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

[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. ]

"How 'bout you, bonita?" York's gaze slips over to the lovely, brightly painted lady at his elbow. "Body shots? I don't bite without permission. Promise."

It's too easy to list in her direction, all lean and fine and simmering with a specific kind of hunger. He's out have a good time. Help him make this fun for all of them.

Depends.

[Sombra shrugs, easing off the shock of York's transformation without much friction: she's already in outer space, dealing with someone that knows— knew— her future self, with no sign of it returning to the way it was any time soon; the fact that he's now just like them is just icing on the bizarre cake of current events.

She can deal with it.

Her grin turns, tilting back across her bare shoulder to take one more purposeful look at his bare chest - eyes flicking down, then up to meet his stare.]

Which one of us is the table?

[ If he stays quiet, they'll focus on each other, yes? Yes. That sounds like a plan.

Because he doesn't want their eyes on him, he doesn't know what he'd even do with that kind of attention, but...he's a little curious. He wouldn't mind seeing what happens. But that's just the awkward voyeur in him talking, or maybe the drink, and he quietly takes another swig while trying not to move too much at all. ]

"Ladies choice. Besides, maybe if we play nice your pretty friend won't feel so shy?" Because HE is interested in both of them. Very much so. Easy as anything he tips his head back, baring his throat and chest for her inspection.

If it's my choice... [She starts, purposefully watching him bare his throat with a practiced (and approving) eye.]

Then I choose him.

[The swift segue into her leveling her attention at Sam instead, while he tries to shrink away into nothingness at their side.]

[ He goes absolutely still at that, eyes flickering between the two of them.

Taylor had said they were friends, all three of them, when they were themselves. What that entailed, how this might tamper with however things were normally, he couldn't begin to guess. All he knows is that the feral look in Sombra's eyes has him looking away almost immediately, gaze darting towards the sand. ]

I, ah.

[ Oh yes. Well spoken, Sam. Excellent rebuttal. ]

If he's comfortable with it. No fun if he's all twitchy.

[ He turns to lean in close to Sam, eyes trailing over his face, flicking to his lips. Gauging his posture, his wide eyes and aww. He is pretty shy. It should make him feel worse about trying to drag him into this. ]

It'll be fun. And neither of us will bite. Promise.

Relajate. It's just a little alcohol.

[No matter how unthreatening those words might seem, coming out of Sombra's mouth— and without echoing the promises York's taken to passing out— as she leans ever so slightly closer, it's feral. Unsettling, maybe, depending on how resilient Sam might be.]

Wouldn't kill you...

Probably.

[ It's the 'probably' that has his jaw setting, the shyness flickering away. Oh, she's trying to scare him on purpose now, and he's having none of it. ]

I'm fine with it.

[ His gaze darts towards York with a firm nod. Alright, so they're doing this. He has no idea how to even start to go about this, but if it means showing Sombra he's not spooked by her, he's not backing down. ]

Alright then- gimme the bottle. Pretty boy? You need to lie down and lose the shirt.

[ Be comfy and topless like him- it's warm, it's not terribly windy, it's humid- it's perfect for this. ]

[Oh, she absolutely is trying to rattle him, but his stubbornness wins her attention the same way he'd won it before, when he'd been throwing rocks with inhumanly deft precision. Sam meets her stare, and her wicked grin widens by degrees...

Passing off the bottle of tequila is secondary, but simple: York gets it without commentary or complaint - she wants a good show, after all.]

[ He's staring at Sombra almost defiantly when he reaches for the hem of his shirt, peeling it off with relatively little trouble. No scars. No marks from a war he hasn't seen yet, though there's a natural tone there from working physical jobs to help his family.

Not the thing to think of at the moment, with Taylor -- York -- nearby and watching, and Sombra eyeing him like she's debating taking a bite out of him. Lying down seems contrary to every instinct he has, but he exhales hard, nostrils flaring, and settles himself back just the same. ]

Chest, throat, or belly? Your body, your call.

[ York's hand snakes out to catch the back of Sam's head, guiding him down gently into the sand. An action that's somewhat at odds with the predatory cast of his smirk, the appreciative glint in his eyes. ]

[ Chest is going to be messy. Belly...no. Don't want to risk it tickling and twitching at the wrong moment. ]

Throat.

[ There's a nice little dip in the hollow of his throat that...could work. He's never actually done this before, but if he stays still and trusts York's hands, it should work.

Right? ]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Phone tag means prose

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