[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

[agnominal]

He still feels ridiculous -- more so when he becomes aware of Sombra watching them -- but this is part of being people, right? Having people. Sometimes indulging people, and there is now a very stubborn desire to prove that he's worth having around even for moments like this.

"You don't have flowers," he notes dryly, as they move. As his hands settle on Taylor's waist. He crooks his head back to regard Sombra, addressing her. "He should have flowers, shouldn't he? Or he'll feel left out."

Locus is, sometimes, capable of being a little shit.

[goddamngrenades]

"I-" he starts, snorts to cover the sudden moment of tickleshness brought up by Locus' hands resting where they are, and continues through the step two three turn five six. "Don't need flowers. I'm the lead, and a lead's job isn't to be pretty."

Seriously, guys. Get with the program. Of course this is coming from old ass lessons back when he was a kid- but. Point remains.

"The lead is the frame and you are the painting. It's my job to make you look good." A beat. "Uh, this is where I'd be all smooth and dip you to prove my point but I don't think I can hold you up, man."

Still, sheepish and smiling and deeply pleased with having this is he. "Besides- I got y'all. Prettier than any flower crown I could code."

[vata]

"Laaaame." Calls Sombra, kicking up sand at his heels as punishment for daring to be so dorky, sitting upright on her elbows. "Locus is right: we're not your tesoros, Taylor. We're friends. Equals."

She is, after all, precious to no one.

"You need a flower crown."

And with that she curls her fingers, distorting the digital projection of her own habitat by directly tapping into the code itself - all superficial byways. A few moments of careful thought (what flower would suit him? what do flowers even look like instead of just the image in her drunken mind?) and she manages a mostly stable projection of what looks like a circlet of gold roses. Well— rose-ish. More like a memory of what they should look like but it's close enough.

"Eh."

#Nailedit.

[agnominal]

Locus watches those flowers form into being, lending Taylor a golden glow around his head, and the image is so terribly fitting that he can't help a little chuckle. His eyes crease at the corners as he feels some vague sense of satisfaction before nodding once.

"Much better."

Equals. Friends. Another knot untangles itself and, after that prompting from Taylor, Locus attempts instead to lean him backwards instead.

Taylor might not be able to hold him up, but Locus? Has this part.

[goddamngrenades]

"Look when it's your turn to lead YOU can be the frame and I get to be pretty. We take turns leading and following- or, you know, invent a way for three people to dance at the same time." He tips his head in her direction, brows lifted. "You were supposed to say I'm already pretty and stuff."

He might pout. MIGHT. But then there's a golden flower crown on his head and, well, it's hard to pout about shit when you're wearing a flower crown and getting dipped. In a show of complete and utter trust he leans right into it, bending backwards, head tipped to the ground, a fairly decent dancer's posture on him in the moment that leaves him staring at Azucar upside down. "I think he's getting the hang of it!"

[vata]

"I told you so." It's a patient little scoff of amusement from where she's lounging, cheek now resting against her palm.

"And besides: there is a way for three people to dance together."

But it's less formal, that's for sure. Not to mention more her style.

[agnominal]

Locus grunts, before tugging Taylor back up once more to a standing position. "You know that you're pretty," he accuses, eyes narrowing. "There is no point in reaffirming what is already clearly true."

And he glances towards Sombra with a raised brow. Come on. Back him up here.

[goddamngrenades]

If pressed or pointed out- York'll blame the booze and headrush of having been bent backwards- but as Locus hauls him up he goes further, arms around his shoulders, one leg hitching up in a tango's embrace, head dipped forward to hide the sudden bright flush on his cheeks. He's- cocky but not pretty. That self assured 'hell yeah I got the girl and all this' sort of blew up in a bad way with one grenade awhile ago. "Doesn't hurt to hear it now and then."

[vata]

They make an attractive couple, all rucked up against one another. An easy contrast— and she's not above soaking it all in (hell, drunk on tequila and still warm from Taylor's hand where it'd wound around her wrist, she said yes on instinct: spurred on by fine features and...even finer assets)— letting out a low whistle as she shamelessly looks on.

"I couldn't have asked for a better date." Said with a pointed glance at Taylor, because honestly between a busy night of laughing, drinking and letting go, she can't remember if she'd mentioned it before. "Or better company now."

"Tu eres muy hermano."

[agnominal]

Locus grunts, satisfied at least that Sombra has assisted in her own way, while he cocks his head to try and get a bearing on where York is at. Is he...is he actually blushing?

That registers as odd, somehow. But he shakes his head, nodding towards where Sombra is sprawled in the sand. "We should go keep your date company."

And that word doesn't quite needle him the same way it did, hours before. Maybe just the reminder that he's still a part of this, even not necessarily romantically, is encouraging. How long has it been since he could say he had friends?

[goddamngrenades]

"Friend date." Sorta? Kinda. He only knows how to do it one way and this better than he'd hoped. He didn't fuck up, the dinner was good, the dancing was great- and this with Locus at the end? a good reminder that they're all sort of in this whatever it is together. Friends.

It's been awhile since he's had this kind of ease and certainty and it's nice to have it again. Without movement to follow he sorta. Holds position for a second before slipping back down, hands skidding from Locus' shoulders to his wrist to pull him back to Azucar with him. "It was nice, don't get me wrong but I'm sorta- not. Going on that ride again. Long story short this?"

He says as he flops down next to Sombra, dragging Locus with him. "This is all I really need. Bros."

[vata]

She hums out the start of a laugh that she's too tired to carry as they drop down, legs curling in against warm sand. "Don't worry about it. I didn't come here looking for true love, mijo."

They all have a job to do, one that's more important than all this. And now that they've all recovered in one another's company (in part, or in whole), it's time to get back to it.

"Friends are all I need."

[agnominal]

Oh.

Well then.

That settles a great deal, doesn't it? Some additional thread of tension finally uncoils and slithers free as Taylor tugs him down to the sand, and Locus obliges with a grunt, careful not to spill what's left in the bottle. Instead he remains sitting up, leaning in towards them with one hand braced in the sand, and the other lifting said bottle for another swig.

"Friends."

People he trusts, people he feels safe around. That's worth a great deal. And if all of this is in the name of friendship? He feels a little less ridiculous about enduring the flower crown, at least.

[goddamngrenades]

"Oh, good." Some tiny thread of tension eases when Sombra lets him off the hook, more or less. "I've done the 'friend date' thing before but they weren't really on the same page as me and stuff got super awkward."

Forever ago but- it's a relevant point. One he shrugs off by sprawling enough in the sand to be leaning against her and have his legs slung across Locus' lap. There. Cozy. "This, though? Y'all? This is good. Y'all are good."

Life is good and this is more or less exactly what he needed. Time with his bros.

[vata]

She reaches up, then, scratching with her nails ever so gently behind Taylor's ear as he rests against her. A soft gesture beyond her typical comfort zone, attention set out on the horizon.

"Cuando tu amigo pide, no hay mañana."