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!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ 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.]

Almost as though relationships are defined by one's usefulness in the situation.

[ Which just confirmed the quip he'd made to start with, and solidified his need to feel a little wary around her. But a second later he was drinking again, all the same. ]

Is there a point to reapplying all that make-up now?

And that's not a toxic mentality at all. [ The sarcasm is thick in this one- but he does roll up enough to squint at her. That's... been there, done that, and again. Puts their relationship in a very particular light that makes him, if not question it, reevaluate how he feels about it. At least in the moment.

Maybe it's more than that now.

Maybe it's less.

He won't know until she's her again. ]

Don't blame a lady for try'n to look fierce, Sam.

['Toxic' earns a particularly derisive snort from Sombra. As far as she's concerned, getting to sit around with morality on the table is a luxury— and a bad one at that.]

Los Muertos. [She reiterates, lifting her stare but not her head along with it.] It's not about looking fierce.

We're already dead.

And nobody owns the dead.

You don't look dead to me.

[ Wryly remarked behind the bottle before it lowers, Sam now taking full stock of her all over again. A gimmick of the gang, perhaps, something to invoke the feeling of being more important or more invincible than the others.

He didn't see a dead girl. He saw a hard, vicious little thing who'd carved herself a life out of the slums, like so many he'd seen growing up. ]

You haven't seen her hung over. [ a beat. ] Actually, you have. I think. I was kinda hung over too.

[ He rolls over for a moment, braced on his elbows to stretch and half burrow into warm sand, beer cold in his fingers. It's all familiar except for them- even then it's not all that too off the regular vibe. She's got more teeth, Sam's more sarcastic, he's...being the calm, rational one.

Up till something shifts along his skin- ragged scars melting into taut, unblemished skin, the bulk of him pared down to whipcord muscle starkly defined beneath. Hair shaggy, limbs loose- and when he rolls over to kick off his jeans? Both eyes, no facial scar, but none of that reserved bearing Sgt. Murray held so tightly. ]

We bust'n out the tequila or what, pretty lady? [ Because clearly that's what's going on here. Him hanging out with two pretty locals while on leave. ]

[She watches Sam for a moment after that, saying nothing, expression entirely earnest. However he meant it, there's something about the phrasing that drives a wedge between the part she plays and...

Exhaling, York's commentary makes it easier to drop any deeper trains of thought— and how he's physically changed by the time her stare finds him triples that, easily. She blinks, fingers going still against her skin where she's painted the dull end of a stylized humerus.] Uh.

['Uh'. Good job, Sombra. Way to bridge the obvious timeline gap with grace.]

...sure.

[ Well that's...something.

He hasn't seen the transformation happen in front of his very eyes before, but result is startling. Like he hadn't seen him clearly before, or noticed very specific details about him, only to just now realize. Except that he had been studying him before, he knew what he looked like.

The posture, the slur to his voice? All different. He exchanges a look with Sombra before tilting a brow quizzically. ]

...Taylor?

[ He's not sure whether to be alarmed or simply puzzled. ]

York. [ He corrects, offhand and easy. ] Special Agent New York of a very secret and clandestine little operation meant to save the goddamn galaxy. I told you that, right?

[ They seem familiar, shades of them, but he can't quite place it beyond attractive and present and staring. If he thinks on it long enough it'll click but he's got the beginnings of a buzz going and reason enough to not want to think too hard. It's leave. Leave isn't for thinking, it's for drinking. ]

But you- [ Propped on one elbow, smile curved and sweetly sharp. His eyes drag over both of them in all of a moment, finishing on Sam's eyes as he licks his lips, biting the bottom. ] Can call me whatever you want.

Edited 2017-06-27 06:57 (UTC)

Guess I know what it feels like, now.

[Commentary made without context to some nonexistent fourth party: this must've been how York felt when he turned a corner to find her— and Sam, apparently— so entirely changed in an instant.

How does that saying about turned tables go?

Whatever it was, it clearly never involved slim, attractive muscle, tequila and chela and the opportunity for both to have a little sway. When Taylor's eyes dart over towards Sam, she doesn't hide her own grim amusement at him being put on the spot.]

Um.

[ This has been an abrupt left turn, off the road, into a cornfield, never to be seen again. He feels something stick in his throat at that look and glances briefly towards Sombra, with a look that says he might be looking for help with this.

Instead, he just reaches for another drink, rather than occupy himself with words. His eyes still look just a little too wide, however. ]

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