[ Sombra rolls her eyes high, but she doesn't reach for him again, just jerks her head and takes off. She's light-footed, spry, and has a good sense of her environment, leading them further up the beach to the top of the dunes, away from the sounds of strife. ]

What, nobody gave you the hola-spiel? It's the end of the world, homie. Or it was.

[ She gestures to the city in the distance, unmarred by the smoke and chaos of the beach, then looks back at him — and immediately touches him again, this time to brush away where a smoldering ash has left a little hole in the shoulder of his black hoodie, like a cigarette burn. ]

You'd think they'd learn how to stick the landing.