I’ve seen them when the Shambali came down from the mountains, standing by pools and lakes. Eternally patient in waiting for their prey, they are even intelligent enough to guide it right into their mouths.”

Genji nods. “They sound beautiful.”

“They truly are.”

The travelers are silent for a spell. Then:

“My father used to call me Sparrow.”

“Oh?”

The cyborg shrugged and rubbed the back of his head. “He liked to practice falconry sometimes – it’s a tradition from the family. Sometimes I would go with him to the weathering yard, and I’d always make him fly Kimiko, our sparrowhawk.”

“That sounds wonderful!”

“It was one of the better moments I spent with my father. And I loved Kimiko so much, the name stuck.”

“Hm... should I start calling you Sparrow?”

“Should I start calling you Master Stork?”

Zenyatta laughed. “Perhaps not.”

II.

Zenyatta floated as close to the ground as he could get without sitting on it, his orbs cycling through a rainbow of colors and floating around the heads and hands of the children he was entertaining. They laughed and screamed and chased the glowing spheres around and around. Genji was actually sitting not far off, showing off his (sheathed) swords to another set of children.

The omnic looked to the sky, and noticed the sun getting low. He called the orbs back to his neck, to the disappointment of the children. They all let out groans and pleads for “just a little longer, please, Mister Zen!”

The monk floated up, patting them on the head as he did so. “I’m sorry to end the fun so soon,” he said, “but myself and Genji must be somewhere rather early tomorrow, and it’s always good to get plenty of rest before you meet a friend.”

As he finished saying this, he heard several mothers call out for their children. A few of them waved goodbye, and scampered off, and others made Zenyatta promise he’d be back tomorrow. At his side, Genji put his swords away, and waved to the departing children. Then, the omnic and cyborg went on their way as well, to the hotel they would be staying in for the night.

“Well, that was a pleasant detour,” Zenyatta remarked.

Genji nodded. “Numbani really is a wonderful place. And you have a way with the children, Master.”

“I think it was more the flashing colors than anything on my part, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

“No, it was all you. You entertained them quite well with… with your balls.”

Zenyatta was about to answer, and then went quiet. He could hear Genji snickering behind his mask.

“That is completely juvenile,” the omnic said, smacking his student on the arm.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Not at all?”

“I’m serious! You are the master of balls.”

Zenyatta spread his arms, grandiose. “Such high praise coming from the master of swords.” Genji hid his face in his hands, his snickering growing harder to hide, but Zenyatta continued. “Although, I am pleased you kept your sword sheathed. It’s very important use any and all protection, especially when it comes to children. Accidents can happen when you least expect them.”

The cyborg burst out laughing, holding his sides as he struggled to breathe. The omnic laughed along side him, supporting himself of his student’s shoulder.

And they weren’t even half-way to the hotel yet.

 III.

The lights of King’s Row blare in the night, making the streets look almost like daylight. The moon overhead shines dimly in comparison, and the stars are barely visible. The streets are empty, the stores are closed, and any store still open is in the process of shooing out the rest of their customers.

An omnic walks slowly down the sidewalk like he’s been dreading it all night, nine carved orbs circling his neck. At his side, a cyborg, fluorescent lights on his body glowing green. He has his hand on the omnic’s shoulder, as though guiding him.

The omnic looks up at the gigantic statue of Tekhartha Mondatta, who was assassinated in that very spot in the middle of one of his speeches. They pass the statue and stop at a small memoriam on a street corner. A portrait of Mondatta is propped up on a curb, accented with candles and flowers. Notes from followers of the Shambali, and pictures of omnics and humans together surround the picture. The omnic stands quietly as the cyborg places his own pictures – a picture of himself and the omnic at his side, along with another picture of the omnic and Mondatta standing together during a speech. The cyborg stands up and looks to his companion.

“Are you alright, Master?” the cyborg asks quietly.

The omnic says nothing, but nods. The cyborg almost leads him away, but the omnic stops him.

“I would like to…have a moment,” he said.

The cyborg nods and goes back up the street they came from. He disappears.

Alone, the omnic drops to his knees. He stares at the picture, gazing helplessly into the glass as if it can answer his questions.

And then he speaks.

“I suppose it is my turn to say good-bye, old friend. I know it is not as timely as either of us would have liked, but here I am.” He chuckles to himself. “Despite the knowledge that you are with the Iris, in a better place than the one you left, I cannot help but selfishly want you back. We had our disagreements, but you were nonetheless my closest friend. My family.”

He sits back on his heels and looks up into the stars. “Genji misses you as well. He told me himself. He… it was his idea to come here. Of all things, I avoided this as long as I could. Since I’ve been travelling it has been very difficult to come up with excuses not to visit.” He looks back at the picture again. “Perhaps I am afraid. Afraid to acknowledge a world that no longer live in. Afraid to accept it within myself that you are gone, no matter what myself or anyone does. I cannot reverse it. But here I am. Accepting it.”

He grows silent and still. Then he sighs. “Genji will be waiting for me. We plan to visit Kaitlyn in the morning, and then move on to wherever our travels take us next. Your brother Zenyatta is thinking of you.” He stands up and takes a few steps away from the memoriam. Then, folds his legs up into a lotus position, floating.

“Goodbye, Mondatta.”