legionworld | [OPEN] You're Out of Touch

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[OPEN] You're Out of Touch

[There's something amiss in Legion World— aside from the obvious hiccups in general time. A bright splash of phosphorescent green and pink, flitting in and out of public space. Eventually the little streak of color slows to a halt: runs clawed fingers across pristine walls, over statues and murals and statues without reverence, just an abundance of fixed curiosity, as though it's all so new.

And for her, it really is.

Across her face, glowing body paint cuts the shape of a stylized skull, making otherwise young features look decidedly more vicious. A notion that's punctuated by her predatory posture and the gun resting openly at her hip.

In front of a heroic depiction of the Legion's finest, she snorts to herself, quietly:]

Where the hell am I?

II: TAGGED TURF

[Graffiti. There's a lot of it, all over the less-used Legion World hallways— and the statues, and occasionally the floors. Variations of 'Tierra de Los Muertos' or 'Sombra', and a few iterations of the telltale skull pattern painted across her cheeks. Where she got the paint is anyone's guess, but she's putting it to good use while she can.

After all, why would anyone even waste their time trying to stop her?]

III: WILDCARD

[ooc: Want something different? Let's make it happen! Feel free to go ahead and place your character anywhere on Legion World and I'll have Sombra fill in— or message me on plurk at

ladyavali for specific plotting!]

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I swear to god if I have one more friend not remember me and threaten me with violence today I'm gonna get a complex.

[ It's too uncomfortable to be anything but real. Too confusing to be anything but this sharp edged bite of genuine, fucked up reality. No hallucination. No foggy haze.

Just one of his besties painted up and glowing and a little feral. All this on the table- he gambles. Holds his hands up, palms out, unarmed. Harmless. Leans into the cool press of her gun like he's not afraid (he is he's terrified, he's been shot, he's been dead) but he feels a little like he can push his luck. ]

Pull the trigger if you wanna- just remember the deal about Delta, okay? That you'd keep him safe for me.

[It's...weird. Backwards. The way he talks, the things he says: she's used to predicting the twists and turns of other people's emotions, following them enough to stay one step ahead of their own thoughts. But this? This feels like missing context.

And she's already had enough of that, considering where she is. What she's doing.

The gun doesn't drop, but the pressure against his chest— even as he leans into it— lessens by degrees.] Delta?

[Her eyes narrow, vibrant lines across her face twisting along with it.] Did you hit your head or something? I don't know you— or what you're talking about.

When you're older? You do. We're friends. Friends with Delta, too. Got me to forgive him after some...particularly fucked up shit that we went through together. I know you don't remember right now because there's some sort of cosmic fuckery going on. Time ripples or- I don't know, man, it's over my head but it means people are moving up and down their personal timelines for some reason.

[ He keeps his hands up, shrugging gently before a thought occurs. ]

I have a video of us if that helps. And some photos. You, me, and Locus, chilling on your beach. Delta's in them too. I can show you if you want.

[Her beach? —did he mean Dorado? And what is this time-ripple story he's talking about?

Sombra's nose crinkles in thought, arms folding tightly across her chest (SMG tucked in against her arm, giving him a small amount of breathing room). She's part of Los Muertos, but her eyes have always been trained on the bigger picture; the offer of more information, no matter how bizarre, isn't one she intends to pass up.]

Show me.

[ It takes all of five seconds to locate the files (he'd favorited them) and bring up the photo and video. THere they are- he hair's a different color, longer-

But it's her. Older and relaxing on the sand with him and Locus. True to his word Delta is present in a few, wearing a small straw hat on his foot tall armored body. ]

See? That's me, You, and Locus. We hang out on your habitat- you get your own space you make however you want on this thing and your habitat's got a kickass beach- aaand we drink. Or dance. Or...just. Not worry about saving the universe for a little while.

[For a long time she says nothing, pulling the screen closer to her and paging through it all on her own: reading, silent and pensive, before finally clipping her gun back into its holster.

The aggression isn't front and center in her expression anymore, but her tone— even the sound of her voice— isn't as soft as Azúcar's had ever been.]

She does look a lot like me.

[Violet eyes flick up, one last look of consideration before she steps back to retrieve another can of paint, shaking it for a few beats.]

But my name isn't Azúcar. [There's a hiss as she finishes the last detail on the 'a' in her own name. ]

It's Sombra.

Huh. This probably isn't how you meant to tell me. I mean I knew you weren't called Azucar but you didn't feel like telling me what your name was.

[ And he hadn't pushed. And now...he knows. Shit. This explains what Widow had been talking about. ]

...aw hell this is what she meant when she called you a Los Muertos. I'm gonna take a stab in the dark and say it's a gang, yeah?

[Her head tilts for a beat, glancing back over her shoulder towards him again, fingers gone still. It still isn't her real name, but what he's saying sounds more than a little sincere, despite being confused.

...and more than a little upset about knowing it now.

So she takes the segue easily, scoffing hard:]

You don't know Los Muertos?

[You're joking, right 'York'? Everyone knows about Los Muertos.]

Nope. I'm not from your world, or even the same year in your world that you are. I'm from a much more fucked up, further along in the timeline earth. Shit I've told older you before.

[ He shrugs, fluid and easy as he leans against some of the wall that's not spattered with glowing paint. ]

So no, don't know 'em. Roughly how old are you right now- I mean. Not that I expect you to give much of a shit by way of drinking age, I just wanna be sure I'm not gonna get a citation for giving you tequila.

Twenty. [So no citations as far as she's concerned. A flat little response as she moves to lean in a mirrored pose adjacent to his own.]

Los Muertos are freedom fighters. We look out for Mexico— unlike the politicos corruptos.

[A beat, and then, belatedly:]

And we're also a gang.

Okay, good, cuz a night at the beach with tequila is something I'm gonna need by the end of today.

[ He has a feeling it's not gonna get any better as the hours spin along. ]

With kickass body paint- or is that tatoos. Either way? It's a good look for you.

I know. [That lack of humility? It's familiar, if nothing else, her mouth quirking upwards at the corner.]

Who told you about me, anyway?

[He'd said 'she', after all. Someone that knew Los Muertos— that knew her affiliation with it— that Sombra hasn't seen or spotted yet.

Then again he's the first person she's spoken to at all, technically.]

A sneaky spider.

[ Not even a lie, that part. A little vauge but that's all it's got to be. He'll make a mental note to check in with Widow later and try to help her with the damage control here. ]

Speaking of she kinda...had a very poetic way of saying you being like this is probably gonna make trouble for you when you're grown. So in the interest of uh. Keeping shit simple- think we can clear this up before that happens? I honestly don't know how it'd make trouble but I"m kind of invested in keeping my friends out of it.

[Her mouth opens, closes— technically there is trouble, but as far as Sombra can tell it didn't follow her here. How could it? She's technically in unaffiliated outer space. But a 'sneaky spider' means someone is paying close attention. Someone tied to Overwatch— to the conspiracy, maybe— and it has her brow sharply (defensively) furrowed.

She isn't leaning against the wall anymore.]

Can't fix what I don't know about, amigo - but your friend better watch herself before she gets in over her head.

[Sombra, after all, isn't in the mood to be spied on.

But with that threat passed off, Sombra's attention fixes (purposefully) towards the hallway beside them, as if she's resetting her own train of thought:]

You said I own a beach. I want to see it.

I'm not saying give up who you are now just- maybe tone it down? You got...fangs. Girl I know? Either hides them- which knowing my luck is pretty well likely- or dulled 'em.

[ A beat. ]

Which isn't like her at all, she's hardly dull.

[ He's not the best judge of character it seems- maybe he's wrong, maybe he's not, but this sharp edged, lean, viper of a sugar skull seems more...honest in some ways. It'll sting later when he thinks about it but right now? Damage control. ]

Gimme a quick rundown of what all you've tagged so I can clean it up and I'll give you directions to your habitat. Keeping her out of trouble means keeping you out of trouble.

[He gets a look for that, something wholly unconvinced: if she goes into hiding, it's to get sharper— smarter, faster, better. And if there is such a thing as a future version of herself (stranger things have happened, she supposes— not to her, but in general) there had to have been a reason for her to play so unapologetically nice.

She really, really hopes there was a reason.]

This hallway, two over, three more a floor down. [It's going to be a long day, York.]

Now you tell me where this 'habitat' is.

Edited 2017-06-04 22:07 (UTC)

Up a floor, over three, second hall to the left and you'll sort of step out into a field from east Texas. Turn south and walk or fly for a couple of minutes, you're the next habitat over.
[ That's gonna be a lot of scrubbing and this paint? Doesn't look like it cleans easy.

Yeah he's gonna need that tequila. ]

I'll meet you there when I'm done here, alright? Explain the rest of this place to you.

I'll be waiting.

[She scuffs a few nails through her mohawk before turning on her heel, decisive in her movements when she moves to leave. Decisive in everything.]

And you better not be screwing with me.

[Because if you are, York...]

I'm a shit liar.

[ He calls over his shoulder, already scrubbing a hand over his face. Okay. Time to...process how he feels while cleaning up the paint. He can handle that. Delta thrums in the back of his mind, lining up parts of Azucar that align neatly with this feral little gangster.

Patterns, equations. Shit she'd said, shit she hadn't-

Urging him to go. Poking through Legion files; looking for who's responsible? For the truth in all this mess? And where did that make him fall? Where'd that put Sam? She can, (will, he reminds himself) peel off whenever she likes, make a new face, a new name. They'll...probably stick it out here.

Locus might follow. Azucar- Sombra had him on a leash. Taylor knows he wouldn't fly out with her without Locus but whether or not he'd do the same is- it's a mess in his head and it's no easier to clean than all this paint. By the time he's gotten the halls scrubbed half decently clear and used up as much luck as he could spare to make sure no one asked him questions? He'd been equally unlucky enough to have flecks of it all over his uniform and skin, some in his hair.

Finding his way to their beach- her beach- is all but instinctive. He bobs along over the sand, flying rather than walking, too weary from putting his back into clearing off paint and his mind tangling in knots to do much more than drop in the first clear patch of sand he finds and start working off his boots. ]

Alright little sugarskull, I'm here.

[By the time he shows up she's staring at the edges of the city limits, peering upwards at distant lights and tall, metal towers. Not Dorado— not hers or anyone else's— but similar enough that Sombra feels like she knows it somehow. Maybe that's the point.

Familiar, unfamiliar. Unsettling when she's so out of time with nothing to show for it, and no real allies aside from, well— ]

Sombra. [She reiterates, though not as harshly as before. As far as she can tell, he hasn't been selling her lies— and considering how deeply in hot water she'd been before she woke up here, that's not exactly a bad thing.

She turns around on her heel to face him, wandering closer and flopping down, elbows over her knees. Eyes trained on those residual flecks of glowing paint stuck to his skin.]

I don't get it.

Get what?

[ Shoes off, shirt peeled up to better revel in the salty breeze, leaning far enough forward the little chip at the base of his skull is visible for half a second. Just a moment and little more before he's flopping back entirely, staring up at a familiar yet foreign sky. ]

Keeping you out of trouble?

You said we were friends. [That part is self explanatory: he's trying to keep her safe because— for some reason— he clearly cares.]

I mean this place isn't real: it doesn't exist. It looks like Dorado, but it isn't. The landmarks are all wrong.

[She keeps her eyes trained on him, searching like she intends to find something that's imperceptible lurking just beneath the surface. The glint of that chip isn't missed.] Seems like a lot of work to hide everything.

[Her frown is drawn thin, brow furrowed. He'd said she was older, does that mean that years in the future she's still in hiding? Does that make everything she's working towards now pointless? Aspirations, power, necessity, it's hard to imagine it means anything if all it's done is put her back against the figurative wall.]

I'm guessing I didn't tell you anything about that, did I?

We are.

[ Until they aren't. Till he's not useful or until she needs to move- who knows. They're close and he's cracked himself open every which way for her to see and know about and she's- been kind.

How much of that was her? How much wasn't? How much of this is gonna hurt when she's back?

How much does he actually care about the future headache? Not that much. They're friends. He cares. It's enough for him right now to try to help out. ]

I don't know. All you said was this was like your home, that you enjoyed the ocean. That hte sea cures everything. Shit like that.

[She leans in a little closer, sliding down to rest on her side beside him: her guard's still technically up, but...]

Pfft. Technically it is. [It's a little, bitterly amused snort. Technically it is like her home, like Dorado, like the beach and the warm sands and the gentle surf. That she told him anything at all must have been a good sign, all things considered.

She doesn't know who to trust, where to go, which makes York the closest thing to a foothold— whether he wants to be or not. And while Sombra might not like the idea of being wholly dependent on someone (what if this is all a simulation? A ploy? She didn't find any gaps in the system, but she's missed minor details before) he's an advantage she sorely needs.

Her brow furrows, lips thinning out. The topic changes again. Casual this time.]

You know you don't really seem like the kind of people I hang out with. You're a little...

[She lifts a clawed hand, waving it in a cyclical pattern as if it's a stand in for any actual descriptors.]

So much flexibility offered by technicalities. [ Keeps life interesting for both of them, honestly. He rolls over to prop a hand on his cheek, squinting at her with his good eye. There's a subtle pulse of color- a faint flicker of green in the depths of his pupil. Delta checking in. A quick discussion of how much to say- how much of their hand to tip.

How much trouble this could net them.

But it's- Azucar. It's Sombra. Someone they've chosen to trust, someone that's trusted them in turn. They're not about to break that bond now just cuz she's younger and sharper and angrier than anticipated. ]

I'm a thief that was shot for stealing private military equipment and going AWOL. Also treason. The playing by the rules thing is a very recent development, Mija.

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