legionworld | [ OPEN ] Full of broken thoughts I cannot repair

Entry tags:

[ OPEN ] Full of broken thoughts I cannot repair

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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

For all that he'd gotten some good out of going to therapy- after his return from the Silent Horizon? He's avoided it as much as possible. The idea of cracking open his head for anyone else to look at, even someone he's now come to trust? Feels like scraping that much more of himself away. York's licking his wounds, he knows that. Knows it isn't healthy.

Doesn't care.

It's still cold and snowing in his environment and he's out- not dressed near as warm as he ought, shivering and staring through the middle distance. Trying to make himself stop feeling the aches, the pains-

The dig of wires burrowing under his skin from the implant. Knotting, tangling, tearing- making him a puppet, making him a prisoner in his own mind-

His hand scrabbles at the implant sight, nails digging in and scraping short, bloody welts as he tries to tear the damn thing out-

He's better. Ish. Sorta?

No, he's not, not at all, but this is one demon he's ready to face on his own terms and if Locus is anything at all like York thinks he is? He's hunkered down to be left alone. So.

Much like the last time he visited he comes to Locus' isolated base, guitar on his back, bottle of something strongly alcoholic and resembling of whiskey in his hand. He knocks, because bros knock, because that's what they were. What they might still be.

He's better too, though 'better' is a low mark to make. Still, he's had enough time to think, and Washington's visit had been...enlightening. On several points. He is a better space for company, at least.

Particularly this company. He hadn't expected him to come knocking again, but he allows him in regardless. As surprises go, this one is at least pleasant.

Without a word, York offers Locus the bottle of whiskey before taking up the same spot he'd been in before. Not a word, not a single twitch to show fear or resentment or- well. Anything. He'd meant to have this talk before but now? Now it's kinda moot. He's here.

That should be proof enough.

Like any other time he starts picking at the strings, noodling his way back to that low strumming line that always looms whenever Locus is around.

The bottle, for once, is welcomed. One way of stemming back whatever looms the back of his mind, threatening to bring disquiet to what otherwise might be a welcome respite. For both of them.

He has questions, of course. Why York -- Taylor, Locksmith -- is still coming here for solace, of all places. But now doesn't seem the time for those questions.

Instead, he takes a deep swig off the bottle, and retakes his seat.

After a few meandering rounds of the melody, York clears his throat. Tries at levity. "I kinda had a plan on how to talk to you before the mission."

The thing that fucked them all up.

"Wash filled in some of those blanks you didn't. I kinda get the idea you're shit at talking to people about heavy things." War, genocide, manipulative bastards- that's all pretty damn heavy. "So I was gonna come in and pretty much say 'I'll spritz you with a bottle if you start acting out again.' But-"

Not quite as appropriate now. He shrugs, works his way into another round of that refrain. "We're good. You and me."

Well. So much for holding off questions until later. One brims at the surface, unable to be pushed away, as Locus lowers the bottle to stare at York.

"Why?"

Delta had said that he'd been willing to forgive him his past trespasses, to continue their friendship. But after this past mission, after seeing what he truly was, how could that still be the case?

"...cuz you don't have a lot of friends and I got no room to judge?" Wow. "Next time we meet an apparition of Felix I call dibs on shooting him in the face."

Because that is not a normal reaction by any means, jesus christ.

Felix. It always comes back to him, doesn't it?

Locus answers by taking another heavy swig of the whiskey before handing it back, swallowing thickly. It burns, but it's something. It feels like something, at any rate.

"You were not the one who became a monster when given the option."

"Delta beat me to the punch. I spent half my time mostly blind and worried about it." Too preoccupied to succumb. If they'd woken up anywhere else? It'd have been him. There was more than enough to make that happen.

Taylor stills the strings on his guitar with one hand, swigging from the offered bottle with the other. "I can kinda get why you don't like choosing, man, but you make some shit ones when you try to avoid it."

"I don't make the best when actively try, either." Try not to repeat that around Wash, he doesn't need the ego boost.

But it's the truth. Whether he's trying to make decisions for the best or not, they tend to backfire. Like a secondary superpower, only a detriment to him and those around him rather than an asset.

"Maybe dial back from 'do I or do I not listen to the faceless horror morphing the whole of this galactic plane into some kind of meaty sci-fi slasher film' and try little things first, like...'do I want another shot?' baby steps." Trying to fly before you can walk comfortably is real dumb. York would know, he's done it.

Literally.

Walking while on painkillers is hard and when he first got here all he heard was 'flight ring' and did something stupid. Story of his life.

That...seems reasonable enough.

Even if he doesn't necessarily trust himself right now, the fact that some people do? Is more encouragement than he thought he'd rightly have. Still, he continues to stare at York for some time before finally giving a faint nod.

Alright. Baby steps it is.

"I still think it would be best to refrain from going into the field."

"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."

"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.

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.

"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.

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.

Edited 2017-01-21 04:07 (UTC)

"...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.

"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."

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?"

"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.

"'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.

"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."

"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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 6

[ OPEN ] Full of broken thoughts I cannot repair

CW: SELF HARM ( For Wash )

For Locus

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject