sombra, district two | finished

{ Everything can be hacked

— and everyone. } 

You have always known that the residents of Two are nothing more than machines: their veins are just wires by a different name, and they wear steel around their skin like it’s a makeshift home. They all have a certain something that makes them tick, and there’s always a way that you can turn them off against their will. They spend their whole lives trying to make themselves invincible, wrapping electricity around their skeletons and declaring war against those that they deem lesser than themselves.

They stand tall and proud with blades taking the place of their hands, and they never realize that they’ve fallen from their false graces until their shells have cracked against the cold, unforgiving ground. Because people from Two hide behind weapons and armor like it makes them a higher breed of a dying species, and they never take the time to recognize that the true monsters are the children who were never taught that dreaming is futile.

No one ever thought that a little girl from the outskirts of Two would grow up to matter in this world of hungry teeth and claws. They saw you as someone who had too much time on her hands, tinkering with scraped gadgets until her fingers bled from the tension — but you know the truth that no one else tries to understand. The only way to make yourself powerful is to keep yourself vulnerable.

Thinking yourself infinite means giving up your control over yourself, and when you stop fearing a blade hitting you from the back, that’s when you look down to see the sword that's sticking out of your chest. You’ve never wanted to be anything special — you just wanted to be something. Because nothingness scares you, doesn't it? And technology has always made you feel safe. You know what you’re dealing with and you know what to expect, and it’s easy to heal from cuts and accidental shocks.

Humans are the ones to fear.

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You learned at a young age that you’re either a hero, a villain, or nothing at all — but what happens when a girl wants to be everything? When she wants to be beautiful and monstrous all at once? Salvation and damnation in one body? Heaven and Hell have always danced hand-in-hand through the marrow of your bones.

Born Alejandra De La Fuente to a single mother, you remember the nights she'd comb your hair and promise you the stars. There had to be something more than the life that you were given. Making your residence in a two-story bakery with one room and a cramped attic that you made your own, your mother sold to a community of less than forty. The outskirts of Two were stricken by poverty, weathered by the sun and eroded by torrential rain, but the two of you managed to cut out a simple life from the dry earth.

Your iron skin hadn't been your choice — no one asks to be a survivor — but as a child, you were always known for your spitfire ways. Your uncle was a mechanic, and you would spend your free time with tattooed men and toothless women. Given a cherry lollipop every other day as a treat, sour and expired in taste, you'd lounge around his workshop and flash red smiles at his guests. There was never much to experience, and it was rare that anything good ever came from the area that you called home, but they always called you the exception.

It's a terrible weight to carry — that you'll be the one to make it out — but you like to imagine Atlas was the father who walked out of your life, so you held it on your shoulders with pride. You made it your goal to find a life beyond the desert, so you started working shifts at your uncle's shop when you were nine. He could only offer you small biweekly payments, but he had always appreciated the help. He trained you in the craft, teaching you how to manipulate machinery to your will and to fix all errors, but the art of restoration was never your passion.

You were fascinated by the bin of electrical items that had been discarded as scrap, found and sold as nothing more than spare parts. He'd let you play with them when you weren't busy, frying your fingertips until they were burned red and purple — and you'd tear them apart just to build them back better. Pagers and other communication devices were the most exciting finds, left abandoned by wayward Peacekeepers, and by the time you were eleven, you had a wide assortment of original inventions at your disposal.

You were able to carry messages across short distances, once trekking across the red dirt for a mile with the request of 'If you hear me, make sure you answer!' — and although your initial 'Hello? Are you there?' had been met with a creak of pressed buttons and confused sighs, you let out a howl when your mother's gasp of 'How do you fuckin' work this thing?' met your ears. It became your trademark, something you'd share to the farmers of your area for a fair price — and all that mattered to you was seeing how much it helped them.

The pirate always starts her story as a knight, doesn't she? When the Deadlock gang caught wind of your creations, you were requested to meet with their leader at the age of thirteen. Artie Black called you a prodigy in the making, insisting that your products were much too advanced for the likes of your farming community. You hadn't agreed with the man, but you were nonetheless intrigued.

You knew of the gang, had heard of their acts of violence and witnessed the effects of it, and you were wise enough to know what would happen to your family if you refused your service — and you couldn't take that risk. You accepted his offer with a firm handshake, becoming a full-fledged member of his clan and granting the Deadlock gang exclusive control over your communicators. When they brought you to the base, you were a child among men and women — and although they insisted that 'Once a Deadlock: always family,' it had been difficult for you to settle.

A young Jessie McCree had no chance of escaping you. When you saw him, grumpy and sour even in his youth, you knew that he was someone you'd stand with until the end. The two of you weren't the only young members of Deadlock, but you were the only two with roles in the organization, not just there because of family. You spent your days perfecting old systems and creating new ones, bringing the once absent technological side of Deadlock to a new era.

Your mother wondered where you got the money to bring in fresh bread and clothes, and when your uncle offered you old cherry candy and said that he missed you, you hugged him with fresh red on your lips and apologized — because there was so much that you needed to experience. It was obvious that they knew something was suspicious, but they never questioned you. ( Family is a bond that cannot be questioned. ) You cut the line between yourself and them and they only smiled against the pain, urging you to move on even at the cost of them.

Jessie was fun to tease and annoy, bringing you the joy that a young girl needs to stay sane in the criminal world, but he was a lot more than just someone to piss off and laugh over. The day your uncle passed, you barged into his tent and flung yourself on top of his sleeping form. He huffed in shock and had the gun resting by his mat pressed to your head in seconds, and there were so many spoken slurs that you couldn't even attempt to count them, but you never let go of him.

He inhaled, wanting to sarcastically question your actions like he always did, but he stayed silent. He stroked your hair with calloused hands and a slowed breathing, as if worried to frighten you and send you running away. He returned the embrace, letting you mourn in silence until dawn came — and you woke up in his arms with dry cheeks, and to this day it's still the purest night that you've ever spent with a man. Jessie McCree is not someone you love in the normal sense of the word — honestly, you have a hunch that he likes to have more than just that stick up his ass — but he's the person you most care about beyond your mother.

Shards of yourself found their way into Jessie's skin that night, when you broke down and thought that it had all been your fault and that you let your family down. You hated that you couldn't say goodbye, so you vowed to never lose that chance with anyone ever again. Jessie carried you with him at all times, and you did the same — so it was no question that you'd follow him when he made the decision to transfer to Talon.

It had been a similar transition to joining Deadlock, pledging your loyalty to Reaper and working on advancing Talon's technology. The difference, however, was that he wanted more from you. The whole organization was sleeker, more advanced and hitting more places than just Two's outskirts, and Reaper didn't just need someone who knew how to make communicating easier.

He took your natural talent and made sure that it was fostered, giving you lessons with men that were nowhere near as natural in the field of hacking that you were, but you appreciated the lessons and grew to love the rush of it all. It became your job to hack systems and break into parts of Two that were once impossible for Reaper's cartel to reach. He had always called you and Jessie the brains and brawn of Talon, a pair that was always together, but you'd just laugh and punch Jessie hard enough in the shoulder to make him flinch.

'Nah, we're not. I'm both.'

He had been right, though. Jessie eventually got caught by the heroes, and you had wanted nothing more than to assault the peacekeepers who took him away, so that you could be arrested right alongside him. Reaper held you back as long as he could, saying that your friend was a lost cause that would need to serve out his time in the Detention Center, but you were known for your scheming. You played the waiting game, working out a plan and thinking of how to dodge the years Jessie would be forced to serve, and at the age of sixteen, you proved just how reckless you were when you stormed the building and attempted one of the first breakouts that actually got past the entrance.

Against all odds, you made it to Jessie. You got into his holding room and jumped onto him without even taking the time to alert your presence, smiling and crying over a year's worth of lost affection, and you held him close as you made your way through the halls to a promised escape. The surveillance cameras had been taken out, the security officials incapacitated, and you honestly thought that the two of you were in the clear.

But even if you manage to crush the hive, you still have a swarm to face. You should have known that there were too many peacekeepers for you to handle on your own, guns pointed at you and voices shouting when they finally found you, but you threw Jessie to the ground and held up your hands without even thinking your actions through. It was your fault, not his, and you made it known.

'My name is Alejandra De La Fuente, and this was all my doing. I came to save my brother. He didn't know. Lock me up; kill me — just leave him. Please.'

You were knocked out and chained before you could think to be afraid, kept in isolation as they processed your story, and you were grateful that Jessie's innocence checked out. Your offense didn't lengthen his sentence, but you had to face the realization that even when he would be set free, you'd still be rotting alone in your cell. You were a fool, a joke of a woman who thought that she could save her friend, but in the end you only lost him completely. They starved you and tortured you — and you never thought how painful silence was.

How loud.

It ate its way into you, your body thinning and mind cracking, and you knew that you were going to die there. Two years felt like a lifetime, and you often wondered what life was like beyond the concrete walls. How did Reaper react? Was Jessie free? Had it been enough time for him to move on? To marry, and to have kids? A hilarious thought, really.

You had a will of iron, but you knew just how easy metal was to break and manipulate. They ruined you. They took your identity away.

They tried.

Reinhardt saved you before they could drown you. A squadron of troubled youth was being built, and they needed someone like you. He visited you for days before checking you out, having them steadily nurse you back to a conscious state, so that he could explain the details. He wanted you to become a future peacekeeper, taking on special missions with a group of fellow delinquents, and you said yes without hesitation. Your services had always been easily bought — and all you wanted was to die outside. Let them destroy you; but at least let it be under the sun.

Home was calling —

but Reinhardt's mountain was a foreign land to you. It was cold and it was elevated, a total shift in environment that shook you just as harshly as your rehabilitation process, but Reinhardt spoiled you more than the rest. The others were trained at the base, already introduced to one another and nearly ready to start, but he had to build you back together from the pieces that were left. There were times when you wanted to run, to risk the blizzards just to find your way back to your roots, but Reinhardt was a softer kind of torture. You learned that cages were not always cruel.

He fed you, he noticed you, and he loved you in a tender way that you could only assume a father would love a daughter — and you found shelter inside of him. It took months, but you started to find yourself, regaining your wit and your drive. Being alone still frightened you, and he'd come home to find you in shaking fits, but he always pulled you out of it. He helped you learn how to fight again, brought you gadgets to bring back your former passion, and at the end of your training, he held your hand and said that you were ready; that he was proud. He gave you the list of your teammates and said that they'd be your new family, but one already was.

Bruises snaked across your heart like thorns across bark, and there was nothing beautiful left about you. You were sharp and you were vicious, but you were real. You were the truest version of yourself, with faults and cracks and parts that could never be recovered, but you still cracked a smile and nudged Reinhardt's ribs with your elbow when you read Jessie's name on that sheet of paper.

'Let's do this. I'm ready to go fuck those fuckers up.'

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coding: elegant
graphic: rave