legionworld | [OPEN] You're Out of Touch

Entry tags:

[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!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Her tech's homemade: it works, it's reliable, but it's not fresh-off-the-line levels of foolproof. Which means in summary Sombra's setup can handle water, electricity, heat— just not the full, unrelenting brunt of it.

She's got her claws dug in when York trips over them (literally), aching to bring down the unfortunate target of her ire. She's poised to strike when she's doused— alongside the both of them— her invisibility fading with a sharp snap and a dull fizzle that's enough of a short to have her letting go.

She drops to the floor and lands on her heels, half-crouched and soaking wet and not looking happy about it.]

—Seriously??

[ Locus, too, comes crashing down, though he manages to get a knee under him to brace before he's also doused in water.

It drips from his hair, hanging into his face, as he lifts his head to glare at the girl. Then, his eyes shift towards York, and he looks almost vaguely guilty. ]

She started it.

[ A very important point to be made, first and foremost. ]

You! You're supposed to stay out of trouble, that was the deal!

[ It's why he's out here with a bucket of water to clean shit the old fashioned way (some might look at him funny but all the future tech in the world did fuck and all against the paint. Scrubbing with soap and water? Worked.) ]

And you- [ He levers himself up, offering both of them a hand up. ] You know better. Sombra this is Locus- Sam. He's that friend I told you about. Sam this is Azucar- Sombra. Same right back.

Wasn't my fault he decided to be a dick.

[Huffed out more stubbornly than it needs to be, there's still adrenaline flickering in her veins; shaking it for the sake of playing nice is less of a quick stop, and more of a slow roll. She snakes her way out of the heap, using her bare hands to wipe away water where she can find it— phosphorescent paint dripping away as the seconds tick on.

What a waste.

When she finally flicks her eyes over to take in Sam's face (to really take in his face, instead of pegging him for a target) she adds, mildly:]

Doesn't look like much of a friend to me.

You shoved a gun in my face. You're the one who's being...

[ But he cuts himself off before he can actually swear, looking cross and smoothing his hair back out of his face before straightening. They're both soaking, dripping down to the floor, but he looks more tolerant with his current state than she is.

It's York's statement that's proving more difficult to swallow, and his pale eyes dart in the older man's direction with a raised brow. ]

You're sure about that?

I swear to god- [ He takes a slow, calming breath. Counts to ten. ] You need to stop looking at him like he's a target, you need to quit looking at her like she's a threat, and you're both going to wait for me on the beach. Got it?

[ They'll listen and get along long enough for him to finish this shit and straighten things out or...fuck if he knows. ]

Just. Trust me on this. Sam, I know you trust me. [ He swigs his eyes back over to Sombra and stretches his mind for some kind of excuse that'll work for her. ] I'll bring a fresh bottle of tequila. Or five. Just try to play nice- meaning without trying to kill him.

I am a threat.

[Purred out with a slow-burning, toothy little grin that's all for (antagonistic) show: the current that'd hidden beneath Azúcar's sweet exterior, rolled back into its predatory prime.

But her attention drifts soberly back towards York a moment later, the calavera patterning that masked her face now entirely gone, damp hair draped down across one eye.

She stands up. Offers a played-up salute.]

Try not to take too long.

I don't want to get stuck with babysitting duty.

What beach?

[ Don't even acknowledge it. He's angry, but not enough to pursue another fight. If York says they can work this out, then they can, he's just got to avoid her claws until then.

Like a feral cat. Possibly with rabies. ]

Her beach. [ He jerks a thumb at Sombra. ] Lead him there. No mugging, no tagging, no drowning him, no fighting. Just. Talk. Like people do; y'all actually have some shit in common when you're not hissing like cats and dogs.

[ Why is this his life?

He gets what's left of the bucket and heads to the art on the wall, resuming his earlier 'scrub off paint' duty. ]

This won't take long.

[It doesn't take long.

Reaching the beach, plodding over to it wordlessly as though they're in some kind of stalemate. She doesn't pick a fight with 'Sam', but she doesn't figure he's worth her time: York seems like he's telling the truth, and if they really are friends— somehow— it's better for them both if they take a few minutes to come down from one unnaturally rough first meeting.

Still, she isn't idle once they hit the shoreline. It's a nice beach, sure, it's just not her kind of beach. So while Sam does...whatever to pass the time, Sombra takes to rearranging the coded structure of the beach by hand: shifting the coastal skyline to reflect Dorado instead, adding a few tags here and there (York might've said no tagging, but this space is hers, she gets to use it however she wants).

Picking through the coded lines in front of her, Sombra glances back over the curve of her shoulder, infinitely more human-looking now that all the painted bones have been washed away.]

So what's your deal, anyway?

[ Sam, meanwhile, looks the beach over for stones he can throw into the lapping edge of the water, watching them disappear beneath the foam. He's quiet, he's always been relatively quiet by nature, but it's clear he's still watching Sombra from the corner of his eye.

He's no fool. ]

You're going to have to be more specific.

[ It feels like bait. He's not the most socially graceful, and she's got a quick tongue and a quick temper. All he needs is to waltz into some conversational bear trap she's laying down for him. ]

If we're friends, there's got to be something you're good for.

[Or good at, or know about, or—

She stops working, abandoning a recently added mural to Los Muertos added along Dorado's portside seawall: a colorful, neon series of drawings and threats all purposefully intertwined. If someone wanders in here? They'll know exactly where they are.

And who they're dealing with.]

[ He considers that a moment. Friends due to necessity. York hadn't mentioned that, and he didn't know how well that sat with him, but...

Frowning, he picked up another pebble, smoothed it over in his fingers. ]

Pick a spot.

[ And he nodded towards the wall, covered in tags and colorful paint that she'd so painstakingly placed. ]

[She could make it easy on him— it's a long ways off by default, that wall— but instead, after pursing her lips in thought for a moment, she flicks a clawed hand up towards the highest point of where the wall juts forward at an angle, digitally painting a little skull-laden 'x' for a target. Position-wise, it's facing away from him just enough to be a challenge. Maybe impossible.

But if he fails, at least it'll be interesting.]

Knock yourself out, amigo.

[ There's a moment of observation, taking in the needed trajectory. The height, the angle, the stirring of wind. He narrows his eyes a moment in thought, turning the pebble over again.

And then he turns his back. Lets her see him do it before winding back, only at the last second swiveling to pitch the pebble with the necessary force. There's no way he could have lined up that shot in that short of a spin.

Ding! Right on target. ]

[Her head snaps across to track the trajectory of the stone, making sure he actually hits his target— and fortunately it also means that when the telltale little click of it lands, her surprise isn't visible. She stands there for a beat longer, genuinely impressed...where he can't see.

And then turns back towards him, glancing just out of the corner of her eyes:]

So you can throw a few rocks.

Rocks, bullets...if it's a projectile of any kind, I don't miss. I don't think I can.

[ He shrugs. ]

Fitting, I suppose.

[ After all, his aim hadn't been terrible when he signed up. This was just...a step further. ]

As promised. [ He wanders up the beach, cooler in hand. Beers, ciders, bottled water, and tequila. Something for all of them since he knows Sam doesn't much care for beer and he's not gonna down tequila all night. He sets the cooler down and strips off his shirt, flopping onto the sand without further comment.

Well.

Maybe one. ]

Y'all playing nice?

Don't I always?

[Like a moth to a flame, she wanders over, plucking up her own chosen bottle of tequila and peering down across the curve of his bare shoulder— the idea that it might be considered tasteless to stare is (unsurprisingly) the farthest thing from her mind. As far as she's concerned, she's in good company, now that Sam's taken the time to prove himself.

Soaking it up for all it's worth while she's here? Seems like the right way to go.]

She's determined that I'm probably useful.

[ See how he's not rolling his eyes? He does shake his head, however, edging closer and reaching hesitantly for one of the bottles, before changing his mind and reaching for a cider.

He's not trying to wind up drunk and make bad decisions, thank you. ]

Shit, is that your metric for what makes a good friend? Suddenly our relationship makes so much more sense. [ It probably says something that he's more wry than hurt at this point, too busy pulling over a bottle of beer and twisting off the cap. As per usual he's got his fair share of scars- you don't fight in a war and walk away clean. ]

Well, I'm your friend cuz I like you and you're both pretty kickass people. Also adorable when younger and not trying to shoot me.

Hm. 'Adorable' isn't a word I usually hear.

[Bottle top popped before she bothers sitting down between them, fiddling with a spare tin of paint with her free hand where it rests half-buried in the sand.] Not since I joined up with Los Muertos.

[Hard to believe— based on the impression he's exhaled along the way— that her current reflection is somehow more precious than the one she'd left behind.]

Edited (It's lateeee) 2017-06-22 10:52 (UTC)

[ To that, Sam says nothing, merely eyeing Sombra over the bottle he lifts to his lips. Los Muertos? Really?

Well it explained her ghoulish get-up, before the water had cleaned it all away. 'Adorable' wouldn't have been the word he used for her, either. ]

What else, Pequenita? You hear that you're pretty? Cuz that's not wrong either. Y'all are both pretty pretty. [ Long hair and emoting is a good look for Sam and Azucar? Knew she was beautiful. Leaving him, the scarred, the lean, and the half blind. ] But that don't make you less adorable as a feral sandchild and teenaged introvert.

[Don't judge, Sam. Los Muertos was one of only a few potential buyers for a very small hacker that never considered her expendable in their place: to them, she was hilarious at first, then fascinating, and resourceful— and then one of them. And they always had a cause.]

Only when somebody wants something.

[But— in this case, despite her commentary— she doesn't consider him part of that equation. Partially thanks to what he's done for her so far, and also partially because calling her a 'feral sandchild' isn't following the formula of flattery. He isn't trying to pry anything out of her, by now she's certain of that.

So she pulls a sip from her bottle before shifting focus, dropping her attention to the can of paint and dipping a couple fingers into it. Setting herself to the task of beginning to repaint all those intricate little bones across her skin now that she's no longer soaking wet.]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

one sort-of-timeskip goes here;

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