Sombra (
vata) wrote in
legionworld2017-01-23 08:04 pm
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
[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
PROMPT B
WILDCARD
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 atladyavali!]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
After all, if she's going to be stereotypical about it, she might as well commit to the catchphrase.
no subject
"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?
no subject
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.
no subject
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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?"
no subject
Duh. Get with the program.
"It says it's safe to learn. So. Go dance with Azucar."
no subject
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.
no subject
no subject
"No ones here but us, mijo." Patient pressure: pulling, pulling— stepping back with her left foot.
"Just follow my lead."
no subject
Alright. Following her lead. What now? Hands go somewhere, he's fairly certain.
no subject
They got him. That makes it okay.
no subject
"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."
no subject
Still. He's giving it his best shot. Frowning, he shifts his weight in his stance, attempting to follow the motion of her hip that she's just demonstrated.
no subject
The hand on Locus' shoulder drops to rest on his other hip, light as anything, as he helps adjust the line. He'd been almost there on his own so, good! a little nudge is all he needs. "If your'e too tense you can't move, yeah?"
no subject
"Better." Whether or not he actually is adjusting is irrelevant; she draws in closer, slides her fingers up his arm so that she's keeping contact with them both at once. "It's not so bad is it?"
no subject
The answer is immediate, and he's almost steadfastly keeping eye contact with her. As if any drift away towards anything else will be seen as weakness or some kind of surrender. He just tries to follow her movements, and occasionally Taylor behind him nudges him in one direction or another, and...
It's so ridiculous, but it's not so bad at all. The tension bleeds out of him a bit at a time, until his shoulders finally sink to a reasonable level.
no subject
"You got it."
no subject
"Take over for me for a second would you?" She inhales slow and steady, sitting down on the sand and drawing her legs up so that she can fold her arms over them. "My feet are killing me— remind me to never bother with heels again."
She'll leave those to Amélie.
no subject
Which leaves with Taylor, behind him. There's a moment where he glances back, eyebrow lifting.
Not really sure what to make of any of this, but...it's pleasant enough.
no subject
Just to be safe he leans up to mirror the kiss because- that's also what she meant, yeah? Yeah. It makes sense to his tequila filled mind.
(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)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)