everything you ever did is coming back around

[doxing]

WHO: sombra and reaper, the overwatch edgelords.
WHERE: sombra's apartment on the residential floors.
WHEN: 02/01, after she contacts him post-oros mission
WHAT: patch-ups and a long, stabilizing recap of events
WARNINGS: blood, probably more blood, and swearing

They're testing me... I know they're testing me, so why the fuck should I? No quiero abrirlo...

(opening this will spell disaster, there's no doubt about it. after what she did on oros, how she caused a nuclear holocaust from taking down one complex defence array for a facility she didn't even understand and causing the near-extinction of two separate species, how the hell could a present be warranted? it feels like an open invitation, this stubborn cube — complete the impossible test and uncover something delightful, join the ranks. but if she leaves it alone and refuses to try, then what is she missing out on?

they know the curiosity will force her hand. they know...

what a goddamn mess this is.

when reaper arrives, the unsolved puzzle cube is set aside with a reach back. she doesn't get up to greet him, having left the door open with the knowledge that he'd come to her aid despite the lack of trust she has in everything but her hands. rather can't with the state her leg is in, plasma burns extensive, slumped against the desk with half of her clothes lying in scattered, bloody deposits on the floor. they create a haphazard path from the doorway, leading into a bunk lit only by the glow from the seams of a mini fridge and the ominous holographic box she can't crack. casts a light over the moment, washing the room in an eerie blue.

at the forefront of her mind is a question sombra doesn't want to air, but the look seems to ask it well enough on its own: have i become a machine like them? and what a nightmare, turning into something that's only ever caused harm to so many; an omnic.)

Comments

[hellshot]

[He had expected his--albeit rude--speech to knock her head around at least some. But if anything, it seemed to have made things almost worse. He lifts his head, looking at her with a nearly perplexed expression.

It wasn't just her bloodloss and the mix of alcohol in it, then, that was causing this heavy atmosphere hanging over his head. Sombra, World-Infamous Hacker, most powerful woman with all machines at her fingertips... was emotionally scarred by what had happened down on the planet below.

It wasn't that he could blame her for letting the possible genocide of an entire species get her down, but the fact that it was... was a powerful thing. He watches her bow her head and settle down in her own arms.

He lets a sigh escape from between his teeth, a whisp of black, burning smoke escaping along with it.]

You fucked up. [He'll give her that. She did. He once fought against shit like this, even if that person was long gone. A moment, and he reaches up a hand to settle it against the side of her head, pulling her head in a bit into the most awkward hug she can imagine from where he's sitting on the floor. Corpse-cold fingers settling just above her ear.]

But it was thanks to these Eluvio fuckers that you even went down there in the first place.

You finish that puzzle box if you want to, chica. I'll be looking for a way to dig my claws into those who gave it to you in the first place.

[doxing]

(a sharp sniff is all that gets out in the way of lament, before jerking at the cool touch against her mods. this is something she never could have anticipated, back curving into the awkward thing, forehead pressing against the collar of his uniform. if she'd been given a chance to crack his intentions to hug her, even with her eyes wide and staring at him, even if he'd announced it in a decrypted, open reply, sombra never would have believed him.

she doesn't know what to do, forced to listen to reaper's — gabriel's — heart despite the impossibility of hearing one beating inside of his chest. it's in his words and it's her own pounding loudly in her ears. too stunned to choke on a sob, the touch against shaved hair makes her shiver and clutch the bottle of tequila with a vice grip.

god, she didn't want this. she can't handle this on top of everything else.)

Gabe, you... (the small, quiet reply even she doesn't trust that betrays the chill of the next.)

Leave. Leave all of this with me, I'll be taking care of it myself.

(sombra leans away from the embrace, turning her head out of reaper's touch. one hundred and eighty degrees frostier, eyes averting so they can't give her away despite the obvious mental shove out the door she's trying to give him; she can almost feel the firewalls rebuilding themselves, losing the focus in the stare she's aimed sightlessly out of the porthole window, shutting her in, shutting him out, and locking the rest of who she can't be anymore tightly behind them.

stupid, it was a stupid, childish decision to ask him to come here like they could be friends when this was the very thing that burned every single one of her bridges so long ago.)

I'll be in contact, Reaper.

(they both know she won't be.)

[hellshot]

[It was a hug that could almost barely be called one, a loose grip on the side of Sombra's head with cool, almost corpselike fingers--why he did it wasn't a mystery to him, but not with a reason he would speak, let alone consciously think about. He knew the reason, and that's really all that mattered between the two of them right now.

Not that he thought that Sombra would ask. No, what he expects is close enough to what happens that he almost wants to kick himself for thinking she'd respond even remotely positive to the alien show of emotion from the man who was supposed to be a shell, a ghost. A man who did a job and thought nothing else on the matter.

He hangs onto that momentary mention of his name--and the icy reply that follows... he can feel the holes in his face burning a little more as he grits his teeth behind them, smoke leaking up as they crumble just a little bit more.

He moves to stand, without an argument to her request. Leave. He can do that. He doesn't want to--but he can do that. He pulls up his gloves as he moves, dropping the cloth into the bowl of water. Her wounds are completely clean, now, and they just need to be wrapped and:]

The wound on your leg is going to need stitches. Clean needle, crossover pattern. At least four.

[He moves to pull his mask off of the desk, the metal underside purposefully making a loud scrape against the top of it before he clips it back in place.

He takes a moment to take one last look down at her, all tense and made of ice before he turns to take his leave. First aid kit, tequila, she could keep it all.]

Of course you will.
I'll be by to pick up your things if you blow yourself up.

[doxing]

(it aches and she's not sure why.

maybe because every action following her order, from the man she's scorned for trying to help — the only help he's tried to give in such a long, lonely time — is a purposeful, personal dig meant to get under her skin. he may not even realize it himself, but sombra knows more about lying to yourself than most people. is that why they get along so well, despite all of her efforts to keep him at arm's distance? through all of her attempts to divide them with stupid pranks and sabotaged missions and constant "failures"?

she doesn't look up when reaper stops to stare down at her, his acerbic words dripping and burning; she's not afraid of him. she should be, but it grows more comfortable every single day and that, that sentiment is what frightens her into thrashing away. closeness. friendship.)

Perdóname... (said to no one after the door shuts and she's left in the dark.

it'll be a long hour of thought and drink before sombra even gets around to trying her hand at the stitches. crude, crude stitches in a poor crossover pattern, exactly four, each dip and pull of needle and thread a reminder of her mistake — but also a purpose. hers; what she's been planning from the start. worrying over gabe's reaction and the comforting, almost careful touch of his hand only gives her dangerous ideas that creep up the back of her neck to lay their nails and cling.

the man isn't as dead as everyone thinks he is, isn't as destructive and mindlessly chaotic as they say he is. that half-corroded heart of his just needs a little work.

maybe by the time she gathers the scattered pieces of her own off of the floor, they'll cobble together a whole one they can make some real changes with.)