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

Hold his ground, roll with it- or go over. Delta rattles the numbers around in the back of his mind between one moment and the next before he hooks a hand somewhere and hauls himself up ans over, vaulting till he can roll and gain some distance.

Interesting tactic.

Locus grunts as York vaults over him, turning to follow and bear down on him before he has time to reset. For a guy his size? He moves pretty damn quick, and it's not a second later before his throwing another volley of punches.

One, two, three. Keep an eye on the way he pulls in, anticipate where he'll strike out.

Pulls in on the left, keeping his right and good eye on and near Locus (as is expected), keeps dodging and ducking and bobbing, light and easy while he tries to circle. Find an opening and exploit it. So far, a whole lot of nothing.

He works hard to keep any weakness that could be used against him hidden, but York has to already know the weaknesses these suits posess. That's one thing he has to stay mindful of as he follows, drawing up a knee to strike at the back of his thigh.

Joint plaiting, but this Locus model? seems to be geared light and tight. Meaning the guy inside is just as big and just as broad as he seems. It means going for the kidneys, going low when he gets a half a second to do so.

Nice try. Would have been a solid hit if he didn't think to expect it.

He drops, swivels to take that blow on the plating instead, and that coiled position gives him room to wind up another devastating full-bodied punch, this time drawing up straight for the chin.

Nothing to do but take it on the chin and try to roll with it-

Less a roll and more a flip, coming back up on his feet afterward and staggering cuz-

"Jesus damn." All appreciative and a little dazed. "You are something else, huh?"

That...he's not sure what to do with. Take it, he supposes, with a nod of acknowledgement.

"You're not doing badly yourself."

He's quicker, definitely. Relies on feints, trickery, takes the cheap shots when they present themselves. Nothing to resent in someone taking advantage of their strengths on the field.

"I am rusty as all hell so I'm just glad I can keep up." He rolls out his shoulders, shakes the dazedness from his head, and puts his hands up for one more go. "Best two outta three? Loser buys winner coffee?"

He's pretty sure that'll be him- and he's okay with that.

Locus just stares at him a moment, as though trying to discern what else there might be for him to garner here through a win. Or even continued sparring. When there appears no apparent ulterior motive, he gives a brief nod and settles back into a ready stance.

Before stepping in swiftly with three sharp jabs, followed by a sharp kick towards his hip.

On the defensive, ho. He keeps his hands up, tries to keep those fists in his field of view. Two blocks and a roll with that hit, grunting before he dips down to try to swing in with his own series of punches. Two high and one mid, dropping down to a leg sweep.

The midsection punch hits, halts him just long enough for that sweep to cut his legs out from under him, and back he goes with a grunt.

Of course, a second later he's rolling his back and hauling himself forward onto his feet, retaking that ready stance as he catches his breath. Not bad at all.

Not bad at all. He doesn't push, waiting till Locus is back on his feet and breathing before he swings in again, triple combo, shades of Carolina, shades of Wash. They all picked up a little from each other in the program.

The dip and shove of his shoulder? All Maine.

There's enough of a height difference for the shoulder check to catch beneath his shoulder, to knock him back a step or two. It's not as easy to block as the punches -- which are not easy to block, fortunately for York -- but Locus digs in his heels.

He wants to play that game? Fine.

One brute, solid shoulder check coming right back at you, York.

Three steps forward, one knock back.

Flat on his ass. Two one, Locus to York. He stumbles, tries and fails to catch himself before he's laid out on his back. Stays there for a moment just. Breathing.

"Okay. Not how I should've played that."

"Perhaps you can adjust your strategy the next time," he observes wryly, before stepping close enough to reach down and offer a hand up.

Locus may have won, but he's not convinced York wasn't using every moment to observe his opponent. One can learn as much from losing as winning, and he seems a cannier sort than he lets on. But, no reason to say so.

"You are faster than the last big guy I used to spar with. Sneakier too." It's said with a solid appreciation for the speed and sneak as he takes Locus' hand, pulling himself up with a grunt. "I'll get you next round."

He might, he might not, but the bravado helps as he pats Locus' arm and takes a few steps back, hands going up. None of the loose, flippant ease is present. Now? Locus has his full attention.

Good. He wants the challenge, craves it, something to hone in on and block out the rest, the noise that tends to clutter the back of his mind. In combat, he finds some measure of peace. Then again, he assumes that must be the case for every soldier, or at least any successful one.

Is Locksmith that breed of soldier? Or something else entirely? Now he's curious.

Step in again. Two, three solid swings, though with nowhere near the force of the last, and these aimed not for the chest or the head or any easy target, but joints. If he relies on speed, better to hit him where it might conceivably slow him down.

In movement and challenge does York best find that quiet place in the back of his mind where everything else falls away. Give him a puzzle, a code, an equation, a lock and he dives into it with every fiber of his being. Combat is a more dynamic and kinetic kind of pattern and equation with constantly shifting variables. Harder to fall into but when he does?

York's hands snap up to guard as he dips and goes for a grapple, arm hooking about Locus' shoulders as a leg hooks around the back of Locus' knee to yank. Going down or hanging awkwardly, who knows!

That knee has him crumpling downward, buckling rather than trying to brace against it, but a second later and he's attempting to roll back, to shove York beneath him rather than be pinned himself.

Used to be harder to move that weight, but everything's faster now. Slightly more manageable, like he isn't wearing the armor at all. But that doesn't mean he's got this on lockdown, and he's not about to get cocky now.

Harder, faster, stronger, matters slightly less on the ground. Still matters but not as much, still gives him a moment to twist with how he's pulled and land, to shove so they're rolling. He can end up on top and get a pin, maybe.

But Locus isn't just going to let them roll endlessly about. He shoves a knee down for traction before pitching back, trying to halt the endless cycle.

Unfortunately, it leaves him beneath York in the process. A discovery that quickly results in him planting both feet and attempting to throw him off.

"Ha!" one quiet moment of ride at landing on top before he has to struggle to keep it- try to get the leverage to get an arm over Locus' throat or- something. All he needs is a little luck to hold on, a little nudge to make this stick.

And, somehow, he manages. How, Locus isn't entirely certain. Luck. That must be it.

Regardless, he finds himself unable to dislodge him, a heavily-plated forearm at his throat, and he gives up at last, head falling back against the mat. Alright. That point goes to him.

"Two to two." Okay, he can fail happily now. He rolls off Locus with a grunt and offers him a hand up. "Musta got lucky. Come on, one more go?"

Then coffee or whatever floats Locus' boat. Maybe he'll even see him without the helmet. "Pretty sure that trick won't work twice."

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