legionworld | [OPEN] You were lying on your back in the grass, counting backward from a thousand

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[OPEN] You were lying on your back in the grass, counting backward from a thousand

Who| Azúcar (Sombra) and you!
What| Hangin' out on the beach, getting drunk, being miserable and coping like an adult
Where| Sombra's section of the Habitat Deck
When| after the events of Silent Horizon
Warnings/Notes| possible talk about body horror and/or death, depending on the conversation

PROMPT A

Azúcar is harder to spot these days, following the events of the Silent Horizon. Most of her time— nearly all of it, in fact— is spent in the relative safety of her biome: a quiet shoreline, warmed by salted breezes even at night, when the lights of a nearby city's somewhat distant buildings cast a golden glow along breaking waves.

Before she'd left, she kept to the ruined industrial building hidden away behind foliage on the cliffs above the beach - that seemingly abandoned safehouse the only reason she'd constructed this illusion in the first place. Practicality over sentimentality. Now she wanders closer to the edges of the city limits where the sand bleeds off into stone and dated cement: each time she crosses the threshold, passing out of bounds for the plot given to her by the Legion, the mirage fades. It didn't used to be that this place was Dorado, the city she left behind. She thought she was immune to missing the familiar, that she was better than everyone else somehow. Less prone to that kind of vulnerability. Now she just thinks she wants to buy out someone else's biome. Expand her own with the closest Legionnaire's and get lost in the old city streets.

Ah well.

Barefoot, sporting a cutoff shirt from New Vegas and a pair of weathered, second-hand shorts, pulling a long, long drink from the bottle of tequila in hand, Sombra's perched on a rock near the city's edge, staring up into the warm glow of lit windows with a look that's entirely impossible to read. Longing, maybe.

How miserably fallible.

And so for that fact alone, every few minutes or so, she picks up another shell, another pebble, another cork from another opened bottle, and throws it out of bounds, watching it vanish from sight with a little virtual hiss.

PROMPT B

Most of her injuries have already been taken care of. No scars, no lingering damage; the Legion was thorough enough with their checkups once they peeled off the shuttle for all the follow-ups and debriefings. It's her cybernetics she was touchier about, quicker to hide: and aside from looking obviously damaged to anyone with a pair of eyes, the full depth of what that means for her is a problem too easily overlooked for the average medic, too easily (stubbornly) ignored by Sombra herself, when all she wants to do is coil around the idea of control over her own space, her own assets and resources for better— and in this case, albeit temporarily— for worse.

The skin around her spinal implants and ports is scorched from heat, reddened and raw from impact, though it's harder to notice in comparison to burned out circuitry and dulled metal.

She waits until the tide's in (all artificial programming), when it's quiet and she's alone, to slink down into the water and soak— sinking in up to her neck beneath the waves. Eyes shut, hair loose and coiled around her shoulders to light the water immediately around her, turning it a pale, luminescent blue. It's a small comfort for that incessant ache, but it's hers.

That said, the water's nice. The beach is warm, set up with a few crates full of beer and tequila and a lone parasol surrounded by laid out towels. No one would blame you for diving in with her— or maybe just setting up camp in the sand.

WILDCARD

[Want something more specific? Need a reason to sit by the ocean and chill, want to snoop around the outskirts of that ugly old industrial building instead of the very brilliant, beautiful shoreline? Feel free to run with whatever works best if you've got an idea in mind, or hit me up at ladyavali!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Voluntarily leaving the sanctuary of his own biome wouldn't have been his first choice. Not on his own. But a visit from York had prompted leaving the cold, sterile replica of a base and venturing towards warmer climes, in the hopes of easing some of the lingering discomfort they both felt.

He had his own to contend with, a crawling in his skin, at the base of his brain, dragging heavy through his limbs with some phantom sensation of what it had been like, transformed. Even now, they still bear scars. Which is probably why he's arrived on the beach in what looks to be cold-weather wear to start. A stiff leather jacket takes the place of armor he cannot bring himself to wear at the moment, and a multitude of thin lines that will heal over time poking out from the collar of his shirt.

He'd meant to come here eventually, anyway. He owes Azucar a great deal. Saying as much wouldn't come easily, but she'd earned that much, and more.

It's not hard to pick her out, that lone figure on the rocks. Her hair's too distinctive to hide, even in the dim light cast by the artificial moon. He's careful to purposefully make noise as he approaches.

"I was wondering when I'd see you again, Soldado."

It takes a beat for her to look over at him, busy scuffing the sand from the bottom of her feet, giving him plenty of time to close the gap without being under fire. Knowing him— the fact that he's peeled himself away from all that armor— he'd probably appreciate the lack of direct focus after everything he's been through.

By the time he's close enough to talk to directly she's set an unopened bottle of tequila beside her. As much of an invitation as anyone needs.

"But you knew I'd come."

Or she suspected it, at the very least. She sees a great deal, which means she's had to learn to. It's the reason he initially showed incredulity at her name here -- Sugar, of all things -- when it was clear she was canny and clever. A sharp edge honed by experience.

He knows what a survivor looks like up-close.

Now, she's managed to survive him, too. Though York's forgiving attitude and Washington's tirade have both chipped away somewhat at his sense of withdrawal and avoidance. Instead, he finds himself wanting to be here...or more precisely, with someone he trusts. However odd that is, given her nature and his own.

Slowly, he lowers himself down to sit, before glancing at the bottle. Tequila on top of whiskey? What could go wrong.

She'd set him up for it, coming to her. Intentionally, unintentionally— purposeful habits or maybe pinning all her faith on the card she should have had up her sleeve, lost to the Faceless: even she can't really tell the difference anymore. Survival instincts just run in her blood now, he's right about that.

Sombra hums out a little noise in confirmation, mouth pulling up just slightly at the corner in a ghost of a smile that'd normally be there.

"Maybe it's one of my powers."

Tucking one leg under the other, she leans back. Flicks her gaze upwards to an artificial map of familiar stars. "Reading minds."

"It's not," he confirms, though after a moment's consideration. She might like that power, might enjoy the edge it would give her over friend and foe alike, but he still doubts its existence.

Doesn't matter, not for the most part. Quietly, he reaches to twist open the cap on the bottle.

"For which you should be grateful. Minds are fractured, dangerous things. You'd have better luck walking through broken glass." His thumb runs the length of the bottle before he ventures a quick swig.

He's probably going to regret this, come morning, but it makes him feel anything at all beyond the numb or the despair, it almost seems worth it.

"You say that like I haven't been already." There's humor to it, her comment, but it's thin. Wan. Doesn't last more than a second when it's referencing their previous trial by fire aboard the Silent Horizon.

One hand slips beneath her head, expression dropping— entirely without thought— away into sincerity. Unhappiness, really. Because with him, the facade's not worth the effort, and she hasn't got it in her to keep acting as though it didn't touch her. Didn't hurt her, despite being superficial.

Same as before, it's a hard landing, when all the wax has melted off her wings.

"I say that assuming you did not wish to repeat the experience."

They would, of course, do whatever was necessary. But a mission completed could still leave you feeling untethered and twisting in the wind.

Watching that carefully crafted mask fall away, he's reminded of the toll it takes. Even on those who pretend to glide through, untouched. Locus's brow knits after a moment, and the bottle is returned to the space between them.

"For my part in what happened, I apologize." Something thick threatens to rise in his throat. He ignores it. "It won't happen again."

"You don't need to apologize, mijo." Her free hand lifts, lazily dismissing his guilt before picking up the bottle between them— knocking back a swig and then returning it to its designated post. If she doesn't blame Gabriel for his actions (for running, for returning), she doesn't blame Locus; they were at a disadvantage from the start, sharing mental space— memories— with Cortana had given her a glimpse of insight into how deep old traumas can run. And how little she's ever had that stacks up to it.

In the future, she'll recalibrate her plans to compensate.

"It's not like you had a choice."

He would argue that. But he's run out of steam when it comes to arguing, apparently. Instead he watches her, those pale eyes fixed on her face as though trying to read it. But it's a second language, and learning is slow.

"You did." And it puzzles him even now. "You should have taken the shot."

He won't, however, complain about her dragging him out with her as the place collapsed. That was a good call, in hindsight. He might still serve some function once this has passed.

But when she had him in her sights, when she had an opportunity to end the fight, she didn't. He remembers enough of being in that state to grasp that much.

That's pointed enough to draw her out of her unfocused reverie: rolling over onto her side, propped up on one arm, stare entirely direct.

"Who was he, Soldado?"

A memory, a ghost, someone he knew— the reason he'd given in to madness? She might have had Locus stilled in the moment if not for that corpse's vice grip on those chains. Sombra's curiosity is a curse she can't escape, a sixth sense, and right now, it's more important than giving Locus the gift of an explanation for her motives.

He hesitates, because of course he does. Felix isn't something he likes to revisit, for a number of reasons. That Washington already spoke of him to York and Delta is intrusive enough, but that is his demon that would have put an end to Sombra, if given the chance.

His eyes drift to the bottle briefly before averting, seeking the long line of false horizon that sits on the edge the ocean, where the blanket of stars stretches down to meet the waves. "Felix. He was my partner, for many years."

Until I killed him. No, that's not right. Until I left him to die.

What's the difference? A little bit of courage he hadn't possessed at the time, that's all.

Her eyes cinch as she watches him— his features, his posture— hunting by hungry little measures to find any visible tells, any transparencies. Mind racing at the speed of light. His mind's reflection, she'd been there, and his former partner Felix had been at the center of it all.

"Something happened to him." A corpse. A puppeteer. Were his memories painted by remorse, or contempt?

"To all of those people I saw in your memories."

Strangely, he doesn't imagine she'll judge him for this. Maybe that's why it comes out so much more easily than it did for York...or perhaps he paved the way for this sort of open honesty from the people he expects to keep as allies.

"I happened."

To all of them. And not taking pride or joy in his work doesn't erase it. Neither does regret, if that was something he felt at all. It's still difficult to say what that weight is, when he's never had anything of its magnitude to compare it to.

Unsurprisingly, she doesn't judge him; that much is obvious when she moves to sit upright as though he's just overturned all her perceptions, leaning in just slightly. If Sombra hadn't learned to appreciate the beauty in disaster reflected in human form, she'd never have been as content as she is standing alongside her companions.

In this moment, she is not Azúcar.

Her voice is low, careful when she asks, as if pressing her fingers against a glass case laced with safeguards: "Do you wish you could change it? What you did to them."

"What I did was unworthy."

Does he wish he could change it? Trade the death of innocents for something else, perhaps. Something other than hollow coin and Felix's satisfaction. Trade them instead for foes who had had it coming. That would have been better.

But he is a killer. It is hard to resent one's own nature, though he does make a valiant effort from time to time, when left alone with his own thoughts. He is most decidedly not alone now, turning his head to stare back into Sombra's inquisitive gaze.

"I know what I am. But there were other ways. Better ways. I killed for a sense of purpose, but I settled for following Felix. You saw the result."

She breathes out sharply at the tail end, the start of a laugh that doesn't quite clear; wouldn't fit even if it did, eyes lifting up briefly towards the sky overhead before flicking right back towards him. "Ya lo sé, mijo, I felt it."

It's humor, black and bleak, shifting around to drag the focus off of him once again as she wraps her arms casually around her knees.

"So..." This time it's her stare that hits the horizon, distant and equally as pensive. "What's your purpose now?"

"Fighting is all I know. I've tried to leave it behind, but..."

To say results had been poor, trying to re-enter civilian life, would have been an understatement. Wu had seen it, had known his talents needed to be put to use somewhere. If he had stayed, perhaps things would have been different.

His gaze remains on her even as her own flits away, and it's with some relief that he sees he wasn't entirely mistaken about her.

"I'm still searching. I thought the Legion might be what I was looking for, but I'm not so certain of that anymore."

He isn't alone in that. Even having only just arrived a few weeks ago she's already felt unrest seeping into both the minds of the public and other Legionnaires.

The more missions fall through, the deeper that divide will grow; she's seen it all before.

"It's beautiful here, isn't it?" As always with Sombra, no matter how sudden her subject changes are, there's generally a point to it. Still, for now she reaches over without waiting for a chance to let him answer, pulling another long sip from the bottle before holding it out to him.

"Do you know where we are, Soldado?"

He surrenders the bottle willingly before truly taking in their surroundings. The beach, the city behind them. Most here choose places for their biome that are familiar to them, a small piece of home.

"Is this the city you're from?"

He has no hope of naming the actual city, of course. Earth was never home to him.

"This is as close as I can get to it." It can't be Dorado. In even testing the water with Jack she'd drawn suspicion: reaffirming that here? It'd kill everything she's planning. Especially with Ana Amari and Lena prowling around.

"Beautiful but...fake."

"My name is not Azúcar." Her shoulders roll in a shrug, one nail tapped pointedly against the bottle in her hand. "But I think you knew that already, didn't you?"

No more than Locus was his true name. But choosing names is a topic he's very familiar with, and she could have any number of reasons for taking on the one she did.

Locus nods once. "Most of us here use a code name. I assumed it was the same for you."

"When I was little, I had no family, no home. In order to survive, I adapted. Learned how to break into the tightest locked systems before anyone could catch me. It was in my blood." She was damn good at it, there was proof enough in her success.

A pause lingering in the air when she finishes off another long pull, grounding herself in the sting of it.

"And then one day, someone was better than the girl that worked out of a garage on the streets. Powerful people, that didn't like someone making their secrets public or using them to fight for freedom." Los Muertos were thugs, criminals, but they gave people a means to fight back and revolt. Something Overwatch and its former agents could never understand.

"They wanted to control me, Locus. I had to disappear.

And when I came here, I had to do the same thing all over again." Looking at him then is like measuring the safety of a lifeline: how much weight she can lean onto it before it snaps.

"You want to know why I kept you alive? It's because I can't do this alone, mijo. The Legion say they want to help people but even if that's true, it isn't going to work if someone isn't making sure we're not being manipulated."

She isn't invincible— she's far, far from it. And despite being adept at escaping, disappearing, eventually all roads end.

If there's any cause he can sympathize with, it's that. He has no desire to be someone's puppet ever again. She has the skills and the will to do what she says, of that he has no question.

But no one can do it alone.

In order to function at your best, you need someone at your back.

And now it starts to make a certain level of sense. "You need allies." Which is where he comes in. Why she's telling him all of this to begin with. It's an exchange, or the beginning of one. The offer before whatever she wants is requested of him.

It's actually something of a relief to know, and his shoulders sag somewhat, before he reaches for the bottle.

The bottle's held for a moment, tipped forward slowly towards his open palm - as much of a sign of agreement as the offer of a handshake would be.

He's smart enough to understand the weight of it; he always has been.

"If you're willing."

His fingers touch on the bottle, linger there. He does understand, and it's not something he gives lightly. Not after everything that's happened.

But he thinks he understands her reasoning, her motivations, and it's a good cause. If an underhanded one. Maybe the sort of work he's cut out for, rather than the attempt at heroics. But there's one problem remaining, one stilling his hand.

"...I could be a danger to you."

I'm a monster. Know that when you open that door.

A

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