Moonshadows (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
moonshadows) wrote2013-01-02 02:01 pm
moonshadows) wrote2013-01-02 02:01 pm
More Sombra and Reaper
Reaper's glaring at the news - little irritated wisps flowing down the back of his head. They pick up slightly as I sit on the other side of the couch, legs butterfly-style, hands on my feet, but calm down when I don't bother him. When the news program ends, he shifts like he's going to stand up and I say, quietly, "Can we talk?"
The screen shuts off and there's a pause. "About what?"
Well, that's promising.
"You know I know about...your past," I say slowly, watching him from the corner of my eye. "I went digging to see if I could find out what had been done to you, to see if I could make it better. I thought..." I break off, shaking my head slightly. "Until you yelled at me, I thought you'd chosen your situation, the way I had."
"Hardly," he interjects dryly.
"I know that now." Pause, deep breath. "I found the original records. I'm digging through them, but it's slow going. I can understand the programming part, but I have to teach myself the biology part. The thing about a nanite swarm, though, is that it grows. It evolves. It changes over time. So I can see what it was meant to do back then, but then I have to try to figure out what it's doing now."
The agitated wisping is not a good sign. "Is there a point to this?"
Don't look at him, don't look, keep your eyes straight ahead, little shadow. You don't want him to think you're being sassy. "It would be easier to sort out if I had a sample."
Black smoke is curdling around him, but he's still there.
"That way, I could get your input on what works and what doesn't and what changes you would like to see, and maybe have a shot at making those changes."
"And how would you be taking this...sample?" he demands angrily.
I glance over, and the mask is about the only part I can see behind black smoke. "I hadn't gotten that far yet." Then, before I can stop myself, "Maybe I just take a little vacuum cleaner and suck some up, hey?" It's just a joke, but there's some merit to it. And now I'm thinking of all the variables. "Hey, when you're...not solid...what's your volume? I mean...could I suck you into a vacuum cleaner? Would you fit? If we ever had to sneak you in somewhere, could I put you in a Thermos, or would we need a ten-gallon barrel?"
"I don't know," he growls sullenly, and flows out of the room.
Just as well; I need to figure out a containment and monitoring device. But hey - he didn't say no.
===
Throwing together a containment and monitoring canister actually isn't that hard. The trick is in figuring out how to make the canister provide everything a sample of nanites and...cells...will need to maintain themselves. Specifically, without eating the canister because I don't think Dr. Ziegler meant to make basically omnivorous nanites, but mother of god, this explains a LOT about the sheer, raw damage Reaper leaves in his wake. I wonder if this is why he likes killing so much. I wonder if he knows that's what he's doing.
Playing with glucose drips and scraps of industrial materials and low currents keeps me occupied for days. Reaper actually has to pound on my door like an angry parent and shout to get my attention for a mission. Luckily my part is so easy I could do it in my sleep, because most of my attention is occupied by monitoring his swarm at work. Having live data helps in terms of refining ratios, and when I think I've got something that will keep a sample satisfied, I rig a simple squeeze bulb to a hard-light test tube with a generous squirt of Liquid Reaper Food in the bottom and venture out of my rooms to go hunting.
What I did not expect was to find my target fuming in a corner of the darkened main room.
"Where," he growls almost before I see him, "have you been?"
He makes it sound like I'm his little girl, coming in at one in the morning on a school night. "Most parents would like it if their daughters stayed in their rooms!" I shoot back.
"You're not a child!" he shouts as he glides forward on a seething black cloud instead of legs. "You're an assassin specializing in digital infiltration!"
"What, and that means I can't have hobbies?"
"YOU'VE BEEN IN YOUR ROOM FOR THREE DAYS STRAIGHT!"
........oh. I've been so focused on helping Papi Angry Owl that I've been ignoring him. Whoops. Sheepishly, I hold up my sample collector. "I made a little vacuum cleaner to suck some up?"
The wisping dies down for a beat and then comes back, flowing down his arms and torso to curl around his legs. Stiffly, he extends one arm and I use the bulb to suck a tiny breath of smoke into the tube. "Five liters," he says shortly. "Maybe six."
And then he dissolves completely and flows away, like he's running from the possibility of having hope.
===
It's easy enough to make the canister completely obedient to remote systems. I spend hours in the corner chair, surrounded by holo-screens, prodding the sample in countless ways and recording every scrap of data. Reaper watches me, silently, wisping slightly. He clearly has no idea what he's watching me do, but he doesn't want to admit that and at the same time, can't bear to turn away from the process of self-discovery.
Occasionally, I send screens his way with pictures of cute baby animals just to hear him growl my name in irritation.
Working slowly, comparing the original notes with the sample's programming, the bigger picture comes into focus. It's not pretty. The swarm isn't building and maintaining a coherent DNA structure, or even following any sort of predetermined pattern. What's even less pretty is when I feed my sample enough to split it and then apply the original programming to the new sample. Not only is it still tasked with rebuilding and maintaining whatever's there, but the molecules are being held too far apart by the nanite swarm. If not for the restless nature of the sample, it would run a very serious risk of phasing out of the container. If I ever cross paths with "Mercy", I am going to have words for her. "Mercy" - that name is a joke. What mercy was there in dragging Gabriel Reyes back from death just to doom him to a half-life of being just human enough to be aware of everything he can't have? What was she thinking, not programming a DNA sequence in? No wonder he's so angry all the time! He's been living in a sensory-deprivation purgatory for years, not to mention the social isolation, and I didn't see any notes about trying to find him after the date that Talon scooped him up on. She didn't even bother to keep his DNA sequence on file, or I'd be able to fix her mistakes myself. Unless someone has a DNA record for Gabriel Reyes hidden away somewhere (and I can find it and program it into the nanite swarm), he's every bit as dead as the girl I was born as - except that I kept my sequence in case I ever need it.
I don't tell Papi Angry Owl how dead he is. After all, I haven't searched everywhere to confirm his DNA is lost.
===
Reaper shuffles down in the morning to soak in the heat of his cup of coffee, but I'm still in the corner surrounded by my screens. Each one is reviewing hacked mission footage of him, which naturally gets his attention. He wanders over, but doesn't say anything and sits on the couch, like he's going to watch the news. Before he can turn on the holovid, I dismiss my screens.
"Sombra?" he asks, wary of being ambushed.
"I know what happens if you get hit hard enough. Structurally. What happens if you get hit with something that would kill a normal person?"
Wisps of smoke start curdling off his shoulders. "It's not pleasant," he growls. When I don't answer, he turns slightly to look at me and then looks away. "I don't die."
That's a clear signal that the conversation is over, and I bring my screens back up. That afternoon, I start working on a two-gallon version of the monitoring canister. Reaper isn't amused when I jokingly call it the Can of Whoop-Ass, and he refuses to have anything to do with it past getting in once to make sure he fits.
Still, I make sure the reservoir is filled with Liquid Reaper Food and the power source is charged and I stash it in the ship before the next mission. Just in case. Jerome the pilot seems relieved when I tell him what it is and what it's for. And then I build a second one to tinker with, because I wouldn't want to be locked in a dark barrel with no way to communicate, either, but first I have to figure out how he hears, or talks, because my god, he doesn't have lungs! He's like an angry bean-bag doll filled with uncooked meatloaf and hate with vague bones shoved into the middle of the whole mess so he can hold himself upright. And if that weren't bad enough, when he gets hit hard enough that a normal person would bruise, the area just falls apart. When he jumps, he doesn't land. He dissolves into smoke just before impact and re-forms later because if he didn't, he'd shatter the cohesion in his feet and probably half his legs and that takes energy to repair.
If he ever takes what would be fatal damage for a normal person, I want him to at least have a safe place to recuperate. Even if he thinks he doesn't want it.
===
I'm packing some highly valuable vials into a padded case, and paying more attention to getting as many of them in there as possible without any of them breaking than I am to the door of the lab I'm ransacking. The contents of these vials...their promise is so amazing, I'm considering pocketing one for myself. Over the comm, I can hear Widow making sounds of satisfaction and Reaper causing widespread death and destruction. Nothing out of the ordinary.
"Sombra! Status!"
The last three vials won't fit. I pocket one and leave the other two where they are (I'm not heartless). Open the channel to answer Reaper, thumb the locks on the padded case closed, and that's when when the door blows in.
"SOMBRA!"
Well, now I can't answer without giving my position away. My stealth drops over me as the smoke from the explosion billows in from the ruins of the door, and I can see the red tell-tale of a laser sight groping around for a target. The hand not on the case goes from tucking the vial away to caressing the grip of my gun. Another few seconds, and the idiot will step into the room and expose himself.
Then part of the smoke stands up into Reaper, guns out to sweep the lab, and the burst of gunfire comes from behind him. In the calm of the moment, I see eight different exit wounds bloom on his body before it topples over and the sound of the mask hitting the floor galvanizes me into action. The idiot who exploded the door gets an overly-generous facefull of lead.
"Target secured. Cover my exit," I tell Widow. Then I close the channel and switch to Spanish. "Idiot. Can you get up?"
Reaper groans before dissolving into smoke.
"Fine. Cover me like that. Come on!"
I dash through the base with the case held to my chest, leaping prone figures and letting bullets spray at figures who aren't so prone, while a black mist follows me. At every juncture I pause to check the corridors and he re-forms, but he can barely stand without leaning against the wall and with the amount of smoke he's bleeding, he can't be more than half-solid.
"Stop trying, idiot," I snap at him as I pause before the dash to the ship. Open the channel. "Widow. Is our exit clear?"
"Oui," comes the reply. Good enough.
"Can you keep up?" I ask Reaper, who's again leaning against the wall and clutching his chest. He tenses like he's going to try to run for it.
"Not like that, idiot. Come on!"
Then I'm dashing across the open area, unstealthed because I don't trust him to head for the ship if he can't see me, running for all I'm worth with that black mist flowing at my heels. Widow swings down and joins us for the last dozen feet, and then the door is closing and Reaper is bleeding black smoke from the end of my usual bench. Widow settles in her usual spot, all vitality gone now that the mission is over. I secure the case while we take off, not missing that Reaper keeps dissolving and re-forming. Once we're clear, I pull the Can of Whoop-Ass out of storage and the lid hisses as I thumb the locks off.
"No," he growls before I can even open my mouth.
Oh hell no.
"You did not," I start, before switching to Spanish. "Don't you even try to tell me you're okay, Gabriel Reyes. I see you sitting there, you can't even hold yourself together long enough to say my name. You get yourself shot because you didn't look before you rushed in, and you're going to try to suck it up? Why, because you're a man? Don't you give me that machismo bullshit! You get your black-smoke-ass into this can right now because idiot or not, you were trying to look out for me, so you can just keep your mouth shut and let me look after you, ungrateful boy! You think I built this for fun? I built this so that when you got your ass handed to you, I could sleep at night knowing you were safe! Would you do this to your mother? Would you bleed on her couch and lie to her face, tell her you're fine with eight bullet holes in your body? You get in this can right now or so help me god...!"
Luckily for him, I don't need to come up with a fitting threat because he dissolves again and flows limpingly across the floor and into the can. Once the last wisps are coiled inside, I close and seal the lid. Widow's watching me with distant awe, like the heat of my anger actually thawed her ice enough for her to be impressed. Pulling my composure together, I sit and open screens to check on the data the Can of Whoop-Ass is putting out. After all, this is the first field test and I just know we're going to have to use it again in the future.
Everything looks good; the LRF is being assimilated at a steady rate and the power source is holding steady. I have no idea how long it will take him to heal completely, or even just enough to not spend the night in an overgrown Thermos, and make a note to finish the mechanism to allow the occupant to hear and speak.
===
The LRF still hasn't been fully assimilated by the time the ship lands, so guess who's hauling a two-hundred-pound can of cranky smoke into our quarters? This little shadow, that's who. I set it down with a grunt in front of the couch and flop down in a fit of melodrama.
"You're lucky I care about you," I grumble, knowing he can't hear me.
Then, since I need to share my frustration with someone, I call up Tia Ana's screen.
WAS HE STUPID-STUBBORN BEFORE? LIKE "OH IGNORE THESE EIGHT GUNSHOT WOUNDS AND ME BLEEDING, I'M FINE"?
I don't bother naming names; she knows who I mean. It takes a few minutes before a reply comes back.
SADLY, YES. IS HE OKAY?
Shoot an annoyed look at the can. NO. HE GOT SHOT EIGHT TIMES. BUT HE'S RESTING.
HOW DID YOU GET HIM TO REST? I can almost hear the incredulity in her text.
I YELLED HIM INTO A CAN OF GLUCOSE AND METAL DUST AND THEN I SEALED IT SHUT.
As if he knows we're talking about him, the can rattles slightly. I put my foot solidly down on it. "You're not going anywhere until you've finished your supper," I mutter. When I look back at the screen, Ana's replied.
GOOD. I WISH I COULD HAVE DONE THAT TO HIM. WOULD IT HELP TO HAVE ANGELA'S NOTES?
Well, at least I have her blessing, I guess? And isn't there a saying about forgiveness and permission?
IF THEY WERE STORED DIGITALLY, I ALREADY HAVE THEM.
I'm not wincing at all as I type that. Nope. No sickening dread that I've just ruined whatever goodwill she had towards me. Nor am I nervous about getting a reply.
OF COURSE. KEEP IN TOUCH.
That...was not the reply I was expecting, but I'm not going to argue. And, well, I guess she does know that I'm a hacker. Considering I tracked her down and all.
SURE THING, ANA.
As I close the connection, I wonder if it would be improper to offer her a way to initiate contact with me. I mean, sure, she doesn't object to talking to me because she cares about her old friend. But does she actually want to talk to me? I am kind of technically the enemy. At least, I'm working for them. Technically. Eh, I'll make something and keep in touch and let her choose.
I've got a design roughed out by the time the COWA informs me the LRF reservoir is empty. There's no point in keeping him in there any longer, so I reach one foot out and toe the lid release mechanism. Immediately, a cloud of black smoke boils out and shoots for Reaper's room without even pausing to see if he can hold a solid shape.
"You're welcome!" I shout after him.
The cloud hesitates and flares for just a second before shooting under his door. If he's annoyed, too bad, I'm annoyed too. Grumpily, I pick up the empty can and haul it up to my room. I need to make some modifications - not just the communications array, but also a way to measure what his total volume should be so I know if he's really better or just trying to pretend he is.
Stupid stubborn man. Make me want to smack him, but then I'd need to put him in the can again. Ugh.
===
When I check on Tia Ana a week later as per usual, I discover she's improvised a message to me by way of a creatively-capitalized to-do list.
CALL TO ARRANGE MEET. HAVE SOMETHING USEFUL FOR YOU.
Given that she'd asked about Angela's notes, I can only assume she went to the source and has something that wasn't there for me to get my digital hands on. I certainly hope that's the case, anyway, because decoding Papi's swarm is still kicking my ass. There's so many redundant or orphaned sections, like half the code is just this sea of tumors and lesions, and I don't have the medical background to figure out what they were there for originally. At least I have the secure communication device to offer her, but I know that's not going to be enough payment.
I open the connection.
HE'S STILL CRANKY FROM GETTING SHOT, BUT HE'S BACK TO NORMAL. OR NORMAL FOR HIM, ANYWAY. WHAT DID YOU FIND?
SOME NOTES THAT WEREN'T ON A COMPUTER. The reply is almost immediate; she must have been waiting for me to open the connection. IF YOU CAN, BRING HIM WITH YOU. I WANT TO SEE HIM.
Bring him with me. That...I'm not sure if that's a good idea or a terrible one or how I'll even accomplish it just yet. I don't know that he knows she's alive, or how he'll react except "badly" because I just can't see that going well at all.
YOU'RE WORRIED IT WILL BE AN AMBUSH flashes onto the screen, letter by letter.
NO, I type back. JUST HOW HE WILL REACT.
There's a bit of a pause. I'LL BE FINE. WHERE DO YOU WANT TO MEET?
While we negotiate place and time, I can see Reaper wisping in the background, watching me.
"What are you up to, Sombra?" He sounds...like he's trying to sound hard and suspicious.
"Working out an exchange with a friend." A pause while it occurs to me that I might be able to use this to my advantage. After all, he knows I have a lot of "friends".
"A friend-friend," he asks, "or a frieeeend?" I can almost hear the air quotes.
"That's what we're gonna find out," I tell him. Then I look up and meet the mask squarely. "If you wanted to come as back-up, just in case, I wouldn't say no."
"Hmph." He sounds skeptical, but I can tell from the change in his wisps that he's pleased I asked for his help. "Where's the meeting?"
===
The streetlights have just come on, casting a small pool of light in the little walled garden at the end of the cul-de-sac. Reaper's mist in the shadows (I still have no idea how he sees anything) while I'm loitering on the edge of the light in local clothes. A single set of footsteps approaches, shoes soft on the small flagstones of the sidewalk, and a woman with her hair covered by an expensive (and familiar) blue scarf turns the corner into the other edge of the pool of light.
Tia Ana.
Behind me, Reaper's solidified and I can hear him draw his guns. To be sure we head off anything horrific, I call Ana's name and close the short distance for a hug that she seems perfectly willing to provide.
"It will let you contact me," I say as we part, handing her the small communication device and leading the way closer to Reaper, away from the street.
She pockets it. "And here is what I promised you," she says, pulling a thick brown-paper envelope out of a bag at her hip. While I'm tucking it away, she steps fearlessly up to my very anxious Papi. "It's good to see you, Gabriel," she says in a quiet voice before hugging him. He's wisping so badly that I half expect him to melt completely, but then Ana lets go and turns to me again. "Keep in touch," she tells me with a small smile, and then she walks back through the light and turns the corner, vanishing behind the walls.
"Sombra..." It's not an angry growl, more like a protest and maybe a request for information.
Too bad. He's not ready to hear the answers he thinks he wants. "Si?" I ask innocently.
Reaper just growls.
===
Most of the contents of the folder, it turns out, aren't about Gabriel Reyes at all. The name on those files matches what I've seen on Widowmaker's, which by itself would suggest she gets bumped up my priority list. But more than that: these files were handed to me by Tia Ana, and I doubt either she or Angela would make a mistake, so this is a tacit request to do whatever I can for the heartless spider. Normally, if one of my "friends" made an under-the-table request like that, it would be with the understanding that I could name a price before starting, and refuse if it wasn't met, or that they were so desperate that I could name my own price after and have my "friend" over a barrel. But Tia Ana isn't like that. My payment for this job will be trust, and that's plenty valuable enough to get my best efforts. Especially considering the other things I've got in the works.
When I eventually leave Talon, I'll need somewhere safe to go where Reaper won't be shot on sight.
My first course of action is to scan all the files to digital and stash them where I keep all my important things. I skim things as I go, but the Amelie files won't do me any good until I can really dig into her and see what Talon did. The Gabriel files are more promising, but the biological aspect, the medical terminology, is going to bog me down enough that I can't tell if they'll be useful or not.
Then the communication device I gave Tia Ana pings me.
HELLO. I AM DOCTOR ANGELA ZIEGLER. WITH WHOM AM I COMMUNICATING?
Now I know why Tia Ana said 'keep in touch'. Interesting that she didn't tell Angela who I was; or, if she did, that Angela is too polite to just make assumptions.
I'M NO ONE, JUST A SHADOW.
BUT YOU ARE THE ONE ATTEMPTING TO IMPROVE THE CONDITION OF GABRIEL REYES?
Does she really not know who I am? Or does she not care? I AM.
PLEASE, IT HAS BEEN QUITE SOME TIME. HOW IS HE?
How is...is she serious? She doesn't know? THAT'S A COMPLICATED QUESTION. HOW IS HE COMPARED TO THE MAN HE USED TO BE? COMPARED TO THE STATE HE WAS IN THE LAST TIME YOU SAW HIM? COMPARED TO THE BASELINE OF WHAT HE IS NOW? MENTALLY, EMOTIONALLY, PHYSICALLY, SOCIALLY?
YES. ALL OF THE ABOVE, PLEASE.
All I can do is stare at the screen for a very long minute. Alienating my new friend right off the bat would be a very bad thing. Finally, I just send her a copy of the current programming his swarm holds and wait for her to skim it.
I ADDED THE HAND-AND-FOOT CONFIGURATION, I type after a few minutes. AND THE THERMAL FEEDBACK THEY CONTAIN.
BUT...WHY DID YOU HAVE TO ADD THERMAL FEEDBACK? HE SHOULD...MEIN GOTT, WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO HIM?
I don't even try to answer the rhetorical question. HE ONLY HAS GENERAL PRESSURE FEEDBACK.
HOW CAN THAT BE? WHEN I LAST TREATED HIM, HE WAS IN CONSTANT PAIN AND RELIEVING THAT WAS MY PRIMARY CONCERN.
Constant pain? Oh no, Papi. That plus the betrayal and his trust issues equals...he probably would have tried a gun first and come back from that. Maybe bleeding out. With the structural integrity issues the original programming contained, poison would just dribble out between his molecules. Drowning and reviving while drowning would not be a pleasant option, and hanging would be useless, and that leaves....fire. Mother of god, that explains so much.
WHEN DID YOU LOSE TRACK OF HIM? I type slowly. Then, because I don't know if she's come to the conclusions I have, THAT SORT OF PROGRAMMING SHIFT WOULD REQUIRE WIDE-SCALE RECONSTRUCTION TO TRIGGER.
THERE WAS A FIRE IN...OH. OH NO, GABRIEL.
Well, that reaction seems to be universal.
I WILL NEED TO FAMILIARIZE MYSELF WITH HIS CURRENT STATE, she types after a brief pause. PLEASE, DO NOT HESITATE TO CONTACT ME WITH ANY QUESTIONS YOU MIGHT HAVE. ANA SAYS YOU ARE ABLE TO MAKE HIM REST WHEN HE IS WOUNDED, AND SO I AM CONFIDENT THAT HE IS IN CAPABLE HANDS. THANK YOU FOR ALL YOU HAVE ALREADY DONE FOR HIM, AND I LOOK FORWARD TO WORKING WITH YOU IN THE FUTURE.
Her typing is erratic, the letters coming through at uneven intervals. Hah. Good to know that his condition is distressing her. Maybe I should feel guilty, but I'm not that nice a person. She did this to him, even if it was an accident, and there's a certain amount of hurt I need to know she feels before I can forgive her. If she inflicts it on herself, well, that just saves me the effort.
I KNOW IT LOOKS BAD, I find myself typing, and maybe I do feel a little guilty, ESPECIALLY IF YOU KNOW THE THINGS HE'S DONE, BUT HE'S NOT A HEARTLESS MONSTER. EVEN IF HE DOESN'T ACTUALLY HAVE A PHYSICAL HEART.
OH?
HE GOT HIMSELF SHOT BECAUSE HE WAS WORRIED ABOUT ME. HE'S A GRUMPY, ANGRY, IRRITABLE, TRIGGER-HAPPY MESS, BUT HE CAN STILL FIND IT IN HIM TO CARE ABOUT ONE SASSY, ANNOYING LATINA YOUNG ENOUGH TO BE HIS DAUGHTER WHO YELLS AT HIM WHEN HE'S BEING AN IDIOT AND GIVES HIM FLUFFY SLIPPERS.
THANK YOU, MY FRIEND, she types after a minute. THAT GIVES ME HOPE THAT THE MAN I KNEW IS STILL IN THERE SOMEWHERE.
She closes the connection, and I check my cameras. Reaper's sitting on the couch, "watching" the news and wisping in agitation. I stealth down and sit on the other end, "watching" just as earnestly, not looking directly at him. The wisps get worse for a minute, as expected, but when I don't say anything they calm down to almost nothing. I feel the same way; we don't have to say anything, just being there is reassuring enough.
I'll bother him tomorrow.
The screen shuts off and there's a pause. "About what?"
Well, that's promising.
"You know I know about...your past," I say slowly, watching him from the corner of my eye. "I went digging to see if I could find out what had been done to you, to see if I could make it better. I thought..." I break off, shaking my head slightly. "Until you yelled at me, I thought you'd chosen your situation, the way I had."
"Hardly," he interjects dryly.
"I know that now." Pause, deep breath. "I found the original records. I'm digging through them, but it's slow going. I can understand the programming part, but I have to teach myself the biology part. The thing about a nanite swarm, though, is that it grows. It evolves. It changes over time. So I can see what it was meant to do back then, but then I have to try to figure out what it's doing now."
The agitated wisping is not a good sign. "Is there a point to this?"
Don't look at him, don't look, keep your eyes straight ahead, little shadow. You don't want him to think you're being sassy. "It would be easier to sort out if I had a sample."
Black smoke is curdling around him, but he's still there.
"That way, I could get your input on what works and what doesn't and what changes you would like to see, and maybe have a shot at making those changes."
"And how would you be taking this...sample?" he demands angrily.
I glance over, and the mask is about the only part I can see behind black smoke. "I hadn't gotten that far yet." Then, before I can stop myself, "Maybe I just take a little vacuum cleaner and suck some up, hey?" It's just a joke, but there's some merit to it. And now I'm thinking of all the variables. "Hey, when you're...not solid...what's your volume? I mean...could I suck you into a vacuum cleaner? Would you fit? If we ever had to sneak you in somewhere, could I put you in a Thermos, or would we need a ten-gallon barrel?"
"I don't know," he growls sullenly, and flows out of the room.
Just as well; I need to figure out a containment and monitoring device. But hey - he didn't say no.
===
Throwing together a containment and monitoring canister actually isn't that hard. The trick is in figuring out how to make the canister provide everything a sample of nanites and...cells...will need to maintain themselves. Specifically, without eating the canister because I don't think Dr. Ziegler meant to make basically omnivorous nanites, but mother of god, this explains a LOT about the sheer, raw damage Reaper leaves in his wake. I wonder if this is why he likes killing so much. I wonder if he knows that's what he's doing.
Playing with glucose drips and scraps of industrial materials and low currents keeps me occupied for days. Reaper actually has to pound on my door like an angry parent and shout to get my attention for a mission. Luckily my part is so easy I could do it in my sleep, because most of my attention is occupied by monitoring his swarm at work. Having live data helps in terms of refining ratios, and when I think I've got something that will keep a sample satisfied, I rig a simple squeeze bulb to a hard-light test tube with a generous squirt of Liquid Reaper Food in the bottom and venture out of my rooms to go hunting.
What I did not expect was to find my target fuming in a corner of the darkened main room.
"Where," he growls almost before I see him, "have you been?"
He makes it sound like I'm his little girl, coming in at one in the morning on a school night. "Most parents would like it if their daughters stayed in their rooms!" I shoot back.
"You're not a child!" he shouts as he glides forward on a seething black cloud instead of legs. "You're an assassin specializing in digital infiltration!"
"What, and that means I can't have hobbies?"
"YOU'VE BEEN IN YOUR ROOM FOR THREE DAYS STRAIGHT!"
........oh. I've been so focused on helping Papi Angry Owl that I've been ignoring him. Whoops. Sheepishly, I hold up my sample collector. "I made a little vacuum cleaner to suck some up?"
The wisping dies down for a beat and then comes back, flowing down his arms and torso to curl around his legs. Stiffly, he extends one arm and I use the bulb to suck a tiny breath of smoke into the tube. "Five liters," he says shortly. "Maybe six."
And then he dissolves completely and flows away, like he's running from the possibility of having hope.
===
It's easy enough to make the canister completely obedient to remote systems. I spend hours in the corner chair, surrounded by holo-screens, prodding the sample in countless ways and recording every scrap of data. Reaper watches me, silently, wisping slightly. He clearly has no idea what he's watching me do, but he doesn't want to admit that and at the same time, can't bear to turn away from the process of self-discovery.
Occasionally, I send screens his way with pictures of cute baby animals just to hear him growl my name in irritation.
Working slowly, comparing the original notes with the sample's programming, the bigger picture comes into focus. It's not pretty. The swarm isn't building and maintaining a coherent DNA structure, or even following any sort of predetermined pattern. What's even less pretty is when I feed my sample enough to split it and then apply the original programming to the new sample. Not only is it still tasked with rebuilding and maintaining whatever's there, but the molecules are being held too far apart by the nanite swarm. If not for the restless nature of the sample, it would run a very serious risk of phasing out of the container. If I ever cross paths with "Mercy", I am going to have words for her. "Mercy" - that name is a joke. What mercy was there in dragging Gabriel Reyes back from death just to doom him to a half-life of being just human enough to be aware of everything he can't have? What was she thinking, not programming a DNA sequence in? No wonder he's so angry all the time! He's been living in a sensory-deprivation purgatory for years, not to mention the social isolation, and I didn't see any notes about trying to find him after the date that Talon scooped him up on. She didn't even bother to keep his DNA sequence on file, or I'd be able to fix her mistakes myself. Unless someone has a DNA record for Gabriel Reyes hidden away somewhere (and I can find it and program it into the nanite swarm), he's every bit as dead as the girl I was born as - except that I kept my sequence in case I ever need it.
I don't tell Papi Angry Owl how dead he is. After all, I haven't searched everywhere to confirm his DNA is lost.
===
Reaper shuffles down in the morning to soak in the heat of his cup of coffee, but I'm still in the corner surrounded by my screens. Each one is reviewing hacked mission footage of him, which naturally gets his attention. He wanders over, but doesn't say anything and sits on the couch, like he's going to watch the news. Before he can turn on the holovid, I dismiss my screens.
"Sombra?" he asks, wary of being ambushed.
"I know what happens if you get hit hard enough. Structurally. What happens if you get hit with something that would kill a normal person?"
Wisps of smoke start curdling off his shoulders. "It's not pleasant," he growls. When I don't answer, he turns slightly to look at me and then looks away. "I don't die."
That's a clear signal that the conversation is over, and I bring my screens back up. That afternoon, I start working on a two-gallon version of the monitoring canister. Reaper isn't amused when I jokingly call it the Can of Whoop-Ass, and he refuses to have anything to do with it past getting in once to make sure he fits.
Still, I make sure the reservoir is filled with Liquid Reaper Food and the power source is charged and I stash it in the ship before the next mission. Just in case. Jerome the pilot seems relieved when I tell him what it is and what it's for. And then I build a second one to tinker with, because I wouldn't want to be locked in a dark barrel with no way to communicate, either, but first I have to figure out how he hears, or talks, because my god, he doesn't have lungs! He's like an angry bean-bag doll filled with uncooked meatloaf and hate with vague bones shoved into the middle of the whole mess so he can hold himself upright. And if that weren't bad enough, when he gets hit hard enough that a normal person would bruise, the area just falls apart. When he jumps, he doesn't land. He dissolves into smoke just before impact and re-forms later because if he didn't, he'd shatter the cohesion in his feet and probably half his legs and that takes energy to repair.
If he ever takes what would be fatal damage for a normal person, I want him to at least have a safe place to recuperate. Even if he thinks he doesn't want it.
===
I'm packing some highly valuable vials into a padded case, and paying more attention to getting as many of them in there as possible without any of them breaking than I am to the door of the lab I'm ransacking. The contents of these vials...their promise is so amazing, I'm considering pocketing one for myself. Over the comm, I can hear Widow making sounds of satisfaction and Reaper causing widespread death and destruction. Nothing out of the ordinary.
"Sombra! Status!"
The last three vials won't fit. I pocket one and leave the other two where they are (I'm not heartless). Open the channel to answer Reaper, thumb the locks on the padded case closed, and that's when when the door blows in.
"SOMBRA!"
Well, now I can't answer without giving my position away. My stealth drops over me as the smoke from the explosion billows in from the ruins of the door, and I can see the red tell-tale of a laser sight groping around for a target. The hand not on the case goes from tucking the vial away to caressing the grip of my gun. Another few seconds, and the idiot will step into the room and expose himself.
Then part of the smoke stands up into Reaper, guns out to sweep the lab, and the burst of gunfire comes from behind him. In the calm of the moment, I see eight different exit wounds bloom on his body before it topples over and the sound of the mask hitting the floor galvanizes me into action. The idiot who exploded the door gets an overly-generous facefull of lead.
"Target secured. Cover my exit," I tell Widow. Then I close the channel and switch to Spanish. "Idiot. Can you get up?"
Reaper groans before dissolving into smoke.
"Fine. Cover me like that. Come on!"
I dash through the base with the case held to my chest, leaping prone figures and letting bullets spray at figures who aren't so prone, while a black mist follows me. At every juncture I pause to check the corridors and he re-forms, but he can barely stand without leaning against the wall and with the amount of smoke he's bleeding, he can't be more than half-solid.
"Stop trying, idiot," I snap at him as I pause before the dash to the ship. Open the channel. "Widow. Is our exit clear?"
"Oui," comes the reply. Good enough.
"Can you keep up?" I ask Reaper, who's again leaning against the wall and clutching his chest. He tenses like he's going to try to run for it.
"Not like that, idiot. Come on!"
Then I'm dashing across the open area, unstealthed because I don't trust him to head for the ship if he can't see me, running for all I'm worth with that black mist flowing at my heels. Widow swings down and joins us for the last dozen feet, and then the door is closing and Reaper is bleeding black smoke from the end of my usual bench. Widow settles in her usual spot, all vitality gone now that the mission is over. I secure the case while we take off, not missing that Reaper keeps dissolving and re-forming. Once we're clear, I pull the Can of Whoop-Ass out of storage and the lid hisses as I thumb the locks off.
"No," he growls before I can even open my mouth.
Oh hell no.
"You did not," I start, before switching to Spanish. "Don't you even try to tell me you're okay, Gabriel Reyes. I see you sitting there, you can't even hold yourself together long enough to say my name. You get yourself shot because you didn't look before you rushed in, and you're going to try to suck it up? Why, because you're a man? Don't you give me that machismo bullshit! You get your black-smoke-ass into this can right now because idiot or not, you were trying to look out for me, so you can just keep your mouth shut and let me look after you, ungrateful boy! You think I built this for fun? I built this so that when you got your ass handed to you, I could sleep at night knowing you were safe! Would you do this to your mother? Would you bleed on her couch and lie to her face, tell her you're fine with eight bullet holes in your body? You get in this can right now or so help me god...!"
Luckily for him, I don't need to come up with a fitting threat because he dissolves again and flows limpingly across the floor and into the can. Once the last wisps are coiled inside, I close and seal the lid. Widow's watching me with distant awe, like the heat of my anger actually thawed her ice enough for her to be impressed. Pulling my composure together, I sit and open screens to check on the data the Can of Whoop-Ass is putting out. After all, this is the first field test and I just know we're going to have to use it again in the future.
Everything looks good; the LRF is being assimilated at a steady rate and the power source is holding steady. I have no idea how long it will take him to heal completely, or even just enough to not spend the night in an overgrown Thermos, and make a note to finish the mechanism to allow the occupant to hear and speak.
===
The LRF still hasn't been fully assimilated by the time the ship lands, so guess who's hauling a two-hundred-pound can of cranky smoke into our quarters? This little shadow, that's who. I set it down with a grunt in front of the couch and flop down in a fit of melodrama.
"You're lucky I care about you," I grumble, knowing he can't hear me.
Then, since I need to share my frustration with someone, I call up Tia Ana's screen.
WAS HE STUPID-STUBBORN BEFORE? LIKE "OH IGNORE THESE EIGHT GUNSHOT WOUNDS AND ME BLEEDING, I'M FINE"?
I don't bother naming names; she knows who I mean. It takes a few minutes before a reply comes back.
SADLY, YES. IS HE OKAY?
Shoot an annoyed look at the can. NO. HE GOT SHOT EIGHT TIMES. BUT HE'S RESTING.
HOW DID YOU GET HIM TO REST? I can almost hear the incredulity in her text.
I YELLED HIM INTO A CAN OF GLUCOSE AND METAL DUST AND THEN I SEALED IT SHUT.
As if he knows we're talking about him, the can rattles slightly. I put my foot solidly down on it. "You're not going anywhere until you've finished your supper," I mutter. When I look back at the screen, Ana's replied.
GOOD. I WISH I COULD HAVE DONE THAT TO HIM. WOULD IT HELP TO HAVE ANGELA'S NOTES?
Well, at least I have her blessing, I guess? And isn't there a saying about forgiveness and permission?
IF THEY WERE STORED DIGITALLY, I ALREADY HAVE THEM.
I'm not wincing at all as I type that. Nope. No sickening dread that I've just ruined whatever goodwill she had towards me. Nor am I nervous about getting a reply.
OF COURSE. KEEP IN TOUCH.
That...was not the reply I was expecting, but I'm not going to argue. And, well, I guess she does know that I'm a hacker. Considering I tracked her down and all.
SURE THING, ANA.
As I close the connection, I wonder if it would be improper to offer her a way to initiate contact with me. I mean, sure, she doesn't object to talking to me because she cares about her old friend. But does she actually want to talk to me? I am kind of technically the enemy. At least, I'm working for them. Technically. Eh, I'll make something and keep in touch and let her choose.
I've got a design roughed out by the time the COWA informs me the LRF reservoir is empty. There's no point in keeping him in there any longer, so I reach one foot out and toe the lid release mechanism. Immediately, a cloud of black smoke boils out and shoots for Reaper's room without even pausing to see if he can hold a solid shape.
"You're welcome!" I shout after him.
The cloud hesitates and flares for just a second before shooting under his door. If he's annoyed, too bad, I'm annoyed too. Grumpily, I pick up the empty can and haul it up to my room. I need to make some modifications - not just the communications array, but also a way to measure what his total volume should be so I know if he's really better or just trying to pretend he is.
Stupid stubborn man. Make me want to smack him, but then I'd need to put him in the can again. Ugh.
===
When I check on Tia Ana a week later as per usual, I discover she's improvised a message to me by way of a creatively-capitalized to-do list.
CALL TO ARRANGE MEET. HAVE SOMETHING USEFUL FOR YOU.
Given that she'd asked about Angela's notes, I can only assume she went to the source and has something that wasn't there for me to get my digital hands on. I certainly hope that's the case, anyway, because decoding Papi's swarm is still kicking my ass. There's so many redundant or orphaned sections, like half the code is just this sea of tumors and lesions, and I don't have the medical background to figure out what they were there for originally. At least I have the secure communication device to offer her, but I know that's not going to be enough payment.
I open the connection.
HE'S STILL CRANKY FROM GETTING SHOT, BUT HE'S BACK TO NORMAL. OR NORMAL FOR HIM, ANYWAY. WHAT DID YOU FIND?
SOME NOTES THAT WEREN'T ON A COMPUTER. The reply is almost immediate; she must have been waiting for me to open the connection. IF YOU CAN, BRING HIM WITH YOU. I WANT TO SEE HIM.
Bring him with me. That...I'm not sure if that's a good idea or a terrible one or how I'll even accomplish it just yet. I don't know that he knows she's alive, or how he'll react except "badly" because I just can't see that going well at all.
YOU'RE WORRIED IT WILL BE AN AMBUSH flashes onto the screen, letter by letter.
NO, I type back. JUST HOW HE WILL REACT.
There's a bit of a pause. I'LL BE FINE. WHERE DO YOU WANT TO MEET?
While we negotiate place and time, I can see Reaper wisping in the background, watching me.
"What are you up to, Sombra?" He sounds...like he's trying to sound hard and suspicious.
"Working out an exchange with a friend." A pause while it occurs to me that I might be able to use this to my advantage. After all, he knows I have a lot of "friends".
"A friend-friend," he asks, "or a frieeeend?" I can almost hear the air quotes.
"That's what we're gonna find out," I tell him. Then I look up and meet the mask squarely. "If you wanted to come as back-up, just in case, I wouldn't say no."
"Hmph." He sounds skeptical, but I can tell from the change in his wisps that he's pleased I asked for his help. "Where's the meeting?"
===
The streetlights have just come on, casting a small pool of light in the little walled garden at the end of the cul-de-sac. Reaper's mist in the shadows (I still have no idea how he sees anything) while I'm loitering on the edge of the light in local clothes. A single set of footsteps approaches, shoes soft on the small flagstones of the sidewalk, and a woman with her hair covered by an expensive (and familiar) blue scarf turns the corner into the other edge of the pool of light.
Tia Ana.
Behind me, Reaper's solidified and I can hear him draw his guns. To be sure we head off anything horrific, I call Ana's name and close the short distance for a hug that she seems perfectly willing to provide.
"It will let you contact me," I say as we part, handing her the small communication device and leading the way closer to Reaper, away from the street.
She pockets it. "And here is what I promised you," she says, pulling a thick brown-paper envelope out of a bag at her hip. While I'm tucking it away, she steps fearlessly up to my very anxious Papi. "It's good to see you, Gabriel," she says in a quiet voice before hugging him. He's wisping so badly that I half expect him to melt completely, but then Ana lets go and turns to me again. "Keep in touch," she tells me with a small smile, and then she walks back through the light and turns the corner, vanishing behind the walls.
"Sombra..." It's not an angry growl, more like a protest and maybe a request for information.
Too bad. He's not ready to hear the answers he thinks he wants. "Si?" I ask innocently.
Reaper just growls.
===
Most of the contents of the folder, it turns out, aren't about Gabriel Reyes at all. The name on those files matches what I've seen on Widowmaker's, which by itself would suggest she gets bumped up my priority list. But more than that: these files were handed to me by Tia Ana, and I doubt either she or Angela would make a mistake, so this is a tacit request to do whatever I can for the heartless spider. Normally, if one of my "friends" made an under-the-table request like that, it would be with the understanding that I could name a price before starting, and refuse if it wasn't met, or that they were so desperate that I could name my own price after and have my "friend" over a barrel. But Tia Ana isn't like that. My payment for this job will be trust, and that's plenty valuable enough to get my best efforts. Especially considering the other things I've got in the works.
When I eventually leave Talon, I'll need somewhere safe to go where Reaper won't be shot on sight.
My first course of action is to scan all the files to digital and stash them where I keep all my important things. I skim things as I go, but the Amelie files won't do me any good until I can really dig into her and see what Talon did. The Gabriel files are more promising, but the biological aspect, the medical terminology, is going to bog me down enough that I can't tell if they'll be useful or not.
Then the communication device I gave Tia Ana pings me.
HELLO. I AM DOCTOR ANGELA ZIEGLER. WITH WHOM AM I COMMUNICATING?
Now I know why Tia Ana said 'keep in touch'. Interesting that she didn't tell Angela who I was; or, if she did, that Angela is too polite to just make assumptions.
I'M NO ONE, JUST A SHADOW.
BUT YOU ARE THE ONE ATTEMPTING TO IMPROVE THE CONDITION OF GABRIEL REYES?
Does she really not know who I am? Or does she not care? I AM.
PLEASE, IT HAS BEEN QUITE SOME TIME. HOW IS HE?
How is...is she serious? She doesn't know? THAT'S A COMPLICATED QUESTION. HOW IS HE COMPARED TO THE MAN HE USED TO BE? COMPARED TO THE STATE HE WAS IN THE LAST TIME YOU SAW HIM? COMPARED TO THE BASELINE OF WHAT HE IS NOW? MENTALLY, EMOTIONALLY, PHYSICALLY, SOCIALLY?
YES. ALL OF THE ABOVE, PLEASE.
All I can do is stare at the screen for a very long minute. Alienating my new friend right off the bat would be a very bad thing. Finally, I just send her a copy of the current programming his swarm holds and wait for her to skim it.
I ADDED THE HAND-AND-FOOT CONFIGURATION, I type after a few minutes. AND THE THERMAL FEEDBACK THEY CONTAIN.
BUT...WHY DID YOU HAVE TO ADD THERMAL FEEDBACK? HE SHOULD...MEIN GOTT, WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO HIM?
I don't even try to answer the rhetorical question. HE ONLY HAS GENERAL PRESSURE FEEDBACK.
HOW CAN THAT BE? WHEN I LAST TREATED HIM, HE WAS IN CONSTANT PAIN AND RELIEVING THAT WAS MY PRIMARY CONCERN.
Constant pain? Oh no, Papi. That plus the betrayal and his trust issues equals...he probably would have tried a gun first and come back from that. Maybe bleeding out. With the structural integrity issues the original programming contained, poison would just dribble out between his molecules. Drowning and reviving while drowning would not be a pleasant option, and hanging would be useless, and that leaves....fire. Mother of god, that explains so much.
WHEN DID YOU LOSE TRACK OF HIM? I type slowly. Then, because I don't know if she's come to the conclusions I have, THAT SORT OF PROGRAMMING SHIFT WOULD REQUIRE WIDE-SCALE RECONSTRUCTION TO TRIGGER.
THERE WAS A FIRE IN...OH. OH NO, GABRIEL.
Well, that reaction seems to be universal.
I WILL NEED TO FAMILIARIZE MYSELF WITH HIS CURRENT STATE, she types after a brief pause. PLEASE, DO NOT HESITATE TO CONTACT ME WITH ANY QUESTIONS YOU MIGHT HAVE. ANA SAYS YOU ARE ABLE TO MAKE HIM REST WHEN HE IS WOUNDED, AND SO I AM CONFIDENT THAT HE IS IN CAPABLE HANDS. THANK YOU FOR ALL YOU HAVE ALREADY DONE FOR HIM, AND I LOOK FORWARD TO WORKING WITH YOU IN THE FUTURE.
Her typing is erratic, the letters coming through at uneven intervals. Hah. Good to know that his condition is distressing her. Maybe I should feel guilty, but I'm not that nice a person. She did this to him, even if it was an accident, and there's a certain amount of hurt I need to know she feels before I can forgive her. If she inflicts it on herself, well, that just saves me the effort.
I KNOW IT LOOKS BAD, I find myself typing, and maybe I do feel a little guilty, ESPECIALLY IF YOU KNOW THE THINGS HE'S DONE, BUT HE'S NOT A HEARTLESS MONSTER. EVEN IF HE DOESN'T ACTUALLY HAVE A PHYSICAL HEART.
OH?
HE GOT HIMSELF SHOT BECAUSE HE WAS WORRIED ABOUT ME. HE'S A GRUMPY, ANGRY, IRRITABLE, TRIGGER-HAPPY MESS, BUT HE CAN STILL FIND IT IN HIM TO CARE ABOUT ONE SASSY, ANNOYING LATINA YOUNG ENOUGH TO BE HIS DAUGHTER WHO YELLS AT HIM WHEN HE'S BEING AN IDIOT AND GIVES HIM FLUFFY SLIPPERS.
THANK YOU, MY FRIEND, she types after a minute. THAT GIVES ME HOPE THAT THE MAN I KNEW IS STILL IN THERE SOMEWHERE.
She closes the connection, and I check my cameras. Reaper's sitting on the couch, "watching" the news and wisping in agitation. I stealth down and sit on the other end, "watching" just as earnestly, not looking directly at him. The wisps get worse for a minute, as expected, but when I don't say anything they calm down to almost nothing. I feel the same way; we don't have to say anything, just being there is reassuring enough.
I'll bother him tomorrow.