To be fair, saying that Sombra (for all her determination) is currently on edge, is an understatement: less to do with the hissing creatures she's fending off— the writhing, crawling masses that seem to peel themselves off the walls— and more to do with their situation in general. So when Connie splits herself off, it takes a solid dose of willpower for Sombra to keep from instinctively firing on both those clones and the monsters.

Suits of armor are quickly becoming her least favorite things.

Miraculously, Sombra plays nice. Picks off the occasional shadow and spares the decoys as often as possible; only a handful of Connie's split images are lost to spare swipes and electronic bursts, eventually convincing the bulk of their adversaries to retreat. Lingering chittering the only promise it's a temporary one.

With a heavy sigh, Sombra drops her shoulder to the nearest wall, unceremoniously holstering her SMG as a show of goodwill.

"Qué tal, amiga."