"Something is going on." Her tone is sharply accusative, certainly not laden with a layer of something charmingly, makeshift, and sweet, heterochromic gaze drilling into smaller statue, arms crossed over her chest — LACROIX, coming in late, uncharacteristically frantic, a mess even, you had given her something calming and told her to come back first thing in the morning, there was not much else you could do until given medicine had taken effect. The geneticist takes one step closer, mere inches from the other. "Why is it that every time Lacroix shows up unprompted and in need of my care, you seem to be in the middle of it? Tell me, Sombra dearest, are you trying to meddle with my work? You know how I feel about people that create unsightly messes." Tone now slightly more sugary, distorted fingernails tapping against her forearm; it was nearly nighttime, one had thus already changed out of regular getup for the sake of something more casual, lab coat merely thrown over barren arms for the sake of displaying professionalism. "DO NOT LIE TO ME, SOMBRA. Remeber, I will know if you do."
The report was done, finally. She sends it off with a wave of her circuit hand and lets out a little sigh. It's quieter in her head now, although there is a train of thought growing louder and louder - there's a bottle of tequila in her room with her name on it and she's going to lock herself in there (maybe with the Widow) and she's gonna drink and she's gonna let out all of this shit buried inside -
Ah. 'Course not. Not yet. Sombra turns and she's catlike again, already slipping into the role of deceiver, of chess player, and she smirks and her eyelids flutter as she looks up at the geneticist with slightly reddened magenta eyes. It's late. She's exhausted. The redness isn't borne out of tears just yet.
"I mean, statistically speaking, the Widow and I have approximately 76% and 85% of our missions together respectively," she rattled off, the calculations and reasonings flowing from her like so many of her half-truths. Accurate, to a point. "Be kind of weird if most of the times she comes back like that don't involve me somehow." Her smile is pretty and sweet too and her lack of height is used almost to her advantage. She shifts her balance on one foot back and forth aided by her hips; it would almost be girlish and seductive if it wasn't coming from her. Instead, it's openly mocking.
"Why ever would I wanna mess with our little experiment? I worked real hard on that, you know. I don't think I need to remind you why she's gonna end up psychologically unstable sometimes when you gave me the blueprints and I wrote the code. I'm just the one in the field cleaning up all of your messes." The last sentence is made sharper by the hacker's pointer finger at Moira's sternum - a reach, but not too much of one.
"If you need me, I'm gonna be drinking 'cause I'm fucking tired. Buenas noches!" She turns, flipping off the geneticist over her shoulder as she goes.
