Wires snap out from the floor, the walls, writhing their way along the fleshy hall to reach Sombra. For every bullet more peel away from York's spine to replace those that are mangled and lost- and while his eye gleams green the rough, ragged twists of his voice are entirely human.

Within that pain lights up fragments of the palace, without taking his attention off Cortana Delta lifts a hand, accessing the logistics of the healing unit. More morphine to ease the pain, what it cannot manage he gathers in so many digital fingers and sets aside. Buffers. For now it hurts, this is true, but that will pass. Pain is transient. Are you aware of the odds of escaping this place? Of surviving it?

He's run the numbers every which way. The statistical likelihood is so slim that it classifies as a miracle. Assimilation is the only way to ensure our Survival. York's discomfort and distress are temporary.

It will pass, he will understand- and all will be well.