5400/Hacking on Hold

Hacking on Hold
Date of Scene:	27 July 2017
Location:	Overwatch Earth <OWE>
Synopsis:	Reaper and Nine have bad luck as nurses to a difficult patient.
Cast of Characters:	Sombra, Reaper, 269

---

Sombra has posed:
    With a world thats benefited from major technological advances the last years, people enjoy a higher standard of living. One of the direct benefits is less disease. Add in the multiverse and a whole bunch of contagious and common diseases from less evolved worlds, and the risk is there that some of these bacteria and virus will be spread to somebody who hasnt encountered them before.

    The signal that Reaper was given leads to one of the backstreets in Dorado, near a small plaza overlooking the ocean. Smells from the nearby bakery fills the air, and the sound of children playing nearby can be heard. The streets here are quiet though, with nobody around to see any visitors that near doors leading into a quiet house. At first sight it appears that there is only a normal lock, but upon closer inspection it should be clear that there is tech in here too, wires visible through the windows of the dark house. But it shouldnt be hard for a Talon agent to get inside.

    The interior is dark, with some purple electronics lighting up the place. The entree is empty, with some simple shoes and a coat hanging there. The kitchen nearby is a semi mess, with dirty dishes stacked up. The living room is surprisingly empty with some clothes flung around. It's not a large place, so it shouldn't take Reaper long to find who he looks for as he enters the bedroom.

    Usually the hacker is a sight to behold. Neatly dressed, hair clean and styled to perfection, immaculate makeup to accent her features. That person is no longer there, replaced by a woman whose hair is a sweaty and slightly tangled mess as it hangs over the side of her face, covering at least one of her puffy and tired eyes. Without makeup she looks even more exhausted, and while she usually struts around with energy to every step, lounging about as a relaxed feline, she looks everything but energic now.

    Slouching in front of her work station with one pajama covered leg pulled up against her torso, Sombra looks like shes asleep as she leans over the desk. Snotty kleenex tissues litter the area around her desk, and a mug of cold, half-drunk coffee has been spilled all over the floor next to her, soiling some paper documents that are spread all across the floor. The screens are overflowing with information, all missed by the hacker as she breathes heavily, drool running from her mouth onto her keyboard.

Reaper has posed:
Dorado; It'd been a long time since Gabe came back here. While he was always a San An Man at heart, born and raised, the setting isn't unfamiliar - the same sound of yelling voices, the same scents, just different accents. Spanish without the American tilt to the words, the hard lipped burr of vowels and soft consonants. But that was a mortal's life - here, he is a shadow. A haunting wraith of death and revenge, of a final mission unfulfilled. A whisper of sound, and he's squatting in an alleyway, shotgun resting on his shoulder as he re-orientates. A hiss like metal filings down silk, and he's before the door itself. His cowled head turning left and then right - he'd already checked for witnesses, but always best to be certain. And then he's sinking once more, filtering in like a bad fever dream, the coils of his dark essence thickening beyond the protective portal.

For he is Reaper - and nothing in this mortal coil can stop Death.

Of course, with Sombra looking like 'Death Warmed Over', the dark, masked figure pauses once more. Is he considering the best way to put her out of her misery? Thinking of how to drain her life at last, and leave her a withered husk of a memory? Deciding whether it best to let her die in the slow grip of influenza? Silent as the grave he whispers forward, coils of smoke curling away from his shoulders, his sterile mask ghastly lit by the holoscreens. A single clawed hand begins to stretch towards the back of her head - and moves past it. Tap. Screens going down.

"Sombra." He states, by way of introduction. And to see if she's conscious.

Sombra has posed:
    The very moment that Reaper speaks up, the hacker snaps abruptly upright, coughing slightly to clear her airways, her expression tired and dreary as she blinks her tired eyes, slowly looking up at him as she tries to gather her wits.

    "How'd you get in..." she mutters, her voice hoarse and unlike her usual playful and clear tone. One hand reaches up to wipe at her nose, and her gaze falls to her work station where the screens have been shut down. "... que..." What happened to the work she was doing? Then her attention falls to the spilled coffee and soiled documents. "Ah, MIERDA!" Clumsily she stumbles out of her computer chair, weakly pushing at Reaper if he's in her way so she can try to salvage the drenched papers. Not without sniffling and some uncomfortable swallowing however, and she looks rather unfocused. Which is untypical of the hacker that seems to enjoy how much in control she is at all times. "I wasn't done getting this in--- CHOO!" A violent sneeze leaves her, causing her to drop some of the papers as her head snaps forward... and she begins coughing.

Reaper has posed:
One may as well shove at a brick wall than shove at Reaper while one is deathly ill. A low, dangerous growl ripples from beneath the dead man's bone white mask as he answers the first question - a clawed hand reaching out to neatly pick up the cup, and place it aside for the moment. Papers? Who still uses papers in a world of holo-screens? It's an interesting throwback, the blank gaze of the mask remaining fixed on them for a moment.
"I am the Angel of Death; No wall, no door, no defense can halt my stride." As if that explains everything. And then the growling voice softens into a merely annoyed grumble as clawed hands drop to Sombra's shoulders while she coughs out a lung. Looking to do nothing so much as to get her -out- of the seat. He'll sweep her up if he has too.
"You're no good to me dead. Yet. Get away from your screens."

Sombra has posed:
    Sure, Sombra isn't the most physically strong agent in Talon, but she's not exactly a weakling either. She knows enough tricks to use somebody's strength against them, but right now? She's clearly fumbling, weakened and clearly not at the top of her game. When Reaper's claws settles on her sweaty and warm shoulders she tries to push them away, not willing to move away from the paperwork. "But I need to... need the info for next week when we're," she begins, then pauses to catch her breath and swallow some gunk by the sounds of it. And when she's swept up the hacker doesn't sound happy, and she'll even begin wriggling, one hand moving to push at Reaper's masked face. "Gabe, I have to work! I... didn't finish it earlier, so behind on today's schedule...!" she blabbers, blinking tiredly. "Just let me put in the info while I can still read the documents, damnit...!"

    Heck, if he doesn't put her down she will even try to kick him. "I told you that I don't need to... to.... ACHOO!" Another violent sneeze leaves her, and it should be evident that she's clearly not all there.

Reaper has posed:
"My name.. is Reaper"

States the masked terrorist, the harbinger of doom, the end of life, the shotgun blast out of the darkness - as he carries the small, angry hispanic girl towards her own cot. Her weight means little to a super soldier's enhancements, one arm tucked beneath her knees and the other beneath her shoulder blades, as if he were some particularly wicked villain carrying a fainting maiden off to ill deeds at a railroad track. His head tilting back when the mask is pushed at, a hiss of annoyance as the smoke continues to coil outwards from his cowl. Must be attached to the mask, or just carefully designed so that it won't fall off with a head tilt.

The Princess Carry ends at the cot itself, of course. A surprisingly easy placement on the bedspread, the Reaper's sterile mask turning about the room for some sort of implement of torture. That is, food preparation, even as he idly snarls.
"Shut up, or I'll empty the hellfire buckshot into your systems. I'm not letting your work go sloppy because you've managed to contract the -flu-, Sombra." Well, not exactly comforting bedside manner.

".. Where is your pantry?"

Sombra has posed:
    It's a good thing that Sombra is exhausted and weakened, as she would be far more trouble otherwise. Sure, she does put up a fight, but it's rather pathetic as she attempts to kick and flail, but she simply lacks the energy or focus. Even the push at his face isn't rough enough to do any damage, and Sombra sniffles weakly as she mutters angrily in Spanish. She's got work to do, and nobody else can do it! But before she can work up an eloquent retort she finds herself dropped on something a bit more comfy than her chair, and the woman sits up, looking drearily around as she realises she's been put to bed. "Can't... sleep, I tried earlier," she mutters. The moment he threatens to unload unholy lead upon her work station though, she does manage to half-glare up at the man. "You stay away from my systems, or I---" The threat is interrupted by a coughing fit, and Sombra pulls her knees up to her chest.

    The flu... she hasn't had that since she was a small girl, sometime after the Omnic crisis.

    Her pantry? "Kitchen... is over there," she mutters, pointing towards the hallway. While Sombra does have some food, it's not exactly well stocked. Some canned goods, noodles, rice, dried stuff, things that can last for a while. Very few fresh ingredients can be found. "It won't be sloppy, just... I need those documents, had such a hard time finding them in that library, need them to... to... ugh, finish attack plans..." Sombra /did/ put something into her calendar so that Talon can see that she's planning a heist next week with some other Elites.

Reaper has posed:
"I expect better."

Snarls Reaper, as Sombra explains about her attack plans. "Talon does nothing half-assed; You'll have time to plan, or you'll pass the info on to me and I'll write out a venue of attack. But you won't be putting yoursel-.. Talon assets.. at risk by writing out your brief half out of your mind." There's something in that growling voice; Almost chidment? Honestly, it's hard to tell because Reaper is -always- growling or snarling. His voice is -always- on the hard edge of a rasp, like he was biting off words to prevent from screaming.

The dark figure moving away from Sombra, no reponse to her interrupted threat, as he continues to speak. Clawed hands digging slowly through the pantry, cans lifted and reviewed one after another. Speaking idly as he does - with a snarl. "I taught you better than that. Sleep when you can; War knows no rest." It'll have to be something with rice. Something spicey, to clear the sinus. At the very least, their tastes were somewhat similar, even though Reaper ...couldn't taste anymore.

Sombra has posed:
    The hacker grumbles tiredly where she sits. "... then you can help by writing down what those papers say," she points out. "We... need info on the ship, that world has no real tech, and..." she takes a break to cough some more and clear her throat, and then she lets out a tired groan of resignation as she flops facefirst down on the bed, chest rising and falling quickly. When she hears his steps moving towards the kitchen her glassy eyes move to the work station... no, he will hear her. So she fiddles with her radio instead, touching a hand to her ear as she mutters something under her breath. It's a good thing Reaper's still speaking...

    "I /tried/ to sleep," she protests with a huffy tone, "but I can't... I... I just need to get stuff done, then I can relax. Go get some medicine for me if you want me to rest up, the sooner I get the basics down..." An undignified sound leaves her as she tries to clear her sinuses, and a whine can be heard next. "Uh.... don't have time to be siiiiiick..."

No. 9 (269) has posed:
    The murmuring soft sounds of joyous children drifting here and there, bounding off the stucco and whispering softly through grass kissed back alleys make for an uncomfortable time for a certain rangy shuffling cyborg, each burst of laughter and calling shouts getting an odd flinch and ducking bow from the ugly thing, little more than a shape in the shadows. Back alleys and dark places strictly for him, turned away from most open doors lest the glow of those photonegative eyes catch things out in an inopportune way.

    Up and over and down, careful to avoid leaving much more than a faintly discomforting scent lingering in the air behind him, occasionally a scuff on the stucco or a bit of clattering terracotta scattering down from a mistimed jump, he might well not have been there at all.

    Directions work though, and after a bit, a somewhat hesitent and very ugly face turns its eyes to the faint purpley glow. The head lifts, eyes closing and nostrils spreading a bit with a sniff... before he curses. He doesn't know what she damn well smells li-

    But the very very faint hint of something sour, of sickness does linger, and with a huff there'd be a shuffle.

    Code, code, code code code, code. Code. CODE! Here, yes! Blunt metal fingers, the elegant alloy scraped and pinged here and there by blade or bullet bite mash somewhat clumsily against the buttons, the faint brip brip breep! an answer to his efforts, and after a moment he takes a thin breath, slipping into the dimmer cool within.

    "You aint got time t' be sick ma'am, but th' sick sure got time t' be you. I TOL' ya you should head by th' medbay..." The voice is rough, scratchy, managing to be both gravelly and mucky all at the same time; the figure filling the doorway about human in height but hunched and bent, stooped like some great ugly ape. If he were standing tall and proper, who knows. Seven feet? Maybe eight? Maybe. The uh... smell, isn't very fun; not a stink of man unwashed so much as a hint of something other, something not quite human, spicy and unpleasant, and that face... glowing iris, black scleras, a face ugly in it's degenerate wrongness, for all that the eyebrows are pitched high in an expression of exasperated concern, for all that the overlong arms thump down a bag, pulling out little bottles of medicine with a grumble.

Reaper has posed:
"Desire or not.. your time has come."

Pronounces the Reaper with his growling tone of doom, hunting yet in the pantry. It won't be a great meal - alas, Reaper had been far too long without food to still know what tastes good - but he still has his memory of a life before the Grave. Albeit shattered as it is. Although his cowled head does pause as Sombra begins reaching - for her radio. A slow hiss of breath, a dangerous warning of any attempt to continue work, before his attention is back at the pantry.

And then someone's outside. The pull of a shotgun from NOTHINGNESS is smooth as black silk, the hellfire shotgun forming in his hand with the motion as if it'd always been there. Arm raised parrallel to vertical, the heavy weapon ready to drop into 'firing' with the relaxing of his bicep if needs be. Smoke slowly coiling off his too edgy form when Nine fills the doorway. Like a huge, monstrous .. nurse. An experiment in medical assistance gone horribly array. The Reaper's words puncuated with slow, snarled pauses.
"Who... are you?"

Sombra has posed:
    Fear not, Reaper. Sombra remains in bed, and she isn't wearing her graft right now, so she can't do any work unless she puts it on or if she moves back to her work station. Still, she does give him a feverish pout when he gives her that slow hiss. Fine, she hears you, old man.

    The sound of somebody by the door though, that just barely catches her attention as she's a bit tired and unable to focus thanks to her fever. But when the door opens with the passcode, Sombra sees her chance to get to work. Knowing how paranoid Reaper is, then she can maybe use this chance...!

    Half rolling out of bed, Sombra gets to her feet and stumbles towards her workstation, sniffling as she grabs onto her chair and tiredly flops down, all while she grabs the old papers from before. The screens get turned back on, and then she narrows her eyes, squinting at the text as her fingers begin to type, relatively quickly. Slow for her, but quick for most people. Maybe the two guys will keep each other busy so she can continue working now, damnit.

No. 9 (269) has posed:
    EnemyEnemyENEMY- the nstrils flare, the eyes lighting from a dim honey tone to an angry harsh bluish-white in their stained sockets, that leathery skin drawing taut across the half-noseless face, baring surprisingly white blocky human teeth in a faintly over-wide mouth; a hiss, long and drawn out and whistling like an angry teakettle. "FUCK YOu who the hell're YOU?"

    The metal plates hiss and skitter across each other as the thing shifts down, one overlong arm planting thick metal fingers on the ground, the other going out, long and rangy and easy, waiting, his balance shifting faintly on thick clunky boots. The eyes aren't on the shotgun but on the arm, the chest near it- not the face, not the mask, judging at tiny hints of muscles, the possible hint of what might be to come. The thing's voice is thick, managing to be both thickly glutinous and yet brassily raucous at the same time.

    Lines spread around those ever-staring eyes, focused on the Reaper, bent like an animal and obviously ready to fight. Someone isn't making the best first impression.

Reaper has posed:
The ancient fun of fourty thousand years? Meet the smell of -wrong-, if Nine's got the sense for it. Not quite man, not quite explosive residue, not quite something else. Squirming between possibilities - much akin to Reaper himself, the smoke that pours from his body curling along the floor like the mist of the damned. The figure's cowled head turning briefly towards Sombra as she makes her way back to her work station, and then towards Nine as he bowls in the doorway like a bull getting ready to charge. And his laughter - mocking, echoing, even as he -MELTS-.

Yes, melts. The smoke along the floor bubbling and receeding, until he rises once more beside Sombra's work desk. Speaking, first, for the genetic monstrosity.

"I .. am the Angel of Death. Mortal, you have found the wrong domicile to invade."

And the arm drops, the shotgun aimed for - SOMBRA'S NODE. The sterile white mask turning slightly, his growling tone slightly changed. Not quite so EDGE LORD. But still annoyed. "Get. Back. To. Bed."
"Or I'm -unplugging- this thing. For good."

Mixed messages, much, Lord of the Edge?

Sombra has posed:
    For now Sombra's full attention is on her screens as she does her best to type up whatever it is that the paper documents say. Sure, she can hear Nine being annoyed... but according to what she read, he tends to focus on what's in front of him. If he and Reaper duke it out in the hallway, then that's fine. The neighbours shouldn't hear anyway, and then she can focus on working in here, replace stuff in the kitchen when she's feeling better, and--

    The hacker is still slouching over her keyboard as she works, unaware of the dark shadow that rises next to her. At least until he speaks up, causing her to jump, looking startled and dishevelled as she tilts her head backwards. Then there's the threat, and Sombra narrows her eyes, managing to give Reaper her best petulant pout as she lets out a mix between a croak and a groan, weakly pushing herself away from her work station. Not without grumbling as she stumbles back towards her bed, however. "No sabes ni como funciona eso, pendejo!" <You don't even know how tech works, you imbecile!>

    As she gets situated back in bed she does glance out through the door leading to the main room towards Nine, giving him a tired look. "... you could have dragged him out at least." Being sick sucks, usually her plans are more effective than this... Even if her voice is hoarse, even if she doesn't look as clean and neat as she does in the picture on her profile, it should be easy for Nine to realise that the young woman is Sombra. Hacker genius and now Reaper's patient as she suffers from the flu.

No. 9 (269) has posed:
    Nine's got the sense for it. His sense of smell is uncomfortably keen. You can tell from the way his neck muscles twitch and strain; if he were a horse he'd be shaking his head right about now, and it's only discipline and the need to keep his eyes on his target that is keeping him from doing it- op, spoke too soon. Hair whipping, the tangled mop of well-and-truly outgrone mullet gone to seed, the strands of dirty blonde-ish brown-ish hair catch at his eyes as he snorts violently, teeth half bared.

    Andthenit'smeltingIT'SMELTING and Nine dances aside, all fours now in his moment of discomforture and disquiet, his composure rattled by both the mocking tones of that laugh and the liquid smoke act both. And yet as Reap comes up closer to Sombra the thing still stalks towards him, head down now and eyes alight with more than just madness. "Get. Away, from, her. NOW." It's hissed out, a bubbling brassy rasp of menace from those bared teeth, scared lips pulled up in a snarl

    "Aint afraid a death. N' I aint afraid a you. Step, away from her."

    But then she's talking, and he gives her kind of a helpless look. He's been so occupied with smoking boy he's letting her get away with hurting herself. The voice drops, that brassy snarl going down a low gravely sort of croon, ugly face caught in an expression of worry. "Listen, iffn' this worsens t' pneumonia yer gonna be down a LOT longer n' you wanna be. Yer a smart gal. Alright, yer sick, yer fucked fer gettin work done inna timely manner fer a lil while. But if ya make it /worse/, it'll jest take longer t' get better. Ya can' FORCE this one girlie, it just aint happenin'..."
Hand out, big wide metal paw in a placating gesture, he stares at her, for all that his eyes do flick ever so often to the looming figure of darkness next to her bed. Every now and then, a little twitch low on his cheek, near one of the bigger bullet scars. Yeah he's, totally not afraid of him. Not at all.

Sombra has posed:
    Damnit, she hates it when stuff backfires on her. Earlier she just had Reaper nagging at her to get some rest, but now she has Nine too. A tired sigh leaves Sombra where she sits, and then she leans back against her pillows. No, she doesn't seem like she's in danger from the sinister figure in black with the creepy white mask judging by how she seems more irritated than scared.

    "Relajate," she assures Nine, even as he makes her way into the dark bedroom that's illuminated by all the computer screens by her work station. "Gabe's just... dramatic." She shoots the man a tired glare, all before she is forced to cough some more. "And I'll be /fine/." Don't pay any attention to the fact that she's sweaty and clearly feverish. Though her eyes do fall upon his large hand, and she blinks her glassy eyes as she looks up at him, then back to Reaper... before she sighs heavily and closes her eyes, tiredly leaning back into bed. "... you two cabrons aren't going to let me work, are you..." Fine. At this point she's starting to get too tired to protest much more.

No. 9 (269) has posed:
    Nine: Soulless monster, tireless nag. "Gabe?" He seems to taste the word, turning his eyes to the angel of death beside her. Okay, it is a bit of a snyde sideways glance, but some of the bite is taken out of it in concern for her. A glance over to the shadowed figure, and then he's dragging the bag closer, laying slightly rough metal fingers back-first against her forehead. Before it occurs to him, yeah; safe shoving his hand in a fire, he can't really tell the difference between ambient temperatures through the metal that well. "Ya look like shit girly girl. Ya need sum downtime. Time t' get well. Aint gonna do ya no good t' waffleface at yer computer." And then there's a clank clank clunk as the bag is opened and things set out. A thermos. A big bottle of some sort of clear liquid, bubbly and with a green label, a couple of bottles and a pack full of some sort of foil-trapped pills. He sighs, his eyes dimming to a warm honey-brown. "...I know ya dun wanna admit it, but ya look like ya got a fever. Prolly could use wif a nice warm bath, but lookin at ya I wouldn' wanna see ya pass out, slip in n' drown. Tha aint no way t' go..."

Sombra has posed:
    Yes, Gabe. A perfect name for a dark, sinister angel of death, wouldn't you say? Sombra nods weakly as she wipes her runny nose on the back of her hand. When Nine raises his metallic fingers to her forehead, she makes a slight face. "... frío," she complains about his fingers. She's indeed running a fever.

    When Nine points out that she doesn't look well Sombra does sulk some, not looking happy. Does she really look that sick...? Can she really afford time to relax when she's needed to work out information for Captain Flint's upcoming mission. "Gotta... work," she protests weakly, even as Nine unpacks the bag he brought with him. Drink and medicine...? Fine. Sombra grumbles as she closes her eyes, her left hand fumbling around the side of the bed until she finds a teddybear that she pulls close. "So what if I have a fever...? Worked with fevers before." A warm bath? Perhaps that would be a good idea. "If I rest and do as you say... will you two write up the papers for me?" she attempts, at least that would save her some time. Even if she could probably type it up faster herself.

No. 9 (269) has posed:
    "Lady I've had my arms n' legs ripped off. More n' once. When it happens? It's easy t' admit maybe I aint gonna be gettin outta bed. When yer sick it's easier t' fool yerself tha mebbe ya can git sum work done, it is. But it aint much better. Ya gotta take care a you. B'sides. It's moments like this, when yer sick as shit n' yer body's achin tha ya kin pick up somma them premature wrinkles. Ya dun wanna be marrin yer body by tirin yerself out when yer sick, do ya? It aint good fer ya." A pause at her question (teddy bear filed away and he manages to suppress the d'aww admirably) and blinks. "You want me to, type?" With is big clunky fingers. Um. A glance down. "...I'll try." It's a promise, albeit a not particularly happy about it. He bends down, and comes up with a bottle of lukewarm water, faintly tinged with something, and a washcloth. A faint tip, the bloom of water against the cloth and then he's wringing it out into the bag, the faint smell of rose oil mild and soft in the air. WRINGGG- and then applied, a touch too cool but refreshing, caressing gentle and moist just under the edge of the hairline, and the big ugly hulk is cooing a rough, scratchy gravel whisper of reassurance, gently sponging away the sweat from brow, cheek, neck. "It'll be okay... hey, shh, it's gonna be fine..."

Sombra has posed:
    Having somebody there to take care of her, it's... unsettling. Ever since she was a small girl, she's learned to rely on nobody else but herself. The shadow is independent. The mention of wrinkles earns a tired snort, and Sombra shakes her head even if she doesn't open her eyes. "Not goin' to end up looking like Gabe just yet..." she points out gruffly, then tries to clear her throat some, only to end up having a coughing fit. "As long as you can type down what's written on those pages there," she begins and points to the heaps of papers by the computer, some of them soiled by coffee, "then that's good." Then she can analyse them with her computer later.

    It looks as if she's about to doze off when she's left alone for a few seconds... at least until Nine brings that wet cloth up to her face. The woman sputters, and she pushes weakly at the cloth at first. "Nnnghh..." But as Nine croons at her, the hacker lets out an exasparated sigh, tired from struggling... and lets her hand fall down to the bed as he takes to washing her face. "I can wash myself," she mutters a little annoyed.

    Seriously, why is she being treated as if she were a child?!

No. 9 (269) has posed:
    "Shhh shhh shh shh shh." He's careful, but doesn't wash too inappropriately low, just around the throat a bit, laying brief blooms of cool dampness and wicking away the sweat, before the cloth is removed and he slips it into a bag. She looks like she might be drifting off; he's got some soup, but maybe it can wait? Some of the medicines are more important. There's the... well, there's the sound of a clumsy cyborg hand trying to work the top off a childproof bottle without just destroying it. Cue about a minute of straight metal-on-plastic and frustrated grunts.

Sombra has posed:
    No, Sombra doesn't look bothered about where Nine's washing. It's more like she's annoyed at the fact that she has people washing her. Though when he begins struggling with getting the childproof cap off of the medicine bottle, the hacker extends her right hand, beckoning with her fingers. "Give me..." And if he does hand it over, she brings it up her torso, fingers moving into place... and a few seconds later, she hands the thing back to Nine, a tired look on her face.

No. 9 (269) has posed:
    He siiiiiiiiiiiiighs- he's got strong lungs, given that the sigh goes on for upwards of twenty seconds. Those unnatural glowing eyes rolling a bit sullenly- but he hands it over. And should she crack it open- whouf. Some sort of harsh chemical brew, mockingly marred with the equally harsh chemical smell of artificial cherry. Some sort of cough syrup? It says for flu symptoms on the bottle. He's carefully measuring out a good tot of the vile stuff, the syrupy glutinous death liquid filling the clear cap with an ominous treacally slowness. Pourrrr.

Sombra has posed:
    The moment the smell hits her clogged up nose, the woman makes a face. "¿Que?!" No, she does not look happy. "You can't honestly want me to drink /that/ shit..." she grumbles, pulling back in bed as she hugs the teddy bear close to her chest.

No. 9 (269) has posed:
    A sidelong glance at her. "Hey, dun diss it. Th' mouth'll HATE you, but soon as it's slidin down yer throat, soothin all th' aches away n' clearin th' crud out like it's got a squeegee, you'll see why I tried t' get you t' drink it. S' vile stuff, but it's good fer you n' it'll make yer throat feel better. I promise." At least it does for him, when he was sick. Back when he was human. His mom used to- a violent headshake, eyes wide and staring at nothing, forcefully breaking the memory. Snort. Blink? A glance down at his hand- thankfully sloshed but not spilled, and then he's holding the cap-cup out to her expectently, head tilted and those odd glowing eyes fixed on her.

Sombra has posed:
    - LATER THAT DAY -

    With the threat of her work station being destroyed if she didn't cooperate, Sombra had opted to behave. For now. Even if she had made faces of disgust at the stuff that Nine had insisted that she take. It might have been medicine, or it might have been gunk. Either was an option in Sombra's feverish mind, but eventually she had swallowed the pills and drinks. It had been easier to persuade her to take a bath, with her promising she would be careful to not fall asleep in the bath and that she wouldn't take long.

    After ten minutes the hacker emerges from the bathroom, having changed to clean sweatpants and a t-shirt, with her hair still dripping wet as she walks across the hallway back to the bedroom, steadying herself on the wall. Sighing she glances at her computers on the other side of the bedroom... though she walks over to the bed, tiredly flopping down. Reaper probably meant it when he stated he was going to destroy her systems if she didn't do as he said, so it's too risky. "I'm back in bed, Gabe..." she calls out, or at least tries to with how grunky her voice is, and it makes her cough. At least she sounds somewhat better after taking those medicines from Nine. Not to mention she isn't drenched in sweat right now.

Reaper has posed:
When Nine had begun treating Sombra - when Sombra had responded cordially to the broken mess of Nine - Reaper had taken it as a cue that death was not on the agenda. Further marked by a quiet confirmation comm of Nine's status among the Concord. So he'd left the semi-rabid beast to do its muddling about, crooning like a broken abuela over the young hispanic woman. He'd left them to their conversation while he moved back towards the pantry again. There were still a few old memories rattling about in what remained of his skull. Usually.

By the time Sombra had come out of the bath - by the time Nine had either wandered off or was sulking unseen - the smell of something peppery has begun to leak through the house. An undertone of chocolate, a tickling hint of heat in the air. The simmer of chicken, the easiest protein. Mole Poblano en Pollo. The Reaper's metal claws occasionally 'clink' as they stroke one thing or another, before his heavy footfalls can be heard returning. No silent ghosting this time, his cracked, raspy voice snarling forth.

"Good. My time is wasted babysitting an errant asset." No one point out that chicken soup takes only one can, not tins of cocoa powder, hot chillis, sugar pastes and what not.

Sombra has posed:
    It's a bit hard to smell the delicious scent that originates from the kitchen, though it's easier to hear Reaper's heavy footsteps as he returns to the bedroom. Where did Nine go for that matter? Did he take the papers and go to type them up for her? If so, she can relax a little, knowing that she'll be able to catch up once she feels better. Sombra glances tiredly around as she flops onto her side, wincing slightly at her aching and sore muscles.

    His comment about babysitting however, that makes the hacker push herself up with a tired grunt, her face looking still rather bleary, her eyes still puffy as she tries to glare in the direction of the door. "And I told you repeatedly that I don't need a babysitter..." she mutters. "I wasn't errant, I was /working/." She sniffles, then blinks. Oh right, he asked about the pantry. "... you can /cook/?" she inquires in half disbelief.

Reaper has posed:
"Learn to delegate. We have other people who can type while you recover -faster-."
Snarls Reaper, the faint groan of his metal claw as he flexes his hand within. That sterile white mask focused completely on her, his gaze hidden - but his vocal tone is nothing but disdain. "The grave cannot hold -me-. It still yearns for you.. and you have use to me yet. Pushing yourself to exhaustion without necessity is wasteful.. and I expect better."

And then a pause. The masked head turning slighlty, as if to listen to the faint sizzle on the heating coils. A long moment of silence - and wouldn't one pay to see his facial expression at that question? - before he finally settles on a raspy growl. "I'm dead, not stupid. Even a wraith can remember a life before the casket." A flick of the claws, before his heavy boots are retreating once more - the clink and clank of metal on metal as something gets plated. And then heavy boots coming back - the steaming chunks of chicken doused liberally in mole poblano. Canned chicken, to be sure, but sizzled with spice flakes. And the rich, brown mole, chocolate sweetness fighting with the sharp warmth of heavy peppers. Sure to clear even the most stubborn sinus.

Sombra has posed:
    Delegating... pfft. "I got Nine to agree to type up stuff for me in exchange for me taking the nasty smelling medicine," Sombra murmurs against her covers. "I have to do /something/ while I'm like this, or I'll go crazy from boredom..." Aaaand there he goes, prattling on and on about the grave. What a surpise. The hacker rolls her eyes, the gesture looking even worse considering how pale she is. "Sí sí, I know... you expect the best, otherwise you would have shot out my lovely brains already..." She's gotten the picture.

    "I just meant that it would be hard to figure out if what you make... actually taste good," the latina points out, then coughs to clear her throat. When Reaper heads off to the kitchen again she takes the opportunity to pull the covers over her, pulling her teddy bear close to her chest as she pushes some of her wet hair out of her face. As he returns Sombra can't help but look curious, trying to sniff and catch the scent despite her clogged sinuses. "... what... pollo?" Right, she had some old cans in the cupboard. Cooking isn't her strong suite, never been. So pardon her for looking a bit curious as she pushes her upper body up, wincing a bit. It... doesn't look bad. Her puffy eyes glance up towards the sinister white mask, then back down to the food. Not that she's hungry, but... if she doesn't eat, then he'll probably bitch and whine at her some more, won't he? So better try eating some at least. "Gracias..."

    Her hands half shakily take the bowl, and then she'll accept any eating utensil she's handed, all before she takes a small bite. Chewing slowly, she forces herself to eat. Sure, her sense of taste and smell are affected, but either way it looks like she's used to spicy food. Finally she offers a small nod, then takes another spoonful.

Reaper has posed:
"Consider it additional training in patience. Widowmaker could've taught you something about that."

Snarls the Reaper at the complaint about Sombra getting bored. Congratulations, not everything can be explosions and hacking on the fly. Sometimes you've got to sit down and do the work, the planning, and the debriefing. His usual tirade is cut short, however, when she mentions about him shooting out her lovely brains should she fail to be the best. The sterile white mask regards her silently as she accepts both bowl and spoon, and begins eating. The smoke of his dark essence curling once more from his shoulders, as he speaks.

".. The tongue only has five tastes. The nose has thousands more. Without being able to smell it, you couldn't tell the difference between catsup and mayo." He snarls softly, as if that explained how he still knew how to cook, before finishing with the usual threat. "Even if was shit on shingles, I expect you to sit there and eat it... " Again, the silent, stern 'young lady' that never gets spoken. Because she's an asset. Nothing more. Although at the thanks for his efforts, his growl is .. still raspy, but not quite as forceful. "Mole poblano de pollo- " He corrects, sterile white mask tilting down slightly. JUUUST a little. Probably a trick of the light. "De nada."

The blank gaze of that skull mask watches the spoon move from plate to mouth. And then snarls as if the thought just pissed him right off, twisting his cowled head to walk about from the room. Pausing with his clawed gauntlet on the doorway.
".. Sombra." White mask turns. "Stay off the systems until you're healed. Or I'm dragging you into medbay by the scruff of your neck. And your little genetic freak as well."
A pause as if he would say more, before a growled "I'll be back."

Sombra has posed:
    A grunt leaves Sombra at Reaper's comment. "That's why she's the sniper and I'm not..." No way in hell she would want to be stuck in the same spot waiting for a target.

    A half glare is shot his way when he talks about how he expects her to eat whatever food he makes for her... seriously, what's up with his tone and how he thinks he can just order her around? Sure, he might be on the Talon inner council, but still... this is her health, not Talon business.

    It's a good thing that the texture on this thing is just right for her sore throat to swallow it down, and it's spicy... spciy enough that it actually has some taste to it with her dulled senses. And it's better than the usual shit that she herself tosses together on occasion. For the most part she buys food that's been prepared already. Less time spent in the kitchen, more time spent in front of her computer. Speaking of which...

    The threat of dragging her to the medbay if she doesn't rest, now that makes Sombra narrow her eyes, though with how exhausted she looks it's not exactly threatening. More like she's a petulant teenager. "... until my fever's gone down," she states in a croaky voice. It's worth a try, and hey... if she doesn't have a fever she can concentrate. "And he's not my genetic freak, I just thought he'd distract you for longer so I could get some work done," she mutters sourly before she resumes eating. So he'll be back to check on her, huh. Fine. "I'll... try to get some sleep after I've eaten..." Maybe time will pass by then. And she does feel rather tired.