legionworld | going native

Entry tags:

going native

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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."

That earns a quiet snort, almost inaudible, but it could be dry amusement. Yes, alright, the void does often invite some rather bleak outlooks. But so does war. So does life. Anyone who's had to survive life rather than live it knows what the black represents, and how vast everything seems, how small their own place within it.

"No. The emptiness doesn't trouble me."

Perhaps that's telling in his own right. There's some comfort to be found in the unending stretches of nothing between the little dots of something. Something calming, perhaps. There's peace in it. No war, no struggle for purpose or identity.

An end. Something not yet earned, but visible in the distance.

"Really." He turns to peer at big armored guy and quirk a brow, good eye flicking over where he's pretty sure his eyes are in that helmet (new models, all about intimidation, ugh). "You are either one zen motherfucker or the most intense introvert I've ever met."

Or both, both is also possible. Still it's said with a crooked half grin while York gauges a few things (how cold armored gloves are on bare skin) before offering his hand. You meet people, you shake hands. Adjusting to people has been wonderful and terrible. Wonderful because he needs them and missed having them around while on the run-

Terrible cuz some shit is rusty.

"I'm Locksmith. Nice to meet you."

Locksmith. His codename, obviously. He kept his own, easier than trying to adjust to another name, and when York extends a hand Locus only hesitates a moment before reaching to take it.

York isn't the only one adjusting to being people again.

"Locus."

The man seems friendly enough. Of course, he knows how easily people can hide evil intent behind a charming smile. So there's some reserve there, and he drops his hand as soon as it seems reasonable to.

"Have you been with the Legion long?"

A beat. A long moment when York blinks at the name, looks the armor up and down to verify that yes, that is in fact the model he thought it was before staring at him again.

"...Whelp, I'm no longer the least creative Legionnaire. I mean mine doesn't even have anything to do with my powers." He'd thought Wash took that with pretty much naming himself what he is but- after your armor? "At least it's not 'Justin Time' or 'Doubletime'. Superheros with pun names- when'd that become a thing?"

He shakes his head, going back to leaning against the railing. "Not that long. Enough to miss bacon and hot showers and run into the fan community. We get fans, now. Don't look, it's ridiculous."

Yes, haha, it's very funny. He'd heard more biting comments from Felix about it over the years than this, and the complaints are very much the same. Or they sound similar enough that he dismisses them without consideration. Is he pursuing that line of conversation? Not a chance.

The mention of a fan community earns an arched brow, even if York can't see it. "Fans?"

That's...well. New.

"We're celebrities, kinda- oh. Oh no." Again that quick look up and down before it clicks and he groans, grinding the heel of his hand into his bad eye. "Aw man you're gonna get roped into it real quick, so definitely don't look at it. Something about people that come in armor really sets them off, there's already a few of us here and they just love mashing us together like barbies."

It's two parts flattering, one part weird, and a little hilarious. And mortifying. "Christ and you're tall and stoic and wear black armor. You're gonna be candy. Just- trust me and don't answer fan messages or look at fan art or. Anything."

None of this is making much sense to him -- what are fanfiction tropes? -- and the expression beneath the mask? Equally as blank. "Where would they be located?" he sighs, after a moment. Best to know where the tiger sleeps if you want to avoid it.

Something else ticks at him after a moment. Well, several things. He knows the choice of name is an obvious one, given the armor. 'People that come in armor' and 'there's already a few of us'.

"You have a suit of power armor as well." Not a question. That means Locksmith is from his world, or something like it.

"They're hard to miss. Just stick to official legion only communications and you'll be fine." You can't exactly trip and fall on the anonmeme, he'd only gone because he was morbidly curious. And boy had it been a learning experience.

He shakes his head to push the memory away for the moment, looking back out to the stars.

"Yep. I haven't had to bust it out for anything other than training yet." He's not one to just wear it around, but there's no judgement in his voice. If that's what makes someone comfortable? You do you, man. "Lemme tell you, I did not think the flight rings would work with the armor but it's surprisingly effective. Definitely better than goddamn jetpacks."

Poor, poor Georgia.

Right. Their powers. He'd yet to give them a try in earnest, but that's a solid reminder there that yes, that happened. They exist now. There's a brief self-conscious moment where he glances down at his own armor, curling his fingers into his palm, before lifting his gaze once more.

"I prefer to keep my feet on the ground. Though it will undoubtedly prove useful in combat."

Real ray of sunshine you chose to sidle up to, York.

"Death from above- well. Stunning and disarming from above. We're not supposed to kill which is...kind of a nice change of pace." No shoot to kill, no fire first ask questions second. Stun and disarm and take in. Space Superhero Cops. He'd never thought he'd be lucky enough to do that.

Hell, it's a second chance for guys like him.

No more killing. He'd said as much to Felix on the Communications Tower, but to say it is one thing. To enter into a fight without survival and mission objective being the first priority, it's an abrupt shift. It will make things more difficult. A trail of dead is, by all accounts, more efficient.

But it's a change he has to make. There's a moment of thoughtful silence that follows.

"Was the transition difficult for you?"

He's asking for a friend. Really.

"So far? Not really, but I haven't been in the field properly just yet. I'm pretty sure for all my relief that I don't have to shoot to kill anymore fighting reflexes and instincts hammered into me by basic is gonna be a bitch.." A bitch and a half, really.

"I'll have to get back to you on that." When he's got a more thorough answer, he'll tell Locus.

Honest enough. He appreciates that forthrightness, at least, and nods quietly in understanding. It will, in fact, be a bitch to adjust to.

But he's earnest in his effort to redeem himself here. He'll do what he has to do. He should see it as a challenge, rather than an obstacle.

"It's been quiet, then."

"I came in right at the end of a pretty awful mission and didn't really get to go out for more than recovery. A death arena with mercenaries, civilians, and legionnaires pitted against each other. It sounded terrible." But they got their own back, which is worth something. "Since then? It's been pretty low key."

Nothing big on the horizon, he hopes. Everyone deserves a chance to settle after that mess.

"The calm after the storm, then." And it would be just a matter of time before another struck. That was the reason they were there, after all.

So. They'd be breaking themselves in to this 'superhero' business with the next mission. That's not such a terrible thing. Locksmith seems reasonably intelligent and competent, and not unpleasant to talk to. That trait alone puts him leagues above his former partner, at least.

"Most likely." He's not so much an optimist to assume it'll keep on like this. "More time to meet new people, get your bearings, train up."

Learn how to use those powers without fucking up. That's where his concerns are mostly.

"Feels a little like the army but- different. You know?"

"I do." It does. There's structure, order, accountability. It feels familiar in enough ways for him to be comfortable with the idea of it. But there are certainly differences.

"I saw the training room on our way here. Very impressive. Outstrips the UNSC's equipment, from what I could see."

"Hard light holograms." He nods, then considers a few things. "You don't have like, super strength or anything do you? Because finding a sparring partner here that won't accidentally make me a red smear on the wall has been surprisingly difficult."

There ate the kids, but they're kids. Then there's Wash but that's-

yeah.

Not going there.

"Enhanced physicality. Not superhuman, if that's your concern." Still. The prospect of a reliable sparring partner has his interest, if the cock of his helmet is any indication. It's likely they both need to find someone more or less on their level, in order to get used to these new powers. To improve.

He's not invulnerable. Just has a few new tricks up his sleeve.

"I can work with enhanced." He drums his hands on the railing for half a second, rolling the numbers around in the back of his head. "Feel'n stir crazy?"

Best solution for that is a round or two on the mats and honestly? Staring out at the void makes him itch under his skin more than a little. A lot, really.

"After you."

And Locus steps away from the railing, nodding back in the direction of the training room. He sees the invitation for what it is, and honestly? Few things feel better than hashing out insecurities and anxieties on the training room floor.

Shoot things until shit makes sense. It's worked up to this point.

Hell yeah. York pushes away from the railing with almost a spring in his step- this isn't the worst first impression he's made. A+, way to go self. Had a civil conversation, felt some empathy, now they're gonna pretend to shoot things or do some hand to hand. Awesome. Walking Locus down to the training area doesn't take much time at all, though he does pause in the locker room. "Gimme five to suit up? Pick any scenario you want or set it for hand to hand."

"Understood."

He'd like to keep it basic, to start with. He wants to know what Locksmith is capable of on level ground, before he starts making adjustments. And there's something honest in the way you learn about people through how they move, how they fight.

Anyone who'd seen Felix fight and not known what he was had gotten what they deserved. Himself included.

Soon enough, he's waiting for York inside one of the training rooms, standing there expectantly.

It takes him about five to slip into the power armor undersuit and all, settling in like a comfortable shell. There's the usual pass of his hands over the upper left chest looking for bullet holes that aren't there as all systems go live and, yeah, everything's in order. Aside from minding his left D settles in the background, letting York handle this one on his own.

Easy enough.

He enters the sim with a jaunty strut, all tan and silver as he waves. "Do me a favor and don't take it easy on me."

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