Out With the Old [modplot]

[letsgolegion]

Who| Everyone who signed up
What| The rescue of the NPC Legionnaires
Where| A movie studio in New New York
When| Takes place the same time as "Books of Magic"
Warnings/Notes| N/a

The studio where the Legionnaires are being held is swarming with supervillains. It's a trap, of course. But that doesn't mean they have to walk right into it. They have a plan, and now it's time to put it into action.

The Legion of Supervillains are expecting the non-native Legionnaires to be pushovers. They're about to discover just how crushingly, devastatingly wrong they are.

Comments

Team FUCK YOU and FUCK YOU TOO ( or York and Delta shenanigans)

[goddamngrenades]

Slipping in while everyone's distracted by the rather MASSIVE guy with a hammer ruining their collective day? Piece of cake. Getting Delta slotted in nice and neat next to Cortana to help her with calculations and backend and rigging up that HUD they put together an hour ago? Also easy. Working on rerouting the broadcast feed isn't that difficult- just tedious and York's camped down there, sampling out every voice from the earlier broadcast to feed to South, supplying her with marbles he's charged to go off upon dropping from a height, and getting their own motion trackers, cameras, and sensors set up. Hunkering down and not dealing with the treat in combat isn't how he'd like to do shit but-

Objectivity needs to be a thing.

He doesn't have it.

These assholes are beating his CO on live broadcast and he can't keep his cool well enough to not be directly involved. SO. Support and chaos is the name of the game.

[nofortunateson]

When he can swing it? North strongly prefers to not be in basements. True, in the Project he was technically a stealth specialist, the same as South. But his strengths really shine when he has a clear vantage and room to maneuver quickly, somewhere a rifle would be more use than a shotgun. And the basements of the studio are far, far from the long sightlines and easy-to-ignore rooftops that he favors.

The heat vision helps, though. He can see where a clattering is rats or pipes and where it's humanoid shapes, though thicker walls or hot water pipes play hell with it. Still, he finds himself prowling a likely avenue of escape - or sabotage - rifle at the ready and senses fixed on a growing blot of warm that's staying suspiciously still. Theta's quiet in the back of his head, the soothing knowledge of variables being run and input being scanned a healthy fraction of a second faster than his brain could manage on its own.

It means that what happens next happens very fast - and that he moves half on instinct, half on the trust he puts into Theta's input. Because he dives through the last open doorway on a command that doesn't have or need a reason and his eyes see gold and Theta shouts the instantaneous concept far wall explosive device triggered now and both of them put York together in the same flash, because all of the analytics in the world don't make up for fighting alongside a man so long you know him just from the way the light glints off his armor.

"Get down!" he barks, just in case the shield doesn't hold where it flashes into place on the wall, wincing with the effort of holding his focus on that little dome of solid light when the explosion goes off inside with a bass, airless thud that cracks the wall behind it.

[goddamngrenades]

Sometimes when he's wrist deep in wires and trying to mind his six, his trackers, and the mess of a fiddly little bitch he's trying to coax into working with him with nudges of fingers and code he hears his team in the back of his head. Hurry up, York. ETA on that door, York? For fuck's sake get the damn thing open, York!

There's a flicker on his hud that screams danger and Delta's sequestered up high with Cortana, safe and sound and secure while working that end of the equation they're double teaming and not present to warn him about the explosive. Of course the yell that gets him to shove away and haul his arms up to cover his head through the gut twisting panic sounds like North. A familiar voice in the middle of the worst goddamn rookie mistake, he doesn't want to lose his other eye, he doesn't want to die, he can't deal with losing a limb- a million and one frantic thoughts scatter and crack along with-

No bones.

No shrapnel in his armor. Must've been lucky.

He uncurls from where he'd shoved himself, Delta on the comm with quiet urgency trying to get him to respond- his vitals wild and pitched sharp in the aftermath but nope. Nothing here but an achingly familiar arrangement of hexagons. "...Uh. Tell Cortana thanks."

Because who the hell else could've just saved his ass?

[nofortunateson]

. . . tell who thanks?

North would blame it on a solid knock to the head, but he knows he contained the blast. Add to that the fact that York, despite having followed his order, isn't even looking at him, and he's caught in a moment of uneasy bewilderment, letting go of the shield so the scatter of hot debris and dust can slide harmlessly to the ground.

It's York, he's sure of it, that's York's armor, York's voice, York's stupid predisposition to get so into his own head he almost gets it blown off his shoulders. The only thing that's not York is the fact that North's picking himself up from a crouch, and not catching so much as a quip for the quick save.

"Man, York. Wrong name in the middle of the action?" He tsks, stepping closer, trying to rattle the York that he knows free with an easy jibe that's all intentional relaxation. "No wonder you still don't have a girlfriend."

[goddamngrenades]

Phantom North is sassing him.

Also normal. Which- he probably should tell the doc about. Has toed the line of doing just that but they're working and he doesn't wanna get benched and he's fine. Rolls out his shoulders, scrubs at a scuff on his shoulder plating and crouches right back down to get to where he was. No more explosives. Delta still and quiet for some fucking weird reason that feels like a pregnant pause before, quietly, comes the note.

"You are not alone."

"Uh- yeah I am? Trackers show nothing, area's clear. I just fucked up like a moron. Nothing else in this panel, though, so I'm fine." Right back to wrist deep in wires, teasing them apart to get to what he needs to. "Seriously, D, thank her for saving my bacon. I'd be full blind insteada just half-"

"Cortana did not supply that shield. There are no holoprojectors in the basement."

[nofortunateson]

Nothing. Straight back to work like no one else is there, and that crawls cold and not-right through North's gut, because that isn't York. Is it? No matter which way he turns it, it doesn't make sense, and now Theta is getting antsy too, triple-checking for any sign that they have the wrong man and not finding anything either and asking if York is mad at them and no, it's okay, we just had to split up after the crash, remember? like that answers anything and-

-and he does not think he - either of them - has ever been that glad to hear clear, precise voice of Delta over the comms.

At that point, it's okay. He can wait patiently for the acknowledgement he's due.

[goddamngrenades]

"...what?" He- what? York untangles his figners and checks his trackers again and- holy shit there's company. Massive company and he goes still rather than whirling to face the enemy because it...it isn't? The enemy.

His Hud pings the shape and density as friendly and there aren't many people that large with shields that shape with voices that crawl down and hook in and scream familiarity. Scream teammates and fond exasperation and years of shittalking and shit giving and it's been fucking forever- Before Delta can say one thing or another he turns slow and there it is. The familiar outline of North standing still and real and solid and-

It's always voices. Echos. Never faces. Never armor. His voice is a thin, rough scrape when he manages to find it and-

"I always knew you were my guardian angel." Because if he laughs it's real. If he gives that tilt of his helmet, the 'jesus fuck York' shift of his shoulders and drawling wry fondness it's him.

[nofortunateson]

He doesn't laugh - just huffs, relieved and bemused and aggrieved all in one seamless tumble. Head and rifle barrel down and to the side, away from that unconsciously strict attention, because this is York. He's on Earth in the future and here's York, snuck into somewhere he has no business being either, strung out and giving him shit about his name.

"Don't think you can sweet-talk your way out of ignoring me, now," he warns him, grin probably audible even through his helmet comms.

[goddamngrenades]

I didn't think you were real.

How do you tell your bro that you're so used to hearing him call you out on stupid shit you've done or not done or giving you shit for just being you that hearing him was something to be shrugged off? You don't. York doesn't just- shoves away from the wall and takes the five seconds they absolutely do not have to haul North in by the shoulders and hug him as close as the armor will allow.

Here.

Whole.

Solid. "Jesus Fuck, North." His voice is just on this edge of hysterical because Christ this is not what he expected today.

[nofortunateson]

Okay- okay. There are possible explanations for this. Maybe York's been here longer - he'd got the impression he wasn't exactly entering the first class through. Maybe he's seen some extremely superpowered nightmare fuel. But even missing him, even going through who knows what, he's surprised by the intensity of that hug, and pats his back solidly, helmets knocking together in a lazy headbutt.

"Hey, it's okay." He's not sure what exactly he's reassuring him of. It. "Good to see you too."

That can't be the half of it, and he knows it, but getting into the brass tacks? That's not what you do in the middle of a job. Not if it seems even remotely avoidable. Which . . . this actually seems like it might not be, if whatever it is has reached the ignoring-people-standing-nearby stage. Not injury, he thinks. York's suit still looks solid.

"You doing okay?"

[i_got_this]

"Hey, you got something for me?"

South's stuck close enough to York so far, but she's getting the urge to head out and play around in the vents and fuck shit up. York was part of that plan, though, with the bombs and the cameras that she'd be depositing.

[goddamngrenades]

"Lemme charge up one more for you." Rigging a bag for a mouse or whatever to carry has been tricky- especially since he does NOT wanna blow up South for anything, but he's been able to nudge their mutual luck along to keep things going smoothly. One more moment of his eye glowing blue, one more careful roll of his palm to set the marble in with it's fellows before he offers the bag up for South. "Looks like there's a cluster of some mooks up a level and one studio over."

[i_got_this]

"Got it!" She takes the bag and places it between her teeth, winks at York, and then with a flash and a pop she's a little mouse dragging the bag into the vents and disappearing with a skitter. She drags it up to the appropriate area and takes a moment to survey who's where, and starts nudging the little marbles into place.

Then, before she leaves, she chances running into the room, waits until she's sure the mooks are engaged in their own conversations, and runs over to poop on one's shoe before turning and running back into the vents.

Eventually she's joining York again and flashing back to herself with a shit-eating grin.

"Light 'em up."

[steelandtemper]

"So. Who's the new guy?" Snugly inside the studio systems and not coming out until the shooting stops, Cortana backgrounds a few less important processes so she can focus some attention on Delta. If she tended to conceptualize her actions as physical, it would be like clearing a few holoscreens from her field of view and leaning forward in her chair. Probably reaching for her coffee, too.

[goddamngrenades]

"Theta?" Delta tugs a little on some problematic code to loosen it, switching his focus from minding York (he's got Theta and North, no need for him as well) to Cortana. It'as not unlike shuffling a bit of tedious paperwork off his desk and adjusting his glasses to buy a moment. "He is my younger- my youngest, brother. When we were...when the Core AI that our donor made was fragmented we each formed with particular core traits. I am Logic. Theta is trust."

[steelandtemper]

"Mm. How solid is he?" In Cortana's considerably-less-than-humble opinion, 'trust' isn't the primary character trait one wants in a military AI. And on the subject thereof, she certainly doesn't trust Freelancer to have made sound decisions in which of its assets to field.

[goddamngrenades]

"All things considered?" That he is a child, that he is easily frightened and anxious, that he is meant to go into active combat where he is often afraid with nothing but the compassion and patience of North to otherwise guide him? "He is as solid as I am, if still learning how to operate. We are...we were not fragmented in the usual way. Theta bears more trauma than most of us for who and what he is."

A beat. Almost protective warmth settles in Delta's voice. "But he is capable. He is intuitive and highly skilled in calculations regarding practical applications of physics. North's Hard Light Shield was difficult to control without a pipeline to the main servers onboard the Mother of Invention. Despite his apparent weaknesses, only I and perhaps one other would have been able to manage it as well as he."

[vata]

She materializes right behind him as he's working, flicking the back of his helmet with a gentle tap. Playful despite the circumstances or where they presently are, half-hidden on a stealth mission to try and save the Legion's best and brightest from certain death.

"Boop."

If he bothers to turn around, she's beaming bright as ever. Probably because she's also brought a certain stealthy someone along with her as her designated partner for this assignment.

"Need some backup, mijo?"

[goddamngrenades]

The only thing keeping him from flinching and whirling is her steady approach on the trackers (She let herself be seen and he's grateful for that) and Delta's assurance that it's really her. He'll. Look at using Delta as a benchmark for reality later, right now? he needs that.

Wrist deep in a panel and digging through to find- well.

The emergency med kit. The bandage pasted over the hole in his undersuit is tinged red and starting to leak and that's never a good sign. York forces some levity into his voice as he turns, helmet cocked to indicate an answering smirk. "Li'l bit, yeah. Ran into a stabby sonovabitch earlier."

Yes, that's a gouge in his helmet right by his jaw and a cut on his neck. Yes he's bleeding. "How are y'all doing?"

[vata]

"Shit, Taylor." The frown that hits her is immediate— reaching across the distance to set a hand beside the gouge in his helmet, trying to get a better look at the damage. If he has a problem with it, he can argue with her once she's made sure he isn't gravely injured.

"You should have said something." About his wounds, at least. "I could have brought some supplies with me."

And to that, she casts a short glance behind her, open concern turning towards Locus instead: "You don't have anything on you, do you?"

[agnominal]

The camo fades, and Locus steps into view just behind Sombra. His frown is damn near audible in his tone. "No. Should have thought to bring something."

This? Was exactly what he'd been afraid of. Why he'd cautioned against leaving him out of a fight against Felix. He knew how he operated, might have been able to mitigate some of the damage.

And Taylor doesn't look great, just now.

[goddamngrenades]

"I'm used to having the healing unit." Kind of forgot that's not a THING here. Or. It's nonfunctioning because Delta can't run it and what kind of bullshit is that? So much bullshit.

"Looks worse than it is, just. Help me get this panel out?" There's a kit on the other side of the wall and walking that far felt like too much on wiggly legs. "I popped him one in the mouth, though. Think that pissed him off."

He remains far too pleased with himself about that, even if the hand that tries to tug his helmet off so he can treat that cut fumbles a bit.

[vata]

"Just...sit down." It's said with a tolerant sort of exasperation and a slight upwards curl at the corner of her mouth; approving, but maybe not obviously so. He's clearly paid a high price to get his hands on Felix.

She doesn't mention that she's left him locked up somewhere else at the moment, Taylor deserves pride in his victory.

From there, Sombra buries herself in trying to dislodge the paneling, bit by diligent bit, ignoring any streaks of crimson.

[agnominal]

"He'll be coming after you now. Both of you. You made it personal."

There's a deep exhale, a restless dissatisfaction with the situation. There's little he can do to help with York's wounds, and now he knows Felix will come gunning for the two of them first.

"I should have finished it." This time it appears he's grumbling more to himself than to them.

[goddamngrenades]

"I've lived through worse." For about fifteen seconds but who's counting- not him. He's. Sitting and setting his helmet off to one side, unstrapping that segment of armor to better hold a hand over the bleeding bandage. He's fine. Everything's okay.

"Yeah, well. He can bring it. I'll punch him in the dick next time. He's a bastard but he's nowhere near as good as Carolina." And he'd sparred with her regularly while she was in her prime. He'd been off balance cuz of the charm power, that was all. He's got this. "Hey-"

Azucar's working but Locus? Get's his arm snagged by York, tugging. "Finished what?"