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

"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."

"It won't," Locus assures him roughly, before taking the offered hand and pulling himself to his feet. It's close enough of a match that he's enjoying this. York -- Locksmith, rather -- is presenting a worthy challenge. They'll be able to keep each other on their toes for the foreseeable future.

Shifting his weight on his feet, Locus moves into a ready stance once more. Last round, one way or another. But he never enters a fight expecting to lose.

He gives Locus time to get ready before snapping in hard and fast a second time, coming at his right. A high combo of jabs and punches, popping in what worked for the last two rounds together without any of the nudges of luck, without anything but pure skill. There's nothing more he can swing that isn't from practice and habit.

It sets him on defense, but he can take it. Concentrate on deflecting and seeing how long York can sustain the assault before beginning to tire. He's not certainly exactly what powers the other's been given, where he ends and the gifts of the Legion begin, but he's curious to see how far the combined effort will stretch.

Which isn't to say he's simply sitting there taking it. As soon as he sees an opening on the left? You can be damn sure he's striking out at the back of his calf.

He keeps the chain going, aiming high, aiming to the mid, trying as hard as he can to crack Locus' defense- but it only lasts for so long before his damn left side leaves a hole. Delta gives warning just before Locus makes impact- soon enough to brace for it, too late to do anything about it.

He goes down and tries to roll out, get himself some space.

York narrowly misses the blow that follows, and it hits the mat beneath him instead. Locus wastes no time in gathering himself to pursue, and this time it's him on the offensive.

Those punches don't come as quickly but they pack a Hell of a lot more of a wallop.

On the defensive, skittering back to hold up some kind of front. But Locus is faster, better, stronger. It makes holding up under the continued assault, makes avoiding them difficult. A hard jab to the left shoulder has him stumbling, guard breaking-

And the next one lays him out.

And that's the match.

Locus retreats at once, pulling himself upright and staring down at the prone soldier, before once more offering him a hand up. That was...strangely satisfying.

Sparring provides a necessary outlet. Luckily, he may have found said outlet.

York sticks a hand up to grab Locus', pulling himself up with a crackle of laughter. "Goddamn, okay. That was a good round. I'm gonna be feeling this tomorrow."

All warm and easy and friendly because that? was a good bout. A good match. "Think you can show me a few tricks? I'll share mine if you share yours."

"I think that could be arranged."

Warm and friendly is not something he generally knows how to work with. It's a little strange, but the familiarity of soldier-type banter puts him somewhat at ease.

Not entirely. He's still a little too wary, a little too raw after what happened with Felix, but if he's to try and assemble new allies? Locksmith would certainly be on the short list.

"Guess I owe you a cup of coffee." He pops the seal on his helmet, peeling it off. For him that's the norm, for Locus? Probably gonna keep it on but that's fine. "Come on, I'll show you up to the mess. No bacon or real meat but- well it's not all terrible. Just takes some adjusting."

Hell he'll even walk up in the armor just so Locus isn't the only one there suited up.

That earns a moment's hesitation. He didn't assume that York was serious about the wager, simply an imagined stakes so they had some motivation beyond 'wanting to' in order to fight and win.

"...that's not necessary," he finally manages after a moment.

"You don't like coffee or you don't like how wide open the mess is? Shit sightlines, nowhere to put your back?" Things that make a vet all twitchy. Locus seems recently out of it and that? he can kinda get.

"If that's the case we can swing by my 'environment'. More private, plenty of sunlight. Or-" He holds up a hand. "I can take a raincheck."

He had an out. And he wasn't taking it. Curious.

Locus wasn't really sure what to make of that, though it was something of a relief when York pointed out the very obvious problems with the mess hall, and why Locus didn't intend on spending a great deal of time there. Much less without his armor.

If York feels his owes him, better to deal with that sooner rather than later. "Of course. Our private residences that were provided to us on arrival." He's aware of them, has his own. Less cozy, almost certainly.

"What, the crew quarters? All sonic showers and cold steel? Nah." He shakes his head, waving for Locus to follow. "I mean my little bubble of whatever I wanted that they set up for me. It's a little slice of East Texas, a dive bar, a house. A holographic sky isn't as good as the real thing but-"

He slows to a stop and hooks his helmet on a maglock at his waist. "It's a slice of home."

Home.

That's not a concept he's thought of in quite some time. He has no place now he'd truly think of as home -- perhaps the reason why his own little bubbled environment resembled nothing more than a military base in the middle of nowhere -- but it's a thought that must stick with some. Particularly without the actual option of going home.

He could make his excuses and leave him to it, of course. Go back to quietly stalking the halls and observing what he can. He considers it for quite some time.

But when York gestures for him to follow, he finds himself following. Well. It's not like he had anywhere pressing to be, at the moment.

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