legionworld | [GoT] Good Ol'-Fashioned Alignment Swap

Who| Shepard (Renegade flavor) and unsuspecting Legionnaires
What| your teammate is suddenly a ruthless dick with extensive and glowy facial scars, sorry
Where| around
When| during Game of Throne
Warnings/Notes| Lethal gun/hand-to-hand violence in the Sim Room prompt, plus a general warning that Renegade Shepard is an antihero and has done some nasty stuff (for example: beating up a restrained prisoner, allowing noncombatants/captives to die because saving them would have inconvenienced her, abetting/outright committing more than one cold-blooded murder.) She won't do a murder on Legion World or anything, but her past actions might come up.

Extensive scars mar Shepard's face, glowing red-orange from where the cybernetics peek through, evidence that her resurrection was never quite completed to specifications. Her eyes too have an unnatural glow, red behind the green and completely overtaking the pupils. Anyone who's been paying attention can be reasonably certain that unless she's been doing an absolutely stellar job with makeup and contacts since her arrival, those weren't there yesterday.

The other signs are subtler, and with the stakes so low, why wouldn't they be? The fates of worlds aren't affected by whether or not Shepard busses her own tray in the mess or excuses herself when she bumps into someone. It could simply be written off as a bad day if not for the evidence literally shining through that something more is afoot.

A. Gym - Shepard can bench a good couple of tons now, and frequently does, exercise a long-ingrained habit despite her improved cybernetics meaning she can neither lose nor gain strength or tone. Given the improved metallurgy of the 31st century, she's not quite strong enough that she has to use one of the specialized machines, and just as well. Free weights are better for form.

Not that it matters. With a disgusted noise very different from a grunt of exertion, she finishes one last press and lets the bar slam down into the bench supports with a crash of metal on metal. What's the point? All she's doing is burning calories in exchange for zero accomplishment.

Even with her new and exciting inconsiderateness, Shepard's not far enough gone that she'll leave her weights sitting for the next person to deal with, at least not if she doesn't have anything better to be doing. Most of 'em couldn't even lift the plates, anyway. One by one she she pulls off and racks the weights, her simmering bad mood leading her to make a hell of a racket as she lets them clang against each other, not caring who she might be annoying.

Screw this.

B. Sim Room - Anyone who's run one of Shepard's marksmanship courses knows that she uses stylized, simplified figures that resemble holograms for targets rather than realistic sims of people. The Legion's rules being what they are, she doesn't want to desensitize anyone to shooting actual sapient beings, stun rounds or no. That's not a bridge it's easy to cross back over once you've paid the toll.

Which is why it's really weird to find her unloading a shotgun into a perfectly-simulated virtual person, who proceeds to crumple to the floor and leak perfectly-simulated blood everywhere. Shepard looks up at the next wave, feral grin spreading across her scarred face. Her blue-white biotic aura flares, but instead of anything anyone's seen her do before, she all but teleports, a streak of motion that phases through the half-wall standing in her way, closing the distance in a split second. The impact of her charge sends one of the attackers flying backwards and out of the fight, judging by the magnitude of the thud of a body introducing itself to a wall, but the group still substantially outnumbers Shepard. After a moment of surprise, they jump her en masse with the requisite "get her!" of the overly confident. No sportsmanship programmed into this sim, apparently.

After another few moments, it becomes clear that the simulated thugs have made a tactical error. The crunch of breaking bones and accompanying cries of pain replace threats as Shepard thins out the opposition. A broken nose here, a ruined knee there--while she doesn't seem to be trying to kill, she sure isn't going for the gentle takedown. Spinning around, she stops an incoming punch by catching the man's fist with her hand, then twists. He and his shattered wrist go sprawling on the floor, tripping up one of his buddies in the process. Shepard sniffs dismissively, rolls her shoulders, and points at her non-simulated observer.

"You gonna help, or are you just here for the show?"

C. Wildcard - Roll your own!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He can't lie, that's a little hot. Something's evidently changed, but Rico doesn't find himself minding it all that much if this is her new attitude to things.

"Sure don't look like you need help from where I'm standing."

He's never turned down a chance to show off yet, and he doesn't plan to now. He pushes off from the wall where he'd been not-so-subtly watching from, and takes the invitation to shift into a running shoulder-slam into one of the thugs with a grunt of effort, sending him sprawling back with an audible crunch, as Rico stomps on and over his throat to reach the others. He slips in front of another opponent and counters a punch with exaggerated ease, bending his arm backwards and forcing him to the ground with a knee on his back as he shrieks. Breaking bones and tearing ligaments take more finesse without superstrength, but it's trivial for Rico. He glances up at Shepard to confirm she's watching him, smiling as he squeezes harder.

"But I have to admit, it's still a pretty good show."

Hey, she never said having an audience was a problem. For her part, Shepard watches Rico with a bit of a curious tilt to her head. No flaws in his technique.

"I just get sick of how soft the Legion is on scum who aren't gonna change," she says with a disgusted huff, clotheslining another sim assailant mid-charge, almost as an afterthought. "So I come down here, blow off a little steam, and no one gets killed in the field."

Rico's toes practically curl in their boots.

"Damn right they're a bunch of bleeding hearts," he agrees amicably. "And this isn't the worst way to blow off some steam." He takes off the pressure, letting the thug take in a surprisingly lifelike ragged breath, then suddenly stamps down his boot so hard on the back of the thug's head it probably leaves an imprint, sending him sprawling.

He moves rather more purposefully with the next opponent, hitting harder than he usually would. He knows he looks good in a skintight black leather jumpsuit, but he keeps his voice casual.

"Sure could think of a couple better ones, though."

She recognizes showing off when she sees it, but hey, nothing in the Legion bylaws against appreciating the view...enough so that one of the attackers manages to grab her in possibly the most ill-advised bear hug that doesn't involve an actual bear. Shepard slams her head back into his, shattering his nose and likely most of the bones connected to it. The skull is a complicated place. He's easy enough to toss aside after that.

"Oh? I try to only drink myself unconscious when something really idiotic happens."

Rico winces in exaggerated sympathy at the crunch, even as he slams two foreheads together. "Ooh. And he really thought that would work," he says, mock-disappointed in him.

I was thinking of something a little different than that, is right on the tip of his tongue, but Rico swallows it for now. "Can't blame you. Grud knows dealing with some idiots drive me to substance abuse." And then he just decides to go right for it. Never a better time than a twisting a rotator cuff out of alignment, right?

"You like any company while you're drinking?"

The Chief's been quiet because... well. The Chief. It's only when Shepard starts making a lot of noise that she gets his attention, pausing in his own workout.

"Shepard?"

Because what.

"Yeah?" Shepard asks over her shoulder. It's maybe a little short, but she likes the Chief in general, so she's not too annoyed at having her juvenile snit interrupted. "You need something?"

Clang goes another weight.

It took a little bit of digging, but Garrus eventually managed to track down Die Hard. A wry grin tugs at the corner of his mouth as he reads the synopsis. Lone cop stuck in a building full of terrorists, flying by the seat of his pants, relying on wit and the gun at his side to get himself and the people he cares about out alive ...?

He can see why someone thought this was his kind of movie. Should make for a good evening with the right company and the small mountain of levo-snacks he's planning on trying out now that they're not an allergic reaction waiting to happen for him.

Shepard's grabbed a six pack, because of course she has. Granted, any version of her would have done that, so it doesn't prove anything. At the appointed hour (more or less) she rings the space future doorbell on Garrus's quarters.

No, it doesn't, and either way Garrus isn't going to turn down the opportunity to have a few drinks with a friend.

Albeit a friend who looks a little bit different than the last time he saw her.

"Shepard," He greets her at the door before pausing briefly, noticing the angry red glow of the scars she'd gotten from Project Lazarus.

"I take it the magic running around this place caught you too?"

Because, amazingly, the first thing that comes to his mind isn't 'My best friend has been replaced by her evil twin'.

"Don't think so. Why, did the scars clear up while I wasn't paying attention?" She reaches up with her non-beer-encumbered hand to brush her cheek. Nope, gouges all where they're supposed to be.

He blinks, opening his mouth to point out the fact that it's literally the opposite problem, but ... he just shrugs.

"Maybe it's messing with me more than I thought." Certainly seemed possible. If not, re-writing time so that the scars hadn't been patched up seemed like the least harmful edit that could have been made to her backstory. "Come on in."

"Like I was gonna blow that much platinum on cosmetic surgery." Do you know how many shotgun upgrades that could pay for, Garrus? She punches him playfully in his newly-lowered shoulder as she steps into his quarters. "Besides, weren't you the one who told me a lot of women find facial scars attractive?"

"Didn't know Krogan were your type, Commander." Not that his smile suggests he'd find that information particularly surprising.

The door shuts behind them and he gestures towards the array of snacks spread out across his countertop. "Help yourself to anything that seems interesting. I can't really make any recommendations, but I do have the movie ready."

"Never did follow up on that breeding request after Grunt's Rite," Shepard says with a laugh. It was probably Wrex trolling her, anyway.

She takes one of the beer bottles out of the carton and offers it to Garrus. "Popcorn's traditional for vids, but this is the important part."

"Request," Garrus asks, arching an eyebrow. "As in singular."

Because if you expect him to believe there was just one breeding request for a human who's killed a Reaper and a thresher maw, bullshit, Shepard.

He'll take that beer, though.

[GoT] Good Ol'-Fashioned Alignment Swap

Sim Room

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Movie Night

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