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

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

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!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

If you want to see us. Had that been a question? That somewhat dour look shifted into something like confusion, before he finally turned to face them fully. "Of course I do."

There's a pause, and a wry arch of his brow as he nods. "And you weren't wrong about the party." Not his scene. Never had been. He would have been terribly awkward and brought things down, he's certain.

His gaze flickers briefly between them both. "Did you have a good time?"

It seems like the right thing to ask, in the situation.

Taylor responds to 'you got me on this homie' in brows and lips with a variant of 'course I do' with a slight tip of his head, one shouldered shrug, and crooked smile. Just because company and comfort is on offer doesn't mean it's wanted. And then? That strange neutral gloom falls away to a more familiar, dare he go so far to say as puppy dogish, wide eye'd confusion.

Oh good, an expression he recognizes. "It was pretty fun. Azucar is a sweet dancer." He's never gonna get tired of that, Sombra. You did this to yourself. "But-"

And he holds up a finger and causes the tequila in hand to slosh a bit as he works his way closer. "Woulda been more fun with you. But, again, not your scene. So we have this brilliant idea to have a private party with, well. You."

By the time he finishes he's not entirely in Locus' space, but just enough to set down the tequila and set something small and light just above his ear at his temple and tap it. Boom. Holographic flower crown. "...Ok, you're right. He looks great in lilies."

It was all guesswork on her part: she'd had to look up flowers on the fly, but figuring out which ones suited Locus wasn't too much of a stretch, given her eye for aesthetic detail. And where she left off, Taylor had picked it right up.

"We make a good team."

And Taylor might not dare to invade Locus' space, but Sombra does: winding her arm around his own with what little agreement he's given them, pressing her face to the low point of his bicep (tall as he is, that's about as far as she can manage).

That wide-eyed confused look persists for a moment as Taylor tips in, close enough to slide that chip into place and...

Really?

Immediately his eyes narrow, expression taking a turn for the incredulous, before turning to Sombra with a 'you condone this?' sort of look, as though she were meant to be keeping him in line. As if she'd do anything of the sort.

These were his friends. God help him.

As Sombra slips in, his shoulders sink, quiet surrender to the foolishness that is no doubt in store, even if he doesn't approve of any of it. "Is this entirely necessary?"

"Yes." Without missing a beat he sidles up next to Locus to mirror Sombra's posture, arms wound around Locus' face pressed against his shoulder (He's a little taller than Azucar. "Absolutely necessary. You match, now. Show him."

The same gift he'd given her- holographic orchids that play music. Something to stand alone or wear however she wants- but programmed to be just as lovely a crown as the one Locus wears in the moment. He's just tipsy enough not to question this shit. It is how it is, get with the program.

Someday Taylor will learn this isn't her. That what she revels in is showing off vitriol, not sweetness or beauty. Someday she might even need to negate his influence, or his cleverness.

For now, though, it's a role she's content to play under the warmth of adrenaline and alcohol in her veins, stepping forward (away from the both of them) and lifting a finger to activate the holographic orchid crown that comes shimmering to life around her temples. "Te gusta?"

The effect is rather startling on her. Fitting. It's hard to imagine anyone wouldn't appreciate the effect, but Locus is still a little put out about being included in these holographic flower shenanigans.

Still. It's just them, and this...feels private enough to allow for a little foolishness. Maybe.

"It looks very nice," he agrees, before disgruntledly glancing back down at Taylor. "Your handiwork, I assume?"

"I'm more than just a pretty face." If he's even that anymore. It's less important than it used to be- normally he's more bothered but there's enough tequila in him to keep him from caring- but not enough to render him maudlin. Azucar is pretty, Locus isn't weird and squirrely, and for a little while?

Shit feels normal.

That's all he really needs at the moment.

"They play music, too. I didn't know what else to do for you, so-" He reaches up and taps the little chip again, a recording of him playing that same twangy, slow tune picking up.

Because the boys aren't using it, it's the only open invitation Sombra needs to snag the full bottle of tequila they'd brought back with them - given as an 'appreciative gift' from the club's owner, but in reality, it's bought favors. Part of why Legionnaire's aren't allowed to accept more than small, small gifts or discounts. But what the Legion isn't actively logging? Sombra isn't going to tell them.

Tipping her head back, she takes a long pull from the bottle, already swaying in time with that rhythmic guitar while she leaves them to one another. The moonlight hitting ocean waves a decent stand-in for the bright lights of a club, sweat salt traded for sea salt and she only needs a tune to find a reason to dance, often as she's done it.

Locus almost chuckles at the strains of the familiar tune. Alright, so he's put some thought into this. "Agreed," he murmurs, "though I would have said so without the flowers."

Taylor is a number of extraordinary things, very few of which tie back to his past as a Freelancer. Which is surprising and not, all at once. It's still pleasant to think that these people, who he thinks highly of, think of him at all. It's not as though he's contributed all that much.

When Sombra steals the bottle away, Locus lets her, though his gaze drifts after her as she sways on the sand, the moonlight bathing her in its cool glow, and it's not hard to see why Taylor was so enraptured.

"Aw, you tolerate me." He is, in fact, a good bro. Not an ass, not annoying, he's done good and that? Settles the tiny anxious itch in the back of his head at how odd and abrupt their earlier talk was. This is okay. They're okay.

Wash will never stop giving him shit about this.

In the interest of continuing to be a good bro, he nudges Locus with his elbow, chin tipped in Azucar's direction. "You should dance with her."

He's already had his turn and he kinda thinks the image would be damn striking. Also? He should get to join in on the fun. No one here to judge or jeer, just them bros. That makes it okay, right?

Back set to him, tipping her stare back over the curve of a rolled shoulder, Sombra adds: "I won't bite." A coaxing effort to draw him in played off as casually as if she were musing all by herself. "—much."

After all, if she's going to be stereotypical about it, she might as well commit to the catchphrase.

No, he definitely feels a little less judged here. Even with the holographic lilies around his head idly playing twangy guitar cords. But that doesn't change simple facts, and one of those facts is--

"I don't dance."

It's not stated as refusal, necessarily. He might, if he did, but he can't. That makes sense, doesn't it?

"She didn't bite me once."

A beat. "Course I didn't ask her to, so-" Like that kinda shit makes sense in his world. It does. York Land is a Fun Land.

"Don't cuz you don't wanna- in which case I will only bug you for like, five or six more seconds before dropp'n it- or Don't cuz you don't know how?" Those are usually the two 'don'ts' when it comes to dancing. "Cuz if it's the second? I'm pretty sure between the two of us we can teach you."

They are both reasonably rhythmic people with a sense of flash and style. They got this.

"Don't be silly. Everyone knows how to dance." It's not mocking, breathed out as she turns on her heel to set the bottle down in the sand at her feet, curling a few invitational fingers in Locus and Taylor's shared direction. "Haz lo tu corazón te mande."

Locus looks incredibly weary at that. "No soy muy bueno escuchando mi corazón., Azúcar."

That hasn't always been the case, but something that evolved over the course of the war. He still doesn't know if it's permanent, like scar tissue, or if it can be undone, or if it should be undone.

"Which might explain my lack of skill," he adds, with a wry look in Taylor's direction. There. Question answered.

Oh, well. If it's gonna be like that, then. York digs around in what he knows and what he doesn't, eyes flicking between the two of them before clearing his throat. "Permítame."

He leans in enough, turning his head to rest his ear against Locus' chest, bad eye closed in apparent focus. "Hmm...Dice-"

Yes, he knows Spanish and yes- his accent isn't completely horrid. Not bad for a gringo, right? Right.

"Nunca es demasiado tarde para intentarlo."

Edited (phrasing) 2017-02-06 04:59 (UTC)

"What--"

It takes him off guard for a second -- he said he'd grown up in Texas, he shouldn't be that surprised -- both the Spanish and the fact that Taylor now suddenly had his head pressed to Locus's chest.

He goes very still for a moment before his eyes narrow.

"What are you doing?"

"Shhh!" He holds a finger up and closes both eyes, brow furrowed in concentration. "I'm listening for you."

Duh. Get with the program.

"It says it's safe to learn. So. Go dance with Azucar."

"You are ridiculous."

But his eyes still redirect towards Sombra where she stands, bright as the moon, and he's never felt more acutely aware of his own inadequacies in his life. Which is another solid reason to stay exactly where he is, as far as he's concerned.

"Nah, come on, no judgement zone here." He gives Locus another nudge, slipping to stand behind with a hand flat on his back. "It's ok."

This time it's Sombra that decides to close the distance, wrapping her small fingers firmly around Locus' heavy hand, dragging against the grain of his stubborn, fixed posture.

"No ones here but us, mijo." Patient pressure: pulling, pulling— stepping back with her left foot.

"Just follow my lead."

And with that gentle pressure from behind and in front of him, Locus surrenders. He does so with a faintly disgruntled sigh, but he does so regardless, eyes closing briefly before he follows her out.

Alright. Following her lead. What now? Hands go somewhere, he's fairly certain.

"On her hip, like this-" Taylor, without anywhere else to be, falls in step behind. Sets one hand on Locus' hip and the other on his shoulder, more or less an echo of what Locus ought to do. "Yeah?"

They got him. That makes it okay.

"Don't worry too much about your hands." A common pitfall is that stern stiffness that comes from focusing on what goes where and when and why, or how much is too much and whether or not sweaty palms matter when the whole point is to sweat. And while the argument that dancing is like sex is so painfully cliche (a waltz barely qualifies as a dance, much less an attractive one) a good partner will make you forget that there's ever been a dividing line between the two.

"It's all in the hips. Your legs." And as an example, she takes another step backwards, slowly dropping the line of her own as an example. "Where they go, your body will follow. Same as if you're fighting."

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