[OPEN] You were lying on your back in the grass, counting backward from a thousand

[vata]

Who| Azúcar (Sombra) and you!
What| Hangin' out on the beach, getting drunk, being miserable and coping like an adult
Where| Sombra's section of the Habitat Deck
When| after the events of Silent Horizon
Warnings/Notes| possible talk about body horror and/or death, depending on the conversation



PROMPT A

Azúcar is harder to spot these days, following the events of the Silent Horizon. Most of her time— nearly all of it, in fact— is spent in the relative safety of her biome: a quiet shoreline, warmed by salted breezes even at night, when the lights of a nearby city's somewhat distant buildings cast a golden glow along breaking waves.

Before she'd left, she kept to the ruined industrial building hidden away behind foliage on the cliffs above the beach - that seemingly abandoned safehouse the only reason she'd constructed this illusion in the first place. Practicality over sentimentality. Now she wanders closer to the edges of the city limits where the sand bleeds off into stone and dated cement: each time she crosses the threshold, passing out of bounds for the plot given to her by the Legion, the mirage fades. It didn't used to be that this place was Dorado, the city she left behind. She thought she was immune to missing the familiar, that she was better than everyone else somehow. Less prone to that kind of vulnerability. Now she just thinks she wants to buy out someone else's biome. Expand her own with the closest Legionnaire's and get lost in the old city streets.

Ah well.

Barefoot, sporting a cutoff shirt from New Vegas and a pair of weathered, second-hand shorts, pulling a long, long drink from the bottle of tequila in hand, Sombra's perched on a rock near the city's edge, staring up into the warm glow of lit windows with a look that's entirely impossible to read. Longing, maybe.

How miserably fallible.

And so for that fact alone, every few minutes or so, she picks up another shell, another pebble, another cork from another opened bottle, and throws it out of bounds, watching it vanish from sight with a little virtual hiss.

PROMPT B

Most of her injuries have already been taken care of. No scars, no lingering damage; the Legion was thorough enough with their checkups once they peeled off the shuttle for all the follow-ups and debriefings. It's her cybernetics she was touchier about, quicker to hide: and aside from looking obviously damaged to anyone with a pair of eyes, the full depth of what that means for her is a problem too easily overlooked for the average medic, too easily (stubbornly) ignored by Sombra herself, when all she wants to do is coil around the idea of control over her own space, her own assets and resources for better— and in this case, albeit temporarily— for worse.

The skin around her spinal implants and ports is scorched from heat, reddened and raw from impact, though it's harder to notice in comparison to burned out circuitry and dulled metal.

She waits until the tide's in (all artificial programming), when it's quiet and she's alone, to slink down into the water and soak— sinking in up to her neck beneath the waves. Eyes shut, hair loose and coiled around her shoulders to light the water immediately around her, turning it a pale, luminescent blue. It's a small comfort for that incessant ache, but it's hers.

That said, the water's nice. The beach is warm, set up with a few crates full of beer and tequila and a lone parasol surrounded by laid out towels. No one would blame you for diving in with her— or maybe just setting up camp in the sand.

WILDCARD

[Want something more specific? Need a reason to sit by the ocean and chill, want to snoop around the outskirts of that ugly old industrial building instead of the very brilliant, beautiful shoreline? Feel free to run with whatever works best if you've got an idea in mind, or hit me up at ladyavali!]

Comments

B

[short_changed]

Connie's been spending more time around the Hab deck lately. Partly to check in on old friends who like to drink themselves stupid (which they all do, from time to time to be fair), and partly to start scoping out the area supposedly set aside for her own modification and use. Being able to sculpt her own bit of world into something comforting and secure after the nightmare stuff of Silent Horizon is turning out to be a very good distraction. Sure she's still exhausted but at least it's not from fleeing from meat monsters.

Azucar wasn't a friend per ce but Connie had been meaning to check in on her anyway. The woman had helped her through a rough patch during the mission when she needed the extra pair of eyes to watch her back, and that deserves something. When she finally find's Sombra, she's got a full bag slung over her shoulder and she's out of her armour. Probably in too many layers for a beach biome but oh well. She halts by the parasol and takes a better look down the length of the beach, letting out a soft whistle in appreciation.

"Damn. Nice place you got here."

[vata]

She hadn't been expecting company. Still, the voice is familiar enough to have Sombra rolling over in the water when she hears it: spotting a silhouette that's just as recognizable from a distance, even without armor altering the contours of it.

A few seconds spent wading against a false current, dragging a hand across her face to clear away wayward droplets, and she's back out on the beach padding lazily over damp sand to give Connie the courtesy of a real conversation. After everything they shared, survived, it feels owed, in a way.

"Wasn't all me." She plants herself down on one of the towels, nodding towards the other as an open invitation. "I left it behind to come here."

And then, after a beat: "¿Qué tal, vata? You're a long way from home."

[short_changed]

"It's still nice. I haven't been to a beach in years."

Connie offers her a half smile and takes a seat on one of the spare towels beside Sombra as she rolls up the sleeves of her hoodie. Yep, she was definitely wearing too much for this weather.

In reply to the question, she tugs the bag off from her shoulders and opens it up so Sombra can see in even as she starts to draw things out. First and foremost, Connie pulls out a bottle of whiskey and sets it in the sand between them, then gives a little push of the bag over to join it. Not the most refined of food offerings, but there's a container of rolled up pancakes and a sealed cup of dark golden syrup inside.

"A little celebration for surviving that hellhole. Also, a 'thank you'."

[vata]

"For what, not trying to eat you?"

There's an amused little scoff when she leans forward to peer into the bag, already feeling relieved by the cooling breeze running across her shoulders. It makes it easier to be human, to play into all the routines she'd rather leave behind in favor of isolation.

But Connie had earned her stripes, the decency of conversation and comfort— and also Sombra hasn't eaten in like seven hours so there's that.

She reaches out to tug the bag just a little closer to her side, glowing nails curling around its edges to subtly stake her claim.

"Hate to break it to you, but you can blame that one on the fact that I wasn't crazy."

wildo cardo

[fantasmaniac]

Reaper is well aware of their situation, where they both stand, and how much space he should give her given than he'd both abandoned her in the middle of a plan and then attempted to kill her for no other reason than 'he could'. That being said, he's also not the type to beat around the bush. If sufficient amount of time passes, he knows one of them will eventually make contact.

Right now, he's not doing that. He has little to cover himself up with after the Silent Horizon fiasco had rendered some of his gear beyond repair even with his regeneration ability. He's wearing a plain black hoodie with the mask, hood naturally pulled up over his head, and whatever was left of his gear. Anything that wasn't utterly ruined. He's sitting at the desk in his room, paper and pen out, but the page remains blank.

He doesn't realize he's been doing it, but he's been logging Sombra's time spent outside. When he hears her padding outside past him, when she comes back, just to see how she's coping. If she's coping at all. Things like that. He wasn't trying to make any sort of contact with her when he steps out. It's mostly just to stretch his legs.

ur killin me smalls

[vata]

He's imposing even without the ensemble, something to do with the space he soaks up without even trying. Sombra's used to it by now. Plug in enough missions under Talon's watch and you find he's a leashed dog more than a feral one: still committed to his missions as if he'd never really fallen out of step with the old routines. Maybe not all bark and no bite (he's got it in him to ruin lives by default) but smooth him out with a hand behind the ears, a little loyalty and a lot of skill, and there's nothing worth fearing in the shadows anymore for someone smart enough to know better.

Still, her shoulders go tense for a beat when she turns a corner and finds him standing there. Doesn't take her longer than a single exhale to recalibrate, poker face still permanently fixed and level as ever— one of the only consistent habits Sombra keeps these days.

—well, that and sleeping on the couch for about as long as the sun is up, blanket halfheartedly tugged over her to keep out any wayward breezes.

Which is, coincidentally, exactly where she's headed the second he decides to move out of that narrow corridor and give her enough room to pass. Not that he looks all that interested in it, not that she looks all that interested in talking. Which is dumb, probably. Part of her knows it's worth addressing, what happened back there on the Silent Horizon.

But then what could she reasonably hope to hear him say? He'd left her because it was the better call: in hindsight there was no missing it, all those little telltale signals he'd let off. If she'd known the patterns earlier she'd have recognized it right then and there - it might've been her leaving him behind instead. He can't make up for being mindless with an apology, it's not him that she blames. There's no point.

Possibly for the first time in forever, Sombra's tired of pretending.

So instead, there's just a heavy silence settling down over the both of them, dulling the gentle noises rolling in from outside. Her eyes trained on him before she moves closer— a single step, two— inhaling once for the start of what seems like it might be the start of something heartfelt. Sincere.

And then she grabs hold of the ties connected to his hood, pulling down on them with enough force to cinch it at least halfway closed.

Beep beep. Move, Gabe.

ugh!!!!

[fantasmaniac]

She's good at hiding her micro-expressions, and a good amount of her physical tension. It's nothing new, but it still manages to impress him every time.

There is a brief moment of pondering, whether he should say something or not. It was both his fault and not— he was supposed to be stronger than that. He knew he was. Even after all the trauma, both physical and mental, that he'd experienced in his life, they'd never shaken him this badly before. It never affected him on such an intimate level, getting into his head like that, physically manifesting around him wherever he went. He didn't expect it to this time, either.

Experiencing such a nightmare isn't exactly normal. It's understandable to get fucked up while enduring a literally mind-numbing, fantastical event that most people wouldn't even dream of. That doesn't stop him from wondering if he's gotten weaker. Then he'd come to the conclusion that he'd simply been irresponsible, not only just leaving her, but leaving her in the dark as well. He could've said something, anything, but he didn't. He tries to recall the reasoning behind that, but he's drawing a blank.

"Not even vaguely curious?"

He looks silly, standing there as the hood bunches around his mask. But he wants to know, now that he's standing here in front of her. He wants to know if she'd ever wondered why he didn't just tell her about his slowly changing state of mind and body. He clearly had the time.

[vata]

"About your new costume?" Her delivery is dry enough to suck the hydration from the air between them, eyebrows pointedly lifting as she stares up point-blank into his cinched hood, letting the strings fall slack over his chest. He looks ridiculous. He has to know it already, and yet he isn't jerking his head away in contempt or growling out a warning.

Just how guilty is he feeling right about now?

"No offense, but it's kind of a downgrade, amigo."

B

[volving]

Batman has been spending the last couple of days dealing with learning her way around, and flying, and being confused by memes. It's a lot to handle for someone who still struggles a bit with "normal socialization" sorts of things, but thankfully no one has looked at her too oddly if she leaves a conversation abruptly and disappears into the shadows.

She was just flying around, skimming over the top over various different personalized habitats, but the beach looks nice... and there's only one person there. She can do one person at a time.

She sets down almost delicately, her costume boots sinking into the sand. ...Okay, perhaps going to the beach in her Batman costume isn't going to be very useful. Shut up.

"Hello?" she calls to the woman in the ocean. "Is this your sand?" Wait, no. "No, beach. Is this your beach?"

[vata]

It's a mild chuckle that comes bubbling up in response - the first heartfelt thing she's managed in what feels like forever. Kicking away from the sandy bottom, Sombra hitches a lazy ride on the nearest wave as it rolls past: the easiest way to turn herself around without putting in any real effort.

Aside from that, though, she stays where she is, mostly submerged and perfectly comfortable with her surroundings— a contrast to her current conversational partner who looks more than a little overdressed by comparison. "The sand, the waves— I'd say I own the moonlight, too, but that's a little less impressive, and maybe not half as easy to enjoy."

Her eyes flick down again, then back up again. "Quitate los zapatos, amiga. The longer you stand there like that, the more guilty I'm gonna feel when you ruin them."

A

[goddamngrenades]

Whether or not it's BYOB, York's managed to haul himself out with a bottle in hand, shuffling from the chill of winter in his own habitat to Azucar's. The heat's a balm against new aches, new pains. The odd knotting up of nerves under his new scars a lot of shit he's still getting used to. He doesn't say a word as he walks along the sand for a moment, peering around for some sign of her. Once spotted he shifts course, walking till he can pop a squat next to her, shoulder to shoulder.

He could say something about homesickness. About how the mission sucked.

Thank her for saving him, probably.

But the first words out of his mouth are "Blue suits you fine, but I think I like the purple more."

Cuz that makes sense. The difference between what he'd seen when she'd been in his head and what she's like now. "Don't get me wrong. Blue's a good look for you but-"

Honesty is attractive.

[vata]

She'd forgotten he'd seen her like that. So much had been happening in the moment: her focus was on adapting, on helping by desperate degrees— on him, really, and in looking back, it isn't surprising how little of the experience she'd really bothered to take in.

There's a tense pause for the thought, not inherently noticeable outside the briefest pang of regret before she's tipping her own bottle to her lips and emptying what little is left, smirking as she moves to throw it off into the distance. It disappears from sight before it has the chance to break.

"I couldn't keep it."

Which is the truth. Maybe it's the fact that she's been drinking for hours now, lamenting something she's never really had— maybe it's the fact that they'd both shared the same mental space, stuck catching glimpses of one another that weren't meant to be seen— either way, the end result's the same.

She drops her empty hands down into her lap, shifting to lean her weight against his shoulder instead. "But for what it's worth, mijo, I agree with you."

[goddamngrenades]

"Huh." Whether to the vanishing bottle (Whoever's on the other side might get a little pissed and yet- he's pretty sure neither of them care right now) or the reason? Who knows. But no matter why she couldn't he does kinda understand having to scrap up a part of yourself to start over.

Sargent Murray, Agent New York, Foxtrot 12- Now? Locksmith.

It's messy and uncomfortable and utterly necessary. It doesn't mean you miss it any less or you get any better at it. He pops the top off his own bottle, salutes her, takes a swig. Offers her the next pull. Only polite to share. "How's your back?"

Implants are a bitch and- well. He's seen the edges of Wash's scar. Knows what it looks like when an AI goes rampant in the implant and while Cortana very much didn't do that- he doubts her loadout was meant to house a Smart AI.

A

[agnominal]

Voluntarily leaving the sanctuary of his own biome wouldn't have been his first choice. Not on his own. But a visit from York had prompted leaving the cold, sterile replica of a base and venturing towards warmer climes, in the hopes of easing some of the lingering discomfort they both felt.

He had his own to contend with, a crawling in his skin, at the base of his brain, dragging heavy through his limbs with some phantom sensation of what it had been like, transformed. Even now, they still bear scars. Which is probably why he's arrived on the beach in what looks to be cold-weather wear to start. A stiff leather jacket takes the place of armor he cannot bring himself to wear at the moment, and a multitude of thin lines that will heal over time poking out from the collar of his shirt.

He'd meant to come here eventually, anyway. He owes Azucar a great deal. Saying as much wouldn't come easily, but she'd earned that much, and more.

It's not hard to pick her out, that lone figure on the rocks. Her hair's too distinctive to hide, even in the dim light cast by the artificial moon. He's careful to purposefully make noise as he approaches.

[vata]

"I was wondering when I'd see you again, Soldado."

It takes a beat for her to look over at him, busy scuffing the sand from the bottom of her feet, giving him plenty of time to close the gap without being under fire. Knowing him— the fact that he's peeled himself away from all that armor— he'd probably appreciate the lack of direct focus after everything he's been through.

By the time he's close enough to talk to directly she's set an unopened bottle of tequila beside her. As much of an invitation as anyone needs.

[agnominal]

"But you knew I'd come."

Or she suspected it, at the very least. She sees a great deal, which means she's had to learn to. It's the reason he initially showed incredulity at her name here -- Sugar, of all things -- when it was clear she was canny and clever. A sharp edge honed by experience.

He knows what a survivor looks like up-close.

Now, she's managed to survive him, too. Though York's forgiving attitude and Washington's tirade have both chipped away somewhat at his sense of withdrawal and avoidance. Instead, he finds himself wanting to be here...or more precisely, with someone he trusts. However odd that is, given her nature and his own.

Slowly, he lowers himself down to sit, before glancing at the bottle. Tequila on top of whiskey? What could go wrong.

B

[forgivetheinsubordination]

He's curious. There's so many different pieces of peoples' worlds or imaginations represented here, which means that Garrus can't help poking his mandibles into a few of them. This one's interesting enough, run down warehouse contrasting with pretty waterline, and then he sees something that draws his eyes even more, something glowing.

It doesn't take him too long to get close enough to see that the glowing is a person. For a few moments he considers walking away. She looks peaceful. After that, he's shrugging and trudging across the sand, making no effort to approach quietly.

"Mind company?"

[vata]

"If I do, I picked a bad time to hang around out in the open."

The start of a casual joke— one she expects to finish as she presses into the current to drift back lazily in a circle so that she can face him—

Which he...isn't what she'd expected. Namely he isn't human, or human with green skin (or human with blue skin), vaguely human-ish with unusual accents, which is the typical assortment around here. It makes it easy to forget that there are, in fact, so many more species out there in the universe, and right now? She's trying not to stare too hard.

I mean, she's failing, but she's trying.

[forgivetheinsubordination]

His mandibles flicker in and out as he takes a seat on the sand, waiting out the staring while removing his boots and sticking his feet in the water.

"Think I prefer this to the yelling and screaming. Not sure yet. You might wanna stare a few more minutes so I can figure it out." His tone is just as casual as hers had been, laced with a little good humor. There's no point in getting annoyed with the reactions.

After a pause, in case she's done staring, he holds out his hand. It's human, she's human, it might help. "I'm Garrus. Garrus Vakarian."

WILDCARD after date night

[goddamngrenades]

The dress had been a hit (ha, points for Taylor), dinner had been great, dancing? Phenomenal. He hasn't been out to dance since the Project and goddamn if he didn't miss it. Azucar's a great partner, stunning in the dress he'd had made for her, a far classier match than his bs lazy 'fuck me jeans and button down' get up he hauled together at the last second. But they look good, they had a good time and he can't remember the last time he'd been out on a date.

Like.

It had to have been on leave or something- but no that was always harried and tinged with 'oh fuck we might die tomorrow'. This had been fun. Pure, uncomplicated fun. It makes wandering back to Sombra's beach to meet up with Locus, bottle of tequila in tow and music playing an easy choice. How better to end the night. "Hang on, Hang on- I think I see him."

[vata]

She hadn't been privvy to the awkward, pre-dinner conversation that'd happened between Taylor and Locus. If she had, she might be less surprised to spot that familiar silhouette of his squared off along the shoreline. Sure, they'd made a mutual agreement to bring back something worth sharing (that Locus needs at least a modicum of human comfort every now and then is a fact they both seem to agree on), but truth be told she expected it to take a call, maybe a sent off text to coax Locus over.

This? This looks...well, lonely. Sad to say the least.

Leaning on Taylor for a beat longer (because heels on sand? Not so great, and if she tries to pull them off on her own she'll fall right over) makes it easier to close the distance, abandoning her shoes and rucking up the bottom of her dress beyond the high slit along its side. "Oye, mijo, how long have you been sitting here?"

And please don't say 'hours'.

[agnominal]

He's fine. Really, he is.

He has to be, because there's no real defining what niggles at the back of his mind, bothering him, so it has to be nothing. Ergo, he is fine. He is not, he will maintain, jealous of the fact that the two people he is closest to here are off on a date. What cause would he have to be jealous?

Does not make sense. So, not a thing.

He is not so depressingly soul-crushingly lonely that it would be cause to be upset. He prefers to be around people, true, but under specific circumstances. If he were that hard up for company, he could go spar with someone. Or talk to any number of people in the common areas. That Soldier 76 had seemed an alright sort.

No. It's not loneliness. That doesn't make sense either, so that can't be it.

Just this quiet little twinge as he stands on the beach and quietly muses to himself, wondering if they're all a little broken, and maybe he's just not broken in the right ways to be compatible for that kind of socialization. There's a fault somewhere that needs to be corrected, and he's just not certain what, yet.

And, eventually, they make their return. Locus glances towards them, Sombra's beautiful dress and Taylor...well. Looking like one would expect Taylor to look, he supposes. His shoulder twitches up in a mild shrug.

"Not long." A lie. But dismissive enough to not be worth further inquiry.

B

[leverageintceo]

Whenever Azúcar's attention drifts back to the beach, there's a woman dressed in all black waiting for her on one of the towels under the parasol. It's impossible to say how long she's been sitting there, though she's at least had the time to settle in and make herself comfortable. She's not staring at Azúcar but at the horizon, like she's content to wait as long as she needs to.

[vata]

Even dressed all in black (or maybe because of it), Sombra knows who's waiting for her without needing to close the distance— still, she does it all the same. Very few people are a welcome sight at a time like this; Parker makes the cut.

Little clawed fingers curl around dripping strands of tangled hair, both her own and the lengthy phosphorescent extensions she's gone through the trouble of adopting, wringing them out.

"¿Qué tal, hermosa? You're a long way from home."

[leverageintceo]

Parker blinks, trying to parse the part where she's a long way from home. They both are, what with being in a third, completely different universe. Also in space.

Ultimately though, that's not really important. Azúcar is indicating a willingness to chat, and since that's why she's out here in the first place, Parker forges on ahead.

"The mission you were on sucked," she answers. "I thought I should come find you and see how you were doing."

She pulls the second reason she's there out from behind her back.

"And I brought you a bear, just in case."

It's plush and blue (though unlike Azúcar's hair, not luminescent) and wearing a little white vest with the words 'get well soon' printed on it. Parker has also rubber banded a chocolate bar to it, because you almost certainly can't go wrong with chocolate.