Sombra (
vata) wrote in
legionworld2017-06-03 10:53 am
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Entry tags:
[OPEN] You're Out of Touch
Who| Sombra and you!
What| there's a small gang member roaming Legion World and causing trouble
Where| everywhere on Legion World
When| eh
Warnings/Notes| NA
I: QIÉN ES SOMBRA
II: TAGGED TURF
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!]
What| there's a small gang member roaming Legion World and causing trouble
Where| everywhere on Legion World
When| eh
Warnings/Notes| NA
I: QIÉN ES SOMBRA
[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
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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. ]
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[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.]
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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. ]
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But if he fails, at least it'll be interesting.]
Knock yourself out, amigo.
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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. ]
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And then turns back towards him, glancing just out of the corner of her eyes:]
So you can throw a few rocks.
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[ He shrugs. ]
Fitting, I suppose.
[ After all, his aim hadn't been terrible when he signed up. This was just...a step further. ]
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Well.
Maybe one. ]
Y'all playing nice?
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[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.]
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[ 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. ]
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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.
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[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.]
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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. ]
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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.]
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[ 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?
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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.
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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.
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[ 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. ]
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[ 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. ]
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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.
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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. ]
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[ 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.
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[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.]
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[ 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. ]
Phone tag means prose
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well I guess this is the point where I should warn for steaminess
steaminess abounds
such steamy, much kissing, wow
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