going native

[agnominal]

Who| Locus and YOU? Open.
What| Newcomer to the Legion finding his feet.
Where| Wandering around Legion at large. Locations will be notated.
When| /coughs vaguely and gestures randomly
Warnings/Notes| n/a


It was difficult, even now, to part with the armor. He'd born its weight, its visage, its name for years now, rather than his own. If this was truly meant to be a new start, he should start by leaving it behind. He was no longer meant to be simply a weapon, a gun, but a warrior earning worthiness.

But some habits are difficult to break. He's not ready to show his face. Not yet.

So, on the initial walkthrough of what is expected to be home base for some time, Locus does so in full armor. It does much to ease his sense of discomfort in finding himself in unfamiliar territory, surrounded by strangers, alone. But the way that helmet turns to side-eye people who pass speak volumes about that unease, even if his expression isn't visible.

It's easy enough to find himself on a self-guided path. Past crew quarters, through the mess hall, past the training room and holodeck, before halting briefly on the observation deck for a time. This, at least, feels familiar. The vast emptiness of the black void, dotted with cold, distant lights, and the looming shape of a planet beneath that would be satisfied to drag them down to its surface in a fiery heap.

So he's in a cheerful mood, in other words. Surely not too intimidating a figure to be spoken to.

Comments

observation deck

[goddamngrenades]

A big wide dark nothing- it's more disconcerting than York would like but there'd been a time forever ago that he'd loved space (before he got shot) and seeing the stars (Before the pelican burned up around him. Getting himself used to it all over again seems worthwhile. It's an odd hour to be knocking about and yet- there's someone in his spot.

Someone armored and huge.

There is a twinge of panic in both him and Delta for half a second- broad shoulders, rounded helmet Maine before it passes and he walks up in his civvies, propping his arms on the railing to look out to the stars.

"Seems like Adams had it right."

[agnominal]

He doesn't know what to make of the man that joins him, not at first glance. There's a moment of silence as York settles in, where Locus quiet regards him -- and the scar he bears -- before answering.

"Adams?"

It seems a relatively safe point of conversation to pick up on, at least.

[goddamngrenades]

"Douglas Adams, old sci-fi author. He always made a point about how space is impossibly big and mostly empty." Lo and behold- space is huge beyond all comprehension and full of nothing- and what's not nothing is pretty well bent on killing people just for traveling through it.

Fun times.

[agnominal]

"Hn."

The name doesn't ring a bell, but then he hadn't read a lot of science-fiction. The truth had been enough. Once, humanity would have considered the world they lived in science fiction. The Covenant would have been as real to them as monsters in a fairy tale.

Were they better off now?

"Does it trouble you?" he finally replies, watching York with vague interest now.

[goddamngrenades]

"Sometimes." Being honest when things bug him is something they're working on. So far it's been more helpful than hurtful so- why not keep it up? "Humanity's big dream to go out and see what they can find- and there's either a whole lotta nothing or a whole lotta ugly."

Wars leave scars on more than just soldiers. The optimism that they might've had before? Dashed pretty well. "How 'bout you?"

His fingers flick to the stars beyond, the planet below. "Care to join me on the nihilistic existential contemplation train? There's an open bar."

In the halls somewhere

[isthisapidge]

Some people can miss a giant black suit of armor moving down the street if they happen to be, say, hyper-focused on something else, coming down the hallway at an angle, and pushing a hand-truck.

Unfortunately for Locus, that's exactly what Pidge is doing and exactly the state she's doing it in and she doesn't notice until she turns the corner at just the right speed at time to collide with his legs.

[agnominal]

It smacks into his side, hard, but luckily that armor is strong enough to withstand something like a hand-steered cart, even at exceptional speed.

It does succeed in startling him, however. Which under other circumstances might be comical. Instead he wheels about, that skull-like helmet glaring down at the young person who'd just gone careening into him.

"Watch it."

The deep reverberation of that voice filter doesn't make him sound any happier, either.

[isthisapidge]

"Geeze, alright!" Pidge yanks the cart backwards out of his way, instantly alarmed by the massive guy in the skull armor. Sure, she's not sure if he's dangerous or just really cranky, but her training kicks in and she takes a ready stance. If she has to run, she will.

And if she has to fight, she can do that too.

[agnominal]

He has no intention of fighting the young woman for accidental clumsiness. So when she takes a ready stance, once he recognizes for what it is, he simply looks at her.

Really? This is what they're doing, now, fending off excitable children?

He's getting too old for this.

observation deck

[littlecousin]

Locus is going to have to share the view with a shortish blond woman who looks like she got lost on the way to the pool--she's sporting a green scaled swimsuit and bare feet. Her ears come to an elfin point, marking her as not entirely human, but that's not the weird part. The weird part is the two pairs of little Mercury wings on her ankles.

Namorita Prentiss, the weirdly bewinged not-entirely-human in question, is impossible to intimidate, even by looming, silent men in power armor, but it doesn't so much as occur to her that anyone on Legion World might be considered intimidating. They're all friends here, right? Except maybe that Reaper guy. He seems like he's trouble.

So, in light of this, when she sees the observation deck is already occupied by a looming, silent man in power armor, she does the only sensible thing: say hello.

"Oh, hi! Are you new?"

Okay, maybe that's the weird part.

[agnominal]

One of the Legionnaires, then. She seems an odd comrade in arms, but then, it had been explained to him that their ranks were chosen from far and wide, from many walks of life, many different worlds.

Hers must be very, very warm.

Still, she's making an attempt to be friendly, isn't she? It's not an instinct he knows how to deal with well. The last person who tried, the Federal Army's resident doctor, had wound up being as quietly frightening as she was chipper.

So Namorita will forgive him if he's a little wary, even in light of such a bubbly greeting.

"I am." Deep and resonating, that voice, obviously being distorted by some degree through the filter in his helmet.

[littlecousin]

Nita is, in fact, exactly as harmless as she seems. It has a tendency to confuse people.

"Oh! I'm Nita Prentiss. Nice to meet you." She extends a hand in an offer to shake, smiling up at where his eyes should be. The armor looks somewhat similar to Wash and Grif's, but how many ways are there to design armor for a humanoid form, really?

Ooh! Maybe he's a robot! She's unclear on the etiquette of asking that sort of question, however, and decides to wait until it comes up organically in conversation.

[agnominal]

Alright. Grit your teeth and bear it.

His hand extends for a brief, firm shake of hers, dropped as soon as it seems appropriate to. "Locus," he replies, with none of the niceties or formalities. It's not an attempt to be rude outright, just a combination of habit and practicality.

You don't worry about civility much on the front line of a war. Adjusting to a more...social operation is going to be trying. But he does intend to try, at least.

[vata]

When your best friends are a literal corpse and a woman that's more than halfway on her way to being one, a full set of armor's not really a drop in the bucket on the list of deterrents. In fact, for Sombra? It's more of an attractor, the idea of not knowing what's inside there, whether it's a machine or a human being or some hybrid amalgamation of both.

Even without camouflage her footsteps are silent, padded heels barely even scratching the surface of what it sounds like when he walks along smooth metallic corridors. It doesn't take much for her to fall in line, arms folded behind her back as though she belongs right there at his side.

"So, yo tengo una pregunta: are you a machine, or is this just for decoration?"

After a beat she adds, casually. "Don't worry, I won't judge."

[agnominal]

If she startled him, she doesn't get to know it. He just keeps walking without so much as a flinch. If she's kept up thus far, he isn't slowing down now for her benefit.

Are you a machine? Funny that even here, that's still a question people have. Perhaps one he still has, regardless of what he's decided for himself. But it's not a topic to broach with strangers.

"Neither. Armor meant for decoration alone is pointless."

The rasp of his voice carries through the filter in a strange echo. But she's unlikely to hear the unfiltered version any time soon. Locus was a reclusive sort on the best of days.

Her use of Spanish -- and his subsequent understanding of it -- go without mention entirely.

[vata]

Armor, then. Even better.

"You don't look like most of the others here, soldado." As far as she can tell, the Legion assumes a little spandex is all anyone could ever need. It's not entirely out of place, in her experience, but the old Crusaders certainly made it look like the kind of thing that'd keep you safe when everything else went to shit.

Given his response, he sounds like he operates under a similar train of thought.

"That make you a knight or something?"

[agnominal]

"Hardly."

A knight would value honor, whereas Locus knew he had none. He had been a soldier, a bounty hunter, a mercenary. He'd done a number of reprehensible things not because it was right or just, or the cause was noble, but because he had been ordered to. The romantic image of knighthood hardly stood side-by-side with that.

And the girl is still following him. He'd walk faster to shake her, but he had the feeling she'd only speed up to keep pace, if only to continue pestering him.

Unfortunate.

[blue_flame]

Even in a strange place like Legion World, someone walking around in armour stood out a bit. Azula first noticed the person in the mess hall and she decided to follow. She was curious about the person inside the suit, who must be quite strong to move so easily carrying that much weight.

She finally caught up with them in the hallway near the training room. "So, are you showing off or overcompensating?"

[agnominal]

"It's no concern of yours."

Neither, in point of fact, although it would be better for those here to recognize the armor rather than the man beneath it. He doesn't intend on making many appearances outside of it.

But the question has earned his attention, at least, and he glanced back in her direction with nothing but that blank, visorless helmet staring back at her.

[blue_flame]

Azula raised an eyebrow at that response. "I'm making it my concern," she told him, talking a step forward. It was going to take more than some fancy armour to intimidate her. Especially now that her bending was back.

[agnominal]

"Then your concern is none of mine."

Said with all the weariness of a lion reaching to smack away an overeager cub. He was no fool. The girl had a venomous tongue, and any attempt to engage her would end poorly. So why trouble himself?

[unrecovered]

Wash's first indication that this is going to be an unequivocally shitty day is when his HUD picks up on a UNSC-issued suit of armor and paints it as hostile.

His second indication is when the marker refines itself into one that's seen repeated, unwanted use: Locus.

It takes a moment for the realization to sink in and several more for him to find the sheer amount of iron control required to beat back the torrent of emotions that realization evokes: shock, incredulity, all-out rage, and quiet terror. He'd known that Legion World wasn't completely safe - not with Reaper aboard, at least. This, somehow, is worse.

He gets close enough to get visual confirmation and then gets the fuck out of Dodge, sending an encrypted call to Brainy and Kid Q as soon as he's out of Locus' range. The conversation helps, but it doesn't exactly fix things.

So Locus gets a chance. Who knows - maybe without Felix around, he might actually do something with it.

(Holy shit Wash hopes Felix isn't around. A lot of people here are dead where they stand if that's the case, and given the Time Trapper's recent lack of taste or discretion, he can't rule that possibility out. Fuck.)

(But he needs to deal with the problems in front of him before he goes borrowing trouble. Priorities.)

He heads back to the observation deck and finds Locus still there. There's time enough for second thoughts, and determination enough to push them aside. This isn't the brightest idea Wash has ever had, but it'll give him the opportunity to figure a few things out for himself. That way, he'll have a fuller picture when he reports to Brainy later.

He stops a good six feet behind Locus, close enough to talk but far out of arm's reach. "Well. Look what the cat dragged in."

[agnominal]

The voice is a familiar one, though not one he expected ever to hear again. For a brief moment, he considers ignoring it entirely.

But then, that's not very fair, is it. All this began when Washington entered the picture. While he doesn't like to admit when he's wrong, this...alteration of course, the choosing of a new path? He might not have considered it possible if he hadn't witnessed Washington's own turn.

There are other contributing factors, of course. He can't be held entirely responsible. But there's also no question that the upheaval of the past few months can be traced back to the arrival of the Reds and Blues, and to Washington in particular. That doesn't mean he likes the man. It doesn't mean he wants to talk to him, to revisit what he's trying desperately to leave behind -- Chorus. The Reds and Blues. Felix. All of it.

But, upon consideration, perhaps Washington is owed this much.

Locus's head turns, barely enough to catch the other man out of the corner of his eye. He does not expect him to use that fact to tactical advantage here. If he were going to strike him down, he would have done so without waiting to announce himself. Washington is canny in that way, clever and ruthless when he needs to be.

If he needs to be. They'll discover if that's the case soon enough.

"Agent Washington." There's a reserve there, a little too tired to be wary, but not without some question to it.

[unrecovered]

Something's different.

...okay, that's stupid, as they're on a planet-sized spaceship in another dimension with superpowers. A lot of things are different.

But Locus is still standing there, barely looking at him, allowing Wash - who'd been his enemy for so long - to have his back. He's making no move to fight, or defend himself, or...well, move. The situation is different, sure, but somehow it's Locus who seems like he's changed.

But why?

It strikes Wash, suddenly, that he hasn't seen Locus since he and Carolina dropped the Tartarus on top of Locus and Felix. He'd known they'd survived, but he hadn't seen the last fight - just that Epsilon had gotten his message out, which he'd taken as a victory and assumed that Felix and Locus were both dead. He doesn't know what happened - just the outcome. This change could have happened on Chorus instead of Legion World and he'd be none the wiser.

He's missing information here. It changes things - throws him off - and he doesn't like it.

"What's the last thing you remember before you got here?" The question's out almost before he can think about it. He's not expecting a direct answer, or any answer at all, but it's worth asking, if only to establish a baseline.

[agnominal]

Locus is silent for a moment, deliberating how much he wants to give him. Finally, he turns a bit further, if only to regard him a little more easily. He's taken aback, that much is clear. The certainty in his approach is gone now.

Good. Serves him right, a vindictive little piece of him thinks.

"Is that meant to be concern?" That deadpan says he knows it isn't, he's being difficult on purpose, but what Washington needs to know and understand, what he is owed, only stretches so far where Locus is concerned.

The moments following the death of his partner and his escape from Chorus are his, and his alone.