Sombra stares at himself in the mirror, wearing nothing but a tank top and silky boxer shorts. Blood covers the shirt, and a particularly obvious hand print slides down from his chest down to his waist. His oil black hair is free flowing, but speckles of blood line his bangs while globs cover his face and the sunglasses he has yet to remove.

The scream of pain, the begs of mercy, the ripping of flesh and bone, all is lingering in his ear like maggots on a rotting corpse. His hands twitch and his nostrils flare as short, sharp breaths shoot from his nose, and when he lifts his hand take his sunglasses off, he freezes. His hand remains in place for a moment, shaking and veins bulging on his muscled arms, and with a loud, sickly cough his hands latch on to the sink.

His back arches, his body quiver and jagged wheezes leave him as thick slobber dribbles into the sink, slowly crawling into the lime crusted drain. A moment later he reaches into a bag sitting on the toilet, pulled out a fat tube and he rips off it bulb top to reveal three tiny needles. Sombra presses the tube on his arm, just above a fading bite mark that is lined with green and dark blue lines surrounded by dark, scaly skin. He takes a deep breath, then pushes the button on the tube's top.

There is hiss and click, and Sombra growls as three sharp blades stab his arm and flood his veins with thick, cold liquid. His knees give way and he drops to the floor, panting with sweat shaking off of his body and he bangs his head against the sink as he clutches his arm where three blotches of blood bubble out.

There he sits, hyperventilating and shaking, but the coldness thaws, the sickly lines fade and the scales fall off, revealing tender copper skin. However, the bite mark is still there.

Minutes later, Sombra groans and uses the sink to pull himself up. He then goes to the shower and turns it on at full blast with the massage setting on and strips off the last of his clothes. He puts his bloody shirt in a bucket filled with bleach, just like a pair of old sweatpants, and he climbs in the shower, welcoming the hot water that beats his tense muscles into submission.

Sombra takes his sunglasses off and rubs the blood off of them, and after he puts them back on he turns his back to the shower head and presses his palms firmly against the cheap tile.

Hot water batters the ridges of old wounds, some having stitched scars and others pale lines of skin. On his back is a tattoo consisting of a human skull sitting on top of a cross, with the left branch having a “B” and the right having a backwards “S”, and at the bottom are crossed, double hooks. Below this symbol is FFF written in sharp font.

Sombra closes his eyes once more, takes a deep breath and runs his fingers through his hair, raking out streams of watered down blood. Minutes later, the door opens, and with it a vacuum that sucks away the steam and leaves cold to bully its way in.

“Goddess be damned, what the heck, Sombra?” says a silvery voice of a woman that Sombra has chosen to easily forgive.

He shows his forgiveness by quietly scrubbing expensive shampoo into his hair and not making any attempts to slice her throat open.

“I know you like your showers hot, but save some for me,” says the voice.

Sombra rinses out the rest of his shampoo, pulls aside the curtain slightly and smirks as he beckons the woman over. He certainly wouldn't mind seeing her undressing from that green corset, the dress that is open up to her thigh, and her knee high boots. Maybe help her wash out that dye she puts in her hair, watch her opal eye shadow run down her face, and show her voluptuous body how a real man's hands feel when he rubs the soap suds off her light brown body. Chrysalis, however, meets his perverted smirk with a frown.

“Really? I just got here and you already want to see me naked?” says Chrysalis.

Sombra nods.

“Maybe later,” says Chrysalis. She reaches inside the shower and turn off the water, earning her a sharp glare from him, and she smiles as she walks backwards. “Let's eat first. I bought tacos.”

Sombra's frown flips upside down and in two minutes he has himself dried and hurrying into the living room wearing a dark purple dress shirt and black pants with his hair hanging loose. He sits on the couch next to Chrysalis, grinning wildly and rubbing his hands together as his mouth waters from the heavenly scent of fresh tacos rising from the carryout containers. He reaches for the container marked “S”, but a slap on the hand stops him, and he growls at Chrysalis, who is staring at him sternly.

“You didn't tie your hair,” says Chrysalis.

Sombra shrugs and goes to grab his food, but Chrysalis yanks it away, leaving his hands to grab air. He growls at her, but Chrysalis fearlessly holds the food back as far as she can with one hand and wags her finger at Sombra with her free hand.

“Don't give me that,” says Chrysalis.

A low growl still rumbles in Sombra's throat and he glares at Chrysalis, which she returns in kind.

"Fix your hair," orders Chrysalis.

Sombra leans forward, reaching for his prized tacos, and Chrysalis leans back, digging one foot into the carpet and pushing her knee up into his abdomen. She calls out Sombra's name and orders him to stop, but he keeps on reaching and climbing, and soon she is forced to twist her body sideways and has to use both hands to hold the box. Eventually, she is lying on her stomach with the box shielded by her head and arms, and Sombra lays on top of her, snickering and trying to pry her arms apart.

"Sombra, stop!" shouts Chrysalis. A little bit of a laughter sneaks into her commands and she tightens her flesh shield around the box. "Seriously, stop it! Stop it!"

It takes very little effort for Sombra to overpower Chrysalis's slender frame and with one of her arms pried away, he yanks the box from her, grinning triumphantly while using her back as his throne. Sombra rips his container open, relishing in the smell of fried vegetarian tacos, and he shudders like a happy puppy when he takes the first crunchy bite, savoring every spice and fire roasted veggie on there. Chrysalis, meanwhile, huffs and rests her head on her fist, scowling at him from an awkward angle.

“Jerk," she says, but her voice's light tone betrays the harshness of the word.

Sombra shrugs and takes another bite.

"Did you at least fix the problem?” asks Chrysalis.

Sombra nods.

“Did you figure out how much he knew?”

Sombra slides off of Chrysalis and heads towards the bathroom, taking the tray with him. He returns a moment later holding a notebook in his hand. By this point Chrysalis has sat up and is now delicately opening her container. The awful scent of carne asada and pico de gallo floats in the air. How anybody can like cooked meat is beyond Sombra, but he won't give Chrysalis too much trouble for her lack of taste, so instead he throws the on the table in front of her and takes a seat as she flips through its pages.

Chrysalis hums and her she traces the lines as she skims the recorded names and numbers. “It looks like our little rat got around. How exactly did you get rid of him?”

Sombra's eyelids drop, and with that comes a bemused frown, and Chrysalis sighs, closes the book and puts it back on the table.

“Never mind. I still want to eat,” says Chrysalis. She holds her taco up to her lips and sighs as she stares at the blank television on their dresser. “One of these days we'll get an easy job.”

Chrysalis takes a bite, but Sombra stops chewing, puts down his taco, and moves his hands in fast, coordinated motions. 'Easy is boring. Hard is fun.'

Chrysalis scoffs and rolls her eyes. “You know how much I hate agreeing with you, right? Still, something boring will be nice for once so I can actually afford a decent moment of relaxation.”

Sombra grins and moves his hands again. 'I can help you with that.'

Chrysalis holds up her hand so her peripheral vision blocks Sombra's face. “I already said later. Do you have the next target?”

Sombra shoves the rest of his taco in his mouth and nods.

Chrysalis smiles. “Good. With how fast we work we should have this list cleared out in no time.”

Author's Note

Sequel time.