A former tyrant awakes with a start, bits and pieces of his body also realizing that they need to function.

A former tyrant awakes on a cold, dirty floor of a room that may have been part of the Canterlot Dungeons at some point but has since been entirely forgotten within Celestia's reign for centuries.

A former tyrant awakes with a numb feeling in his body and the feeling that several things aren't quite right, and that some organs are entirely missing or out of place.

There is an abominable pins and needles feeling in all of his limbs, a headache, and the feeling of his horn being far too hot for comfort, even through the unshaven keratin.

He blinks once, twice, before the alarmed look on his face hardens into an annoyed scowl. His ear flicks, there is a lank and greasy feeling to his hair.

Sombra breathes in, and out. The musty air of the dungeon fills his lungs. He takes another deep breath.

Why does he feel anemic?

He releases the air in his lungs through a process known as exhaling, exchanging the carbon dioxide for emptiness, and then repeats the general process of breathing.

He can smell the dust in the air.

(There's at least a few centuries' worth of it.)

(There might be mold spores in the air, too.)

His ears lower to the sides.

He's alive, even if only barely. He considers the option of ending it.

(What a crappy way to go.)

His horn sparks, then fizzles. He manages to move his eyes to look up at it.

And tries again.

The same result, only with a loud pop, incessant tinnitus blaring in his ears afterwards, and the world beginning to spin.

Several bits of his body aren't co-operating right now. The only thing he offers to the silence in the room is a small groan of discomfort.

Sleeping sounds like a better option.

(It'll allow him a form of reprieve, even if only for a little while.)

His eyelids were feeling heavy anyways. His ears droop to the sides, and he slows his breathing.

Just five more minutes.

An image, conjured in his mind, of a cream and brown pony.

She wears some sort of bejewelled bandana around her mane, and looks down at him with a kind smile.

He doesn't remember her name, but he knows that she's a safe pony to go to.

Her eyes, though weathered and having taken care of several children, speak volumes. She's a kind mare, she works hard to provide for the orphans, which includes him, and she tries to teach him the words of a language to speak in.

The bitter taste of expired peanut brittle while trying to speak her words. He's slow to understand what they mean, even slower to be able to speak them properly. All these vowels and consonants, and pronunciation.

He hates it. It makes his teeth feel gross.

A memory of losing one of his first baby teeth, the panic that had been in his voice, someone else comforting him, and the caretaker telling him that it's normal, and that his adult ones will be coming in soon.

Who was that other mare?

The face blurs in and out of distinction. She has a toothy grin, one of her front teeth missing. Her eyes are replaced with the caretaker's, then the bullies', then that damnable Princess-

The sound of something shattering plays in his head, and he awakens with a sharp intake of breath, shakily exhaling as he surveys the part of the room he's currently able to look at.

It's with an annoyed groan that he realizes he's still in that damn dungeon with limbs that don't work and a horn that barely even sparks.

He tries to provide himself with some light, before the internal monologue outright tells him to stop.

There's barely anything in his reserves.

He moves a hoof to try and get comfortable, only to be assaulted with the pain of moving a limb that was currently suffering from pins and needles spiking him damn well everywhere.

Instinctively, he tries to move his hoof to grip at it, only to re-trigger the pins and needles, his breathing picking up and turning much more shallow.

He can't move.

He can't fucking *move*.

Not without pain from the pins and needles.

How the hell is he supposed to defend himself?

Sombra's ears pin right back, brushing against his hair. Even they feel numb, hot at the edges.

His dilated pupils try to take in as much light as possible.

He tries to move his head, which produces one of the most Tartarus-like noises in Equestria.

Pins and needles spiking into every bit of his body. Did his last execution give him nerve damage? Was that what this was?

He whines, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, then moves one of his hooves to try and force some feeling back into it. He still feels anemic - is there even enough blood going around the vessels?

While he is an Umbrum, surviving like this just made him wish he was dead again.

(At least it was peaceful there! There wasn't any feeling or suffering when you were dead, you were just dead.)

He was hyperaware of the pins and needles feeling in every last bit of his body.

Internally, he thanks the Gods that he hasn't eaten or drank anything in this regenerated body just yet.

And he doesn't have wings, which means two less limbs to worry about when it comes to waking his body up and getting it marginally more functional.

He exhales again, eyes flicking to and fro. There is a cell door in front of him, a few meters away, and he considers dragging himself over to it.

A distant sound.

He strains his ears to hear it—

It's hoofsteps.

They clop against the tiles of the dungeon floor.

And they're coming closer.

The hairs on the back of his neck — hackles — bristle. A lot of other hairs also bristle. It's entirely possible that he looks like a furry plant of some sort. Maybe a reed? He only ever saw reeds in pictures, books with pictures of other climates that were imported into the Crystal Empire before his takeover—

The hoofsteps are much clearer now.

They echo against the walls. (His directional hearing isn't bad, by any means.)

His ears swivel to listen for anything else.

His eyes remain glued to the entrance of what might be a dungeon cell.

Maybe if he plays possum. What were possums? Something tells him that they might be rodents, or something else called a marsupial. He's only ever seen those in books, too.

And they had a neat little ability to play dead.

Playing dead was just acting like you were dead, right?

He lowers his ears — the tips of them still feel far too hot for comfort.

The turn of a key in a rusty lock, the pins within that aged lock clicking into place to unlock the door.

The scrape of the cell door opening up, leaving him at the whims of whoever has come to visit.

Perhaps his captor?

(The scrape reverberates off the walls and into his head, making it seem much louder.)

(Anything can sound louder when it's done in near pitch-black conditions, when the eyes only transmit the colour of eigengrau to the brain.)

He shuts his eyelids and relaxes his expression.

His head hurts, the noise of the door scraping against the stone tiles of the floor made it slightly worse, but it's nothing compared to the constant pins and needles.

Hoofsteps! (Coming closer, creeping closer like Death creeps closer to Her quarry.)

Breathing! (Not his own.)

His own heartbeat, hammering away in his chest. (Thump-thump. Thump-thump.)

He takes a shallow breath, trying to make sure his chest only rises minutely and trying to make sure it doesn't quiver in fear.

(Funny how he used to make others quiver in fear.)

(And now he's on the receiving end.)

(Not so nice, is it?)

Mentally, he begs the oppositional voice to shut up.

And he holds the breath in his lungs.

And he waits.

Author's Note

Paddy Wagon - usually the transport they put drunks and mentally ill people in.