albinomilksnake | OPEN RP PART II: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

You'd be surprised, Los Angeles. [She's known them a lot longer than he has; sometimes all the rationality in the world won't undo a bout of stupidity and a need to flex it. Doubly so if they're restless— and he's still, for all her work to keep him firmly established, not born here, not raised here— no matter who he breaks or how he breaks them, there will always be a divide.

But that's the thing about cheating: you get to break the rules. ]

I'll set up a couple more raids. LumériCo needs the distraction anyway. It'll keep them from focusing on this. [She taps a nail against one of the broken drives.]

And if I can sell some of this information for a good price, take a cut of the funds and buy them a few rounds at Carlita's— on you.

[In short: be a leader, Gabe, not a leashed hound.]

[Gabriel grunts, obviously an acknowledgement of the point that she's trying to get at. It'd been ages since he had to work for someone's loyalty. He'd always been the veteran, the elephant in the room that nobody dared challenge.

Besides, Los Muertos was a bunch of leashed dogs anyway. La Muerte was just the rabid one of the bunch. He turns to leave the room with a somewhat disgruntled noise.]

Fine.

[Too rabid for his own good at times.

It takes the better part of a week for her to organize her collected data, to take time out for thoroughly disposing of the broken remains of what he'd brought her. True to her word, she scheduled in a few aggressive attacks on LumériCo's incoming shipments and divided a cut of the collected haul out to Los Muertos themselves. A band-aid that should have stoppered the bleeding.

But manita doesn't bother to join in, fingers buried too deeply in the nest of information she'd uncovered. Precautions, safeguards. With Gabriel directly responsible for tearing out data, here's no distinct trail leading back to her— but there is one to him. With Los Muertos on their doorstep and one man to blame for it, it hardly takes much of a logical leap (no matter how thorough she is) for the assumption to be made.

He doesn't check in for a while, and in trying to keep their activities concealed, neither does she. It's a mistake.

Maybe her solution didn't do enough to nullify the tension, maybe Guillermo and his supporters were too quick on the draw— maybe both— but when her only constant contact goes so silent that he doesn't so much as respond to a cursory message, Sombra realizes something is wrong. Her footsteps are quick as she slips along sloping streets, emerald markings peeking out from beneath the edges of her coat where the street lights don't catch, falling away into shadow.

His apartment isn't far. She raps her knuckles against the door, impatient.] ¿Oye, estás en casa, mijo? Abre la puerta - hace frío afuera.

Edited 2016-12-19 13:15 (UTC)

[There's no answer at the door. When she tries the door handle, it opens without preamble, unlocked. The air inside is humid, and smells of iron and stale smoke, and his flat is largely empty aside from stockpiles of rations, cases upon cases of both shotgun ammo and smoke bombs, all closed to hide their contents. His shotguns are nowhere in sight, and neither is Reyes.

The apartment is in a bit of disarray, aside from the boxes still so neatly stacked around the perimeter. His trenchcoat still on the ground from when he had come in the night before, a bag of take away from aforementioned Carlita's still present on the coffee table. The sound of water running vibrates through the pipes of the apartment.]

Shit...

[It's the sound of running water that concerns her, that distinct scent in the air and how his door had been left unlocked all coming together to knit into a sickening tangle in the low pit of her stomach. Someone else might think of it as normal: he came home from a night out with his crew, kicked off his gear and went to take a bath.

But Gabriel isn't hard of hearing, or so careless that he'd abandon his own basic security with crates of ammunition stacked high to the ceiling. They were alike in that at least.

Sombra slips past them, edging silently around the hem of his coat, the table, the light that seeps in from outside, following the sound of those steadily snarling pipes. As far as she can tell, she's alone— they're alone— but it takes a few beats longer before she presses a hand to the wall at her side in passing, calling out:] —Gabe?

[Nearer to the bathroom, there's a better chance of him actually hearing her over the noise, she imagines.]

[The bathtub has begun to overflow recently, judging by the damp spot near the door. The iron smell gets worse the closer she gets to the room, and its clear that there had been some sort of scuffle, however clean the area appears to be. The window to the bedroom has been broken, glass scattered inside -- a break-in, rather than an exit.

The dresser has been cleared of its contents, empty casings and trinkets scattering the floor alongside a few boxes of take out and glass bottles of assorted drinks. Blood decorates the walls in some areas, even soaks down into the ground, and smears across the bathroom door. The mirror in the bathroom is broken, but reflects a body of some sort in the tub, motionless and floating under a still-running stream of water.

In the mirror, she might catch a flash of fuchsia in the dark over her shoulder before the cold metal of a shotgun finds the back of her head.]

Are you alone?

Edited 2016-12-20 10:43 (UTC)

[For a second, she thinks it's Gabe— that body in the tub. The water's thick with muddied pink, slackened muscle, lifeless fingers gone wholly still. It strikes a nerve somewhere in her chest, sharp and pinching, breath held until cold metal bites into her skin and she registers the low, all too familiar snarl of his voice.]

Shit, vato. [Sombra echoes again, exhaling harder this time, head rolling away from the muzzle of his gun and stepping forward— turning on her heel to face him— as always, without fear. If he wants to point a gun at her, he can point it at her face.] You think I'm stupid? Of course I came alone.

[From there, her attention flicks away: back towards the tub over her shoulder, shattered glass and bloodied streaks, overturned furniture. It's easy to picture what might have happened - whether or not there's another body laid out nearby, or maybe that she'd already passed one. Robberies were common, but as for him? He wouldn't be so shaken if that's all this was.

Wouldn't smell half as much smoke in the air, either.

She lifts a hand to her jawline, scrubbing it in deep, obvious thought, painted knuckles illuminating the markings streaked across her face.] What the fuck happened?

Thought he was alone too.

[Gabriel pulls his gun away from her head to gesture toward the tub with it once he confirms that she is indeed alone. He definitely looks to have been in a fight -- he has a black eye, a few knife wounds from closer quarters combat. Most of them appear to have been run under water already, though none of them have been wrapped.

Always waiting for the other shoe to drop.]

Think LumeriCo's getting tired of me.

[He doesn't sound all that concerned. After all, they weren't Los Muertos, so far as he could tell. They were always a bit of an obvious bunch.]

Didn't catch the other one. He ditched when he realized what he was fighting.

LumériCo... [Sombra repeats, frustration swelling just under her skin.

She could tell him the truth, then. About the files, about the missteps they've taken under her guidance that've led them to this point - instead there's only pensive silence, frown deepening sharply for a few tense beats while she turns back to study the wounds he's managed to acquire.]

If one of them already got away, it won't be long before they try again. [Without restraint this time. And Los Muertos can't survive the loss of La Muerte. Not like this.] We need to get you out of here.

I'm not leaving.

[Gabriel Reyes didn't just abandon his base -- besides, what were a bunch of corporate suits going to do to him, a super soldier? Anyone of use that they could hire would've been one of his own, and that was just as unlikely as far as La Muerte was concerned. Whoever was left couldn't stand up to him in groups, and most certainly not alone.

Momentarily, he does check a rather nasty stab on his arm, one that spiderwebs down the fuchsia burning brightly there underneath it. His comfort zone was based at home, its where all of his ammunition and gunnery were, and they weren't going to take it from him.]

Just need to stitch this shut.

I don't think you realize exactly what kind of friends they've made, Gabe. [It isn't often that she puts her foot down without budging to his face, but for this, she decides to make an exception. Punctuated when Sombra moves for his bathroom cabinet, wiping away bloodied spatters with her fingertips to reach the latch and tug it open. If he keeps any sort of first aid, logic dictates it'd be here.

And if nothing else, it keeps her busy.] I do.

I've seen it. [Her lips purse tightly, nails picking through pill bottles both empty and full. The hell does he even do with all of these?] You can always come back later after we've dealt with them. Framed somebody else for it. I don't know.

[She'll think of something; she always does.]

I don't care.

[He's already said it once, and its clear that he's not going to say it again. Los Muertos would find their own way without him if they had to, but once La Muerte has made a decision, the decision is final.

He turns to leave the area, nursing his arm as he heads for the kitchen and speaks as he passes between rooms.]

Don't bother. I'm immune.

[Except in certain mixtures -- but he didn't have the luxury of experimentation today. He had to do this quick, if he wanted any peace today. He moves to the sink, empty save for one set of silverware and a plate, and sticks his arm under the faucet to flush it.]

There's a sewing kit next to the bed.

[The cabinet's snapped shut again, firmly enough to carry. If he's careful enough to listen in, the action's capped off with muttering that sounds somewhat like the words 'stubborn pendejo'.

Still, she moves out of the bathroom, ducks down beside the bed to pull up a medical sewing kit and settle in across the edge of the mattress, long nails surprisingly helpful in threading the needle. She cuts it with her teeth, twists the end to knot it and triple checks her work before leaning forward to call him in.] Ven aca. I need light to try and do this and you've shot up half of yours already.

[It's the kind of tone she uses (rare as anything) when she intends to brook no arguments, no compromises. Her patience is run through, and however much she owes him is currently being tempered by his...well temper. That tireless commitment to seeing things through his way, without bothering to consider her strategic analysis.

No wonder he wound up stuck in Dorado.]

[He doesn't bother arguing with her this time, and eventually ventures back into the room with a cloth pressed over the cut. Its hardly sterile, but its all he has. When he joins her on the bed, its without much preamble aside from the removal of the cloth, already soaked a deep red.

It would stop once it got sewn up and had a chance to clot. He's not all that worried about it.]

Don't be so dramatic.

[Its all he can think of to say -- the fact of the matter is that he'd let one of them get away. It wasn't like him, even if he had no control over his body's (few) limitations.]

Dramatic.

[Her eyes flick upwards when she says it, head still tilted down to face the open wound. It comes only a beat before she jabs the needle under his skin.] How long have you known me, 'La Muerte'.

[It's unsettling work. Maybe that's why she's more eager to talk while she does it, pulling thread and pinning flesh with a meticulous sort of care. Whether she agrees with his decision to stay or not, he's done his part in looking out for her; if he's making a blunt call based on the only information he knows, is it so fair of her to be frustrated? Probably not.

And yet.] Do you really think I'd be telling you to leave if I didn't think this was serious?

[She isn't a coward. She never has been.]

[Meticulous and stone faced as ever, Gabriel makes no sound when Sombra threads the needle through his skin. It hurts, of course it does, but he keeps his eyes forward, one hand balled into a fist in front of his mouth to bite in case she went deep enough to cause actual damage and force him out of silence.

He doesn't think she'll make that move, but he can't be certain.]

I don't doubt it. But I am still not leaving.

[Let them come. He didn't earn La Muerte without reason.]

If their attention is here, then it's not anywhere important.

Important. [This time she pauses when she echoes him, halfway done with her needlework. Looking up only gives her a clearer view of his obvious pain - it takes less than a second of soaking up that grim expression before she turns back to frustrating stitchwork, more careful this time.]

Define 'important'.

[Shipments they can handle, intel they've got, Los Muertos— they'll survive as long as he does, as she does. If there's anything else to worry about, she can't seem to think of it. A rare moment, as far as her mechanical mind is concerned.]

Whatever you've been chasing down.

[He says it without taking his eyes off the point on that wall, like its nothing.]

Unless you had me gather all of that intel for fun.

[There's something in his growling tone that suggests it better fucking not have just been for fun, or it might be the very last time he runs a personal errand.]

If the eyes are on me, then they're not on you.

[That guarantee only lasts as long as he's alive. She'd remind him of that much— but honestly? It isn't her. There's a quiet little exhale under her breath as she ties off the last of her bloodied stitchwork, cutting the strands and grabbing an alcoholic swab to wash away both tacky crimson smears and what's left of their mixed phosphorescent paint.

There.

Gross ass gesture of good will done.] That mean you're not gonna tell me to take a friggin' break anytime soon?

[There's a wet little smack as Sombra distastefully throws the swab away in the trash can beside them, angling a look at him from the corner of her peripheral vision that acts as punctuation for her joke.]

Because I could get used to that.

[Reyes finds himself grunting an acknowledgement, shifting his shoulders to alleviate the numb spots that have formed. Sombra had inflicted herself on him, she could deal with all the habits that came with his presence. But her question makes enough sense with context, so:]

Pay attention when I speak and I won't have to tell you anything. Ever think of that?

You want to know what I think? [Flat, blunt: the look of someone raised on the streets without an ounce of comfort to their name that wasn't just bought and paid for. She thins her lips from where she's sitting beside him, violet eyes glinting in the dark.]

I think you want someone to kill you.

[It's an accusation she's been nursing for a long time, braced by his habits, his needs and demands— for everyone. Himself included.

He lives like a leader with assets under his fingers. He talks like someone that wants nothing but death, in every form.

She's Los Muertos; she would know.]

[That's the rub, isn't it? It was only a matter of time before Sombra tried to call him out. Rather than refute her accusation, he turns to look at her -- really look at her, this time.]

I've had plenty of chances to die. Still here. How's that fit into your theory?

[His back finds the headboard of the bed, still just as stubborn to remain in his base of operations, rather than move to somewhere safe. Whether or not he wanted to die, he wasn't an easy man to kill.]

[Like the look on someone's face when they're trying to unravel a particularly difficult puzzle, Sombra's mouth pulls tight at the corner, brow line going significantly flat— peering at him as if she's somehow missed some crucial amount of information, and...]

Maybe no one's been able to do it. Really finish the job.

[Because the alternative is some tangled idea that he might be hanging on out of obligation. Making sure the crew doesn't devour themselves like something starved, or her in the process.

She can't imagine he's that sentimental. Mostly because she doesn't know what that's like.]

You're right. They haven't.

[Which doesn't answer her question about him looking to die; that's probably an answer she'll never get out of him willingly.]

And they're not going to start now.

[If nothing else, his mind is a tactical one, not just that of a rabid dog.]

Good enough for you?

Claro.

[Good enough for her. Pulling away, she snaps the lid back on the medical kit, thumb resting across the latch almost pensively. She likes to think of herself as pragmatic, efficient— but for as long as she can remember, ever since he showed up, he's always been...

Different. Understands her work in his own way. Maybe it's that they both operate so similarly on opposite ends of the spectrum: working in isolation through the shadows where no one else bothers to look. She always thought if it came down to it, she'd be fine with the eventuality that he'd lose his footing in Los Muertos somewhere. Someone would want him gone. A lot of someones, even.

Walking into his apartment, thinking he might be dead— it's waded through those assumptions with a pinprick sensation of brittleness. Something that's eased now, despite her frustrations.]

I'll keep you updated.

[Not on what she finds— that, at least, he's better off not knowing— but on how much leverage she can bet on with it. Picking it apart, sorting out who might buckle under the threat of it. He's right: eventually they might realize it isn't La Muerte that's in possession of their stolen information, and she needs all the seconds he can spare.]

OPEN RP PART II: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

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