She likes to think she's hard it hard. That she's always overcome the disadvantages that would have held her down— and in a lot of ways, she has.
But her intelligence, for how deftly she employs it, is a luxury. The fact that her family was lost to her so early on that the memories don't exist, that Los Muertos, in spite of their rougher than ragged edges and criminal ways, treated her as their manita— their blood, is another. Always a buffer between her and the world and every soul or threat in it, which means she's never known this kind of pain.
Which means she's not as effortlessly resilient as she imagines, only less wounded than the company she keeps.
And here is the proof, though she doesn't recognize it. Broken, bloodied. Slack and unblinking, there's something about the armor that demands attention, carefully patterned as it is. A contrast to Locus' duller palette.
Only when she glances back from a precautionary assessment of her surroundings does she stop warily in her tracks. This place screws with you. It's meant to. Keeping that in the forefront of her mind, she forces her own breathing to stay even despite the initial skipped beat of her heart on wary instincts. If the ship wants her to give up the advantage of high ground over a corpse, it has another thing coming.
Her SMG's flicked up, aimed at its head. A coarse dare for it to move - every bit the chosen course of action from a girl that's a street thug at heart. "Asústame, panteón."
A beat. Two. Nothing.
"Pft." Sombra's shoulders drop, free hand settling critically on her hip. "Thought so."
no subject
But her intelligence, for how deftly she employs it, is a luxury. The fact that her family was lost to her so early on that the memories don't exist, that Los Muertos, in spite of their rougher than ragged edges and criminal ways, treated her as their manita— their blood, is another. Always a buffer between her and the world and every soul or threat in it, which means she's never known this kind of pain.
Which means she's not as effortlessly resilient as she imagines, only less wounded than the company she keeps.
And here is the proof, though she doesn't recognize it. Broken, bloodied. Slack and unblinking, there's something about the armor that demands attention, carefully patterned as it is. A contrast to Locus' duller palette.
Only when she glances back from a precautionary assessment of her surroundings does she stop warily in her tracks. This place screws with you. It's meant to. Keeping that in the forefront of her mind, she forces her own breathing to stay even despite the initial skipped beat of her heart on wary instincts. If the ship wants her to give up the advantage of high ground over a corpse, it has another thing coming.
Her SMG's flicked up, aimed at its head. A coarse dare for it to move - every bit the chosen course of action from a girl that's a street thug at heart. "Asústame, panteón."
A beat. Two. Nothing.
"Pft." Sombra's shoulders drop, free hand settling critically on her hip. "Thought so."