[ OPEN ] Full of broken thoughts I cannot repair

[goddamngrenades]

Who| York, Delta, The people they meet
What| Recovering after the Silent Horizon
Where| Training Room, York's Quarters, York's Habitat, etc
When| Post Silent Horizon
Note| Poke me on plurk @thesouthernbelle if you want a specific prompt!
Warnings| Content warning for derealization, remembered gore, self harm (in a specifically marked thread), contemplating the nature of death, canon typical violence, drinking, depression, a short bout of trauma induced digital bigotry.


York

Quarters/Habitat

It's a mess. His head's never been the most orderly place but without that formerly forgiving cool wash of green helping him keep shit in order? It's even more chaotic. Old memories and ghosts tangle up in the most recent mission and he's not talking about it. He's out of medical, he's not on medication and it's finally sunk in that yes- that happened.

Delta did that to him.

Without a way to get around it he withdraws, spending only a short time ferrying food or clothes or whatever from his quarters to his habitat, setting up a small dummy program to tell anyone that comes knocking that he's either not in or not seeing anyone- (stubborn as most of them are it won't WORK but it's...something). If anyone hunts for him in the house, it's dark, door's locked, he's not answering. If they pick the lock? He's curled up on the sofa (bed's too damn soft sometimes), stubble grown out, bottle on the coffee table. One of many.


Training Room

After awhile he tries to get his head back on straight. Tries the whole activity thing in baby steps. Hand to hand, simple parkour platforming- no codes. No little hologram at his left talking to him, no locks. Just him getting used to the new aches and numb patches on his body, getting used to being the thing that drives. To avoiding projectiles without Delta's input. It's-

Well it's rough and he ends up on his ass a few times, but he's getting there.

Delta

Training Room

Delta has been, for the moment, banished from York's graces. As such he keeps his own company in a ten inch tall robotic body given to him by Nita for Valor's day. A most opportune gift. He occupies himself with crafting holographic mazes, puzzles, bits of code. Digital scenarios where he might have been able to fight off the thing that changed him. Where he could ignore her face. It is probably not the most wise, crafting a hologram of Allison, attempting to turn his back on her in any way. It is, in fact, impossible. Yet another failed scenario has him in something of a fugue state, staring at her. Staring at York.


Observation Deck

Like this he is small and limited in his processes by the power of this body- so it's perfect for being made to feel smaller still by lingering on the railing of the observation deck. Watching what it is they fight to protect, what it is York holds most dear. What they will never reach back home. He is quiet, contemplative, devoid of any of York's familiar fidgeting gestures.

Comments

[goddamngrenades]

"And we come to the tricky bit." He takes another swig, setting the bottle down between them. "Do I go 'that's not choosing that's quitting' or do I support that choice because it is a choice- or do I ask why you feel that way-"

Which is a huge complicated mess, he's sure.

"Or do I just sit here and play guitar and we manfully not talk about this shit for awhile. Cuz I'm down with that if you are."

[agnominal]

"Agreed."

The topic's been discussed enough for now. He'll happily let it drop for the time being, though it seems they're destined to discuss it again at some point.

'Not now' is good enough for him. And after a moment, he extends a hand for the bottle of whiskey.

[goddamngrenades]

York offers it without question or judgement, settling back into picking through the melody. It needs a name- or it has one. He's not sure if he's written it or oveheard it somewhere. Booze and music cure a lot of ills, but sun? Would help more.

Maybe.

"Got any requests?" While he's playing.

[agnominal]

"No."

Baby steps. The whiskey does for right now, as he takes another swig. Even this aimless strumming is pleasant, a distraction from the ambient hum of the air processor.

Some of the tension eases out of his frame.

[goddamngrenades]

This meandering melody it'll continue to be between sips of whiskey. He's got no lyrics in mind (he might one day, just give him enough time and booze to put it to pen) but it doesn't stop him from humming along under his breath. A low, rolling counterpoint to this twangy sound that's come to be familiar.

Something for his hands and his brain, someone here that's real. It helps him just as much to have this.

[agnominal]

"...you have some talent at that."

Because they could sit in silence, but the whiskey has him a little more loose. A little more open to conversation, provided it isn't about what happened at Silent Horizon.

[goddamngrenades]

"Music's just another puzzle." He shrugs, picking through a variation on a theme. "I needed to find shit to do when I gave up smoking that kept my hands busy. Learning enough to not suck took awhile."

[agnominal]

Something to keep one's mind busy. If he had any skill beyond being a soldier, it might be something to consider. As it is, he's content enough to listen to the fruits of York's labors, instead.

"Is everything a puzzle to be solved, to you?"

[goddamngrenades]

"Most stuff, yeah, not everything. People aren't. I know there's that phrase 'puzzle someone out' but it means fuck and all to me. Too many variables, people are messy and inconsistent and kind of awesome because of it." It's just how he sees the world. Patterns, constants, variables. Equations to be balanced, codes to be cracked.

People are more than that and it's kind of cool and terrifying, figuring that shit out.

[agnominal]

"'Awesome'," he echoes, looking dubious. "One would hope that people would be somewhat predictable, after a time."

But then you never knew what someone's breaking point would be. What would cause them to turn, to cast aside tried and true values. And they would. All they needed was the proper motivation to do so. He has no gift for that, for knowing what people want.

Hell, he can't predict Washington half the time, and the man ought to be as predictable as they come, given his motivations.

[goddamngrenades]

"Routines, if then, yeah. Small things can be established as a baseline if you know someone long enough but- people change. We grow, we adapt, all that good shit. We react to trauma." Lookit him being obliviously self aware for half a second. Eyes on the strings he fiddles his way into a half familiar tune for a woman with red hair, green eyes, and a fully loaded semi-automatic.

"People can be dependable and reliable, but- you can't nail down every last one of their reactions or possible iterations of a conversation like you can a string of code. We don't work like that. Trust me, I tried. Gets me in trouble. In code and puzzles and math you can assume certain things. There's a saying about doing the same with other people."

[agnominal]

"And what of people who are incapable of change?"

Roundabout way of doing it, but it looks like that discussion is happening after all. Coached in different terms, avoiding the incident itself, but--

York seems to know people. Better than Locus does, at any rate.

[goddamngrenades]

"Everyone changes. Thing is- they don't always change for the better." He's seen that. He's lived that. Had it poured into his brain whenever a name was spoken. Got a shotgun blast of it recently and he's not looking at it too hard.

His eye flicks up to Locus, brow quirked, music going soft while he reaches across for the bottle. A swig and a sigh and Taylor? Shrugs. "Sometimes people become bigger assholes."

[agnominal]

"Even when they want to become something else. Intent isn't enough."

Look, he's not being terribly subtle about this. That's not what he does. What he does do is avert his gaze for a while, staring at one of the panels nearby, the soft blue sheen of light something of a comfort. A point of focus.

[goddamngrenades]

"What they do, that matters. So you wanna do better? Do better." Like it's simple. Like that can be done without much effort. For some it's that simple. For some it's a lifetime of work. For them? God only knows.

He goes back to strumming light and easy, humming for a moment. "I think you can swing it. For what it's worth."

[agnominal]

"Why?"

He has a history of bad decisions behind him. And none can be said to be made when he didn't think they were the correct one. No one intentionally makes a bad decision, obviously.

'Doing better' is not as easy as he makes it sound.

[goddamngrenades]

"Because it bothers you." Simple enough. "If you weren't bothered, you'd sleep like a baby and never worry about it. You angst and brood. Impressively so, yeah, but. Brooding. Contemplating the nature of intent and man's capacity for change and all that shit."

[agnominal]

"I do not."

Congratulations, York, you're getting a look from him. Some things, he's still apparently in denial over.

But the fact remains. Wanting to do good is clearly not enough. There is something more he is missing, perhaps innately.

[goddamngrenades]

"Dude." Taylor looks up from his guitar to give locus a look right on back. "What were you doing before I came over?"

Brooding, that's what. "Having a team helps, you know. With the 'doing good' shit."

[agnominal]

"Thinking. It is hardly the same thing."

Good luck convincing him otherwise. But York's second point has him going right back to that brooding expression from behind.

"To have a team requires trust."

[goddamngrenades]

"You trust me, right?" That had to count for something. "Kinda trust Wash too. So. That's a start."

Baby steps, like he said.

[agnominal]

"I did not say it was you that lacked trust."

But they cannot possibly trust him. Not in this state. Not unless they are a great deal more foolish than he already believes them to be.

[goddamngrenades]

"You trust me, I trust you, it's a start. Team of two. Go team." He pauses in his plucking to give the air a celebratory fist pump, lazily done. Still.

Ooh-Rah.

[agnominal]

For a moment he's quiet, watching the gesture in faint bemusement.

"...I've been on a team like that before." Something in his gut tightens and he looks away again, fingers clenching and unclenching quietly, something to maintain focus in the moment.

"It doesn't mean I would compare you two, by any means. But..."

Things can grow inward, become knotted and tangled and complicated, given time.

[goddamngrenades]

"Which is why I was trying to include Wash. Less baggage and pressure when you got a third leg holding you up. Or. Something." Back to twanging, strumming, picking his way through another meandering tune. "Baby steps. We can't be a dynamic duo here, man. The whole damn legion is a team. It's just- huge and hard to focus on that so. Small shit. You and me. You and Azucar, right? I heard she hauled you out of there."