[He stinks of acrid iron. Tracks it in with him to the point that even if the curtains didn't rustle, she'd know he was there. Sombra doesn't bother to look away from the row of holographic monitors in front of her when she leans up out of her seat— through the rippling lines of code— to shove open the window by a few meager inches.
He'd earned the name 'La Muerte'— Reaper, if she had to strain to find an English translation— for his brutal efficiency, one of the only reasons a man not from Mexico could come as far as he had within their ranks. Anyone that didn't like it quickly found themselves rethinking voicing their complaints.
She'd always liked that, the chaos he created just by existing.
So there aren't any complaints from her as to the how or why or even the smell beyond the gentle creaking of the wind through that crack, sun already sinking low into the sea. He did what she asked; she'll manage the rest.]
Didn't ask for your advice, Gabe.
[A few more seconds of typing, a pull from the near-empty beer at her side before she swivels around in her chair to speak to him directly. Mildly. Mouth upturned at the corner.] You look like hell.
Mejor ve a lavarte la cara.
[The last thing he needs is someone actually spotting him on the street like that— though knowing him, he's probably looking for a fight.]
no subject
He'd earned the name 'La Muerte'— Reaper, if she had to strain to find an English translation— for his brutal efficiency, one of the only reasons a man not from Mexico could come as far as he had within their ranks. Anyone that didn't like it quickly found themselves rethinking voicing their complaints.
She'd always liked that, the chaos he created just by existing.
So there aren't any complaints from her as to the how or why or even the smell beyond the gentle creaking of the wind through that crack, sun already sinking low into the sea. He did what she asked; she'll manage the rest.]
Didn't ask for your advice, Gabe.
[A few more seconds of typing, a pull from the near-empty beer at her side before she swivels around in her chair to speak to him directly. Mildly. Mouth upturned at the corner.] You look like hell.
Mejor ve a lavarte la cara.
[The last thing he needs is someone actually spotting him on the street like that— though knowing him, he's probably looking for a fight.]