Waking up? It's the closest she comes to feeling like this— like every science-fiction peppered part of the last few weeks— was all just some bizarre, distant dream. She can smell warm salt in the air, a certain humidity interstellar transports lack by default; maps the inviting, marshmallowy softness of her sofa where it's cushioning her spine, exactly as she'd left it, out cold from too many hours spent binging on intel. No Legion, no Azúcar— consciousness comes creeping in as a promise of a mercifully clean slate.

Only when she opens her eyes does she realize how oppressingly persistent the darkness surrounding her is: no city lights seep in from outside, nothing in her studio marked with the moonlight that should be seeping in through uncovered windows. An inky, perpetual void, only broken by her own azure markings as she shifts to sit upright.

And then something else.

A chittering, like a computer struggling to process, to function, reverberating at the far corners of the room. Or where the room should be— like this, it's impossible to know. A few more beats of it see her to her feet as she stands, floor too uneven to be right. She feels watched. Remembers the video feed that'd greeted them when they'd boarded the ship (illusion shattered) and has to consider— briefly— the idea that she might be going mad. But then again that's never been her deal, giving in.

"Cortana." Slipping a finger to her temple, there's an ease to grounding herself in her own fused technology. Feeling it out to make sure it's still there. "Yo, amiga, you still with me?"

Home. The thing about that is, you have to have one to be called to it.

It isn't an innate immunity to the horrors Silent Horizon now prides itself in carrying, but there's a practiced aggression in compartmentalizing her thoughts, her immediate goals: waking up was a trial in ignoring the whispers at her spine, all white noise designed to reroute her attention— she doesn't need personal experience in enduring an abstract nightmare to recognize obvious tactics.

So instead she roams through winding corridors, a bright beacon in darker places where her markings glow without any apparent concern. Beneath rust, flesh and decay she sometimes finds the telltale signs of a running system, and more important than worrying about how, why, or where is finding a way to tap into that wellspring. Scraping away the worst of it with her bare hands to try and locate an electronic pulsebeat, something she can use to map out a way back.

Or a way towards answers; don't expect her to be picky about it right now.

She's crouched beneath a high, twisted stairwell that's been turned on its head to act as a makeshift ceiling, light pouring in through the gaps. Fingers set to the edge of a rusted sheet of metal where it's been fused to what looks like bone, bracing through her heels with all her weight to try and peel it back.

"Puta madre—" More of a grunting hiss let out between cinched teeth as she pulls without traction. "Come on, just— move!"

Where's Reaper when you need him?

The creatures that follow her, skittering along in cast shadows, squeezing their broken, disjointed bodies into every crack and corner, are a different story. Ignoring them only seems to invite confrontation, but continually trying to ward them off? It'll exhaust her. Fast. And about as often as she's tried to slip away into invisibility, they still doggedly chase after her, as if it means nothing to them.

Maybe it doesn't: they don't have eyes, from what she can tell. No mouths, no features that stick for more than a few seconds at a time. It means she's started avoiding them until they're close enough to be a direct threat— and part of why she's finally managed to draw herself into a corner where the claustrophobic path she'd been following (it looked enough like the ship's corridors to seem legitimate, okay) pinned itself off at a near dead-end.

Maybe you're drawn by the sound of rapid gunfire, or you're running from monsters of your own design. Either way, right about now? If you could use a friend in this chaos— one of the few sane ones left— so could she.

Especially with the distant sound of bizarre, repetitive slapping echoing through the vents.

[ooc: Have something else in mind? Want to tweak or combine a few prompts to suit your needs? Feel free! I have a plotting comment for Sombra that can be found here, in case there's anything you'd like to discuss or plot out beforehand. Come at me :)]