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

"Very."

No frills, no fuss. It was as good as you got often enough, when times were tough, and he'd simply acquired the taste necessary to enjoy it. Now, anything more seemed too luxurious. Simplicity. That was the key.

That might explain why this setting was almost comfortable, as he turned to take in its features. There was a simplicity to it. Very elaborate in the details but not in any particular feature. It appears very much like any other ranch house one might expect to find on the edge of desert land and scrub. It's modest. Quiet.

Not bad at all. And perhaps more scenic than a sky full of black and stars.

"Noted. Grab a seat wherever." Sofas, chairs, bar stools near the kitchen butting up against the counter. He's not much of a cook but it's good enough for coffee, toast, and chili. Fridge full of beer, coffee pot that's an old drip model. Hot water, strong grounds, a little sugar for him as he whistles softly under his breath. There are little holographic images he's set out. Recreations of memories or things he's snapped here. Not many just yet but-

He's building a life. The only life he will ever have.

The coffemaker gurgles and he sets out two mugs, settled in the minutiae of domesticity.

"Are you from Texas?"

It's little more than idle inquiry. It could be this is all familiar to him. It could be that it's simply an idealized version of what he'd one day hoped for. A lot of the soldiers he'd known never got to go home, so why not go for the ideal if you could?

After a moment's deliberation, he awkwardly takes a seat on the edge of the couch. Not the easiest to get up from, but less of a chance of damaging one of the bar stools. He doesn't trust them with his weight, not in the suit.

"Yep." A little honesty goes a long way. "Born and raised up till I went to college, Basic, the rest."

The war, the Project, everything after- yeah. Ignoring that. For now he fills both of their mugs and walks back around, handing Locus his while levering himself into the recliner just across. Everything shifts and creaks- but it holds. Good.

He takes hold of the mug, surveying it for a moment before setting it down in front of him. Well, there's no drinking it through the helmet.

There's a pause, remnants of something bone-deep that resists, that wants to find any excuse not to, before his hands lift to the clips at the side of his helmet. The seal breaks with a soft, almost inaudible hiss, and the helmet pulls free.

And York gets a good look at the man under the helmet. An x-shaped scar cuts across the bridge of his nose, his features heavy and broad, dark hair still tied back tightly. The helmet balances beside him on the couch before he reaches for the coffee with a faint nod.

"...thank you."

It seems appropriate.

Not something he expected, honestly. Some helmets have that little catch at the front for drinking and shit- it's uncomfortable and awkward but ultimately doable with a straw, which he would've grabbed if Locus so desired. Getting to see the man under the mask, the guy that just kicked his ass? A pleasant bonus.

"You're welcome. Thanks for not breaking me." He lifts his mug in a lazy salute, sipping. Honestly- the guy looks tired. Most vets tend to. Tired and twitchy. "If you wanna bypass the mess entirely but wouldn't mind an extra pair of eyes-"

He knows how these feelings work- though he does take a moment to snort. "Or an extra eye, you're welcome over whenever. I'm trying to find a way to grill the not meat to get it to taste like a burger."

"Seasoning. No way around it."

You can put enough spice on rations and make them taste halfway edible, though they were a sight harder to get on remote planets, like the ones he'd been stationed on as of late.

The idea of having somewhere that isn't the mess to retreat and eat, particularly one as quiet as this? He has to admit, it has an appeal. He's still not entirely certain of York, but so far he seems on the level. Time will tell. Trust isn't an easy thing to earn, particularly in his case.

The coffee is decent, however. He ventures another quiet sip, quickly taking account of the windows and doors in the meanwhile, though it could simply be taking in more of his surroundings.

"Yeah, most likely. Gonna have to bum around for some solid paprika or paprika like substance." Salt and pepper are plentiful but they do not alone a good spice blend make. He'll figure it out. Maybe have someone to cook for now and then if Locus wants to come over.

It's not a lot to offer a fellow vet in a strange place but it's the most he can do. Adjusting on your own sucks.

The more time he spends in this little biome bubble thing, the more he likes it. Peaceful, quiet, private. No one peeking in here, no fans scrabbling for scraps of his past. No Wash being all...weird. Just him and the sky. "What's yours like? The habitat thing?"

"A UNSC base I remembered serving at, during the war." Which is probably telling in itself. York seeks memories of home to retreat to, but Locus would feel out of place in any of the places he can remember, any further back than Basic.

The war is home. Perhaps it always will be. There is purpose in that, at least.

"Shit. I haven't seen one of those forever." The Project had the MOI and then he was trying as hard as he could to avoid anything and everything UNSC related. One is as similar as the other at the end of the day- that was the point. Spots of familiarity in the middle of strange worlds. minimizes culture shock, all that jazz. "They still got the weird half walls around the top level?"

Locus nods quietly in confirmation, taking another sip of coffee. Not so strange. It gave a good position for snipers on post, at least. Something he was well familiar with.

"How long has the war been over, for you?"

He understands that the times are as flexible as the universes. York could very well be from the same general universe, but another time entirely. Not that the prospect troubles him. He's not that curious as to what happens after his time.

No point in worrying, now, with a larger threat to deal with.

"That is a kind of complicated question. I sorta...kinda....went AWOL somewhere in the middle." Explaining everything would be too much information and uncomfortable but he's not about to lie. "So...I was kinda keeping my head down and trying to avoid most of it. Parts were still going on I think? I was way off the grid."

Had to be to keep Delta safe. Not that he liked it, not that it helped. He stares into his coffee mug for a moment before shrugging. "You?"

"Several years, now."

Better not to speak of Chorus. The Great War was the point of focus here, though it was clear he wasn't done with the life of a soldier, even after all that time. Locksmith appears a different case altogether, for all his understanding of what sort of marks that life tended to leave behind.

"It get any better afterward?" A stupid question, it's not like he's gonna get to enjoy it- but knowing the world keeps on turning, that people keep on living- that they win? that's worth something. "I got family on earth and..."

He shrugs, lamely. "When I remember enough to do it, I worry."

"To some degree. There is a tentative peace for now. I don't expect it to last long."

Not with people like Hargrove fueling the fire for the hope of profit. Why invest so much in military equipment in peacetime, if one wasn't expect conflict on the horizon?

But if York is hoping for news of Earth...well. There's some small favor to him, then.

"Gee you're a delightful ray of sunshine, aren't you?" It lacks any real heat, any true sharpness. Hell York's even smiling over the rim of his mug. A pragmatic outlook is kinda required to survive the war. Probably a reason Locus is here and whole instead of,well. Here and hoping to never get sent back.

"That'll be good for them, I guess. Thanks."

It seems a meager offering, but he nods in acceptance of that gratitude all the same, taking another silent sip of coffee. If York was looking for an optimist, he'd certainly invited the wrong soldier in for a drink.

Finally, that heavy brow furrows in a question of his own. "What do you make of this war? The one the Legion are fighting?"

It'd be good to have the perspective of someone with a similar background.

God, what a question. Taylor actually sets his mug on the beat up coffee table to think it over, picking at the plating of his gauntlets. "I try to not."

Honest enough, again. "It's all too big, you know?" He gestures upwards vagely with a grand sweep of his arm. "Save the planet, save humanity? That was too damn big for me in the army. Save EVERY planet, save EVERY living sentient race? Every possible variation of earth that ever was and will be?"

It's... York sags against the sofa, hand sliding down his face. "Too damn big. I can't get my head around it so...I don't. I take it mission by mission. That's easier. Save this group of people. Protect these kids. Back up this partner."

With about an inch between he holds up his pointer finger and thumb. "Small things. Day bay day. It's easier. I hope we have a shot. I do the best I can to make sure it happens cuz...that's all I can do, you know? A little like being back in the army but...bigger."

"A sensible approach. Follow orders, do your part. Let the Legion's leaders worry about the grander scale."

Trying to examine it down to the details would drive a person insane, surely. It doesn't take a blind eye -- so to speak -- so much as it takes a willingness to accept that these people are trying to do the right thing.

It means less questioning what he's done at the end of the day, anyway.

"Kinda. Kid Q's good people, I know that much. I haven't met the other one." Some kind of living computer? Like that shit is new to him. "And they're experienced in this world ending kind of shit but- I get the feeling it's gonna get harder before it gets better."

Anyone that's lived through a war knows that weight of dread in the gut. "So I can't clock out entirely. Part of swearing in means keeping an eye out for other legionnaires, yeah? Even the ones at the top. They're still people. People are fallible."

Not unwise. But that prompts another question. He can't be the first to be recruited to their ranks from a...questionable background. "Have any of the Legionnaires proven problematic in the past?" he persists after a moment, the coffee mug lowering.

There is a part of him that wonders just how they intend on keeping their charges in line. Not that he's tempted to step out of line, by any means. He's sincere in his efforts here. Even so...as York stated, people are fallible."

"Uh. Technically I have." The hand on his face drops down to his thigh, his smile is sheepish. "Kinda got in a fight with a jackass I know in the middle of the mess. He talked shit, got hit, ended up with a grapefruit ground into my good eye- got split up, got chewed out. Other than that? I haven't heard much of anything. You swear in, it means something."

It should, at least.

"We're kinda upheld to a certain code of conduct."

That earns a raised eyebrow. Less judging, more curious. Locksmith seems an even-tempered sort. Whatever earned his ire must have been considerable. But then, personal matters could dig under the skin deeper than most.

Locus huffs quietly. "Nothing too serious, then, if all that happened was a reprimand."

"Chewed out and monitor duty, with mandatory anger management therapy." insert jazzhands here. "Since I shouldn't have flown off the handle like that. I haven't lost my shit since fucking Basic. It was mortifying."

He's supposed to be better than that. He was trained to be. "We worked it out. Kinda. It's weird. He's from further along than I am in our mutual timeline and shit is....complicated. I won't bore you with it, but he's a jackass that fights dirty. Seriously. Grapefruit to the eye, that's rude."

"Should he simply have swung for your left?" It's a wry observation, but no less true. The obvious choice would be the eyes or the left side, given the obvious weakness presented. And in a fight born of sentiment, anger and the desire to hurt...it's not so surprising such a tactic would be used.

"Another reason to avoid the mess hall, then." Is that humor? The answer may surprise you.

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