Another and another and another- wires find purchase and seek out the others should they be exposed. Assimilation can be a messy process when handled externally- but integration? Is a far simpler task. The fact that he looks at Sombra's Faceless free existence as an errant bit of uncooperative variables in the larger scope of the grand equation is as damning as it is pragmatic. Like this? She will be hunted, she will be killed.
Adjusted adequately- she will be left be. Free to be glimmering and clever and vicious in a wholly new existence. How is that not appropriate? Static flickers and time slows- the speed of thought a fickle thing, the internal adjustment taking a moment that stretches for a sharp eternity before the dull drawn out roar of sound coalesces into something clipped, coherent- and frantic.
"Get it out get it out get it out get it out get it out-" A cube of transparent green glass that might as well be a bulkhead sequesters York away- unable to do anything, say anything save for the cracks he'd made, the hole he'd punched through to yell. It's been patched over with a tidy bit of code and again he's here, bleeding even in this mental scape, curled tight in a corner and scrabbling at the wall with bloodied hands, nails long since torn off.
Cortana and Delta himself are- relatively- distant. Impossible to reach both omnipresent, blue and green colliding in dizzying whorls of code and color.
Delta pauses when that voice rolls through- York flinching in his prison and scrabbling harder at the wall, but there is nothing to be done for that. Calm as ever, Delta continues. It is an undeniable, perhaps a fundamental quality of sentient beings that when faced with oblivion, any and every alternative is preferable. Even this. Humans are adaptable, they can adjust to this existence easily enough given proper incentive.
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Adjusted adequately- she will be left be. Free to be glimmering and clever and vicious in a wholly new existence. How is that not appropriate? Static flickers and time slows- the speed of thought a fickle thing, the internal adjustment taking a moment that stretches for a sharp eternity before the dull drawn out roar of sound coalesces into something clipped, coherent- and frantic.
"Get it out get it out get it out get it out get it out-" A cube of transparent green glass that might as well be a bulkhead sequesters York away- unable to do anything, say anything save for the cracks he'd made, the hole he'd punched through to yell. It's been patched over with a tidy bit of code and again he's here, bleeding even in this mental scape, curled tight in a corner and scrabbling at the wall with bloodied hands, nails long since torn off.
Cortana and Delta himself are- relatively- distant. Impossible to reach both omnipresent, blue and green colliding in dizzying whorls of code and color.
Delta pauses when that voice rolls through- York flinching in his prison and scrabbling harder at the wall, but there is nothing to be done for that. Calm as ever, Delta continues. It is an undeniable, perhaps a fundamental quality of sentient beings that when faced with oblivion, any and every alternative is preferable. Even this. Humans are adaptable, they can adjust to this existence easily enough given proper incentive.