anothercontinuity | Red vs Blue pt 2

Locus follows behind. He can see him piecing it together, a combination of his desire to solve a complex puzzle, military expertise, and these new senses of his, all fitting together to form the image in front of him.

This is within his power. His surroundings are an open book for him to read, at his choosing.

"What else?"

"Grenade on the conveyor belt, grenade...held roughly this high-" He holds a hand at about his chest. "And steady right about there when it went off. Either a really well timed throw or strapped to something. Melee scuffle around here-"

The dents are weird. The angle of that one jagged bit of metal? Also fucking weird.

"...Were y'all all...alive? When this happened? Because that isn't normal. I can't clock how it ended up there."

"Metal leg prosthetic. And a man adept at wielding it."

Someone he misses, to some extent, but Siris never belonged in this world. It was for the best. "You understand now the extent of what you can glean from your surroundings? Taking us by surprise becomes very, very difficult if we know our terrain."

Taylor whistles, low and slow as he gives the grounds one last good once over. A mess of a fight with odds stacked against them- and apparently they came out mostly alive. Not terrible. The mood, for a moment, seems a little heavy.

Enough that he extends a hand to attempt to tap Locus' shoulder. Technically, they didn't call time out.

At which point he's going to find his wrist ensnared, and Locus giving him a look from under those heavy brows, set at a somber angle from remembering the battle that passed here. The people he'd fought alongside.

The past is past. Here stands his future, or a good portion of what will decide it.

Offering his most innocent look, Taylor wiggles his fingers, brows lifted, eyes wide. He's just saying hi, right? Right.

Yeah Locus isn't gonna buy that.

"...What, you're not gonna run?" He can't give chase if Locus doesn't run.

Ah, so that's the game.

He cocks his head slightly, considering, before releasing his hold and stepping back. "Very well." He'll play the game, considering that York seems so pleased by the prospect, and...well. He's never had that much of a clue as to how to make someone happy before.

If it's that simple?

He leaps back, one hand reaching for a grip on the nearby bulldozer before hoisting himself up to the top of the cab, and making a leap towards the railing running the length of the building behind them. Come get him, then.

In the interest of fairness Taylor slips his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels as he waits for Locus to run. Give him something to chase. He's not even sure he'll go for it but- go for it Locus does and there's a flicker flash of bright giddy pleasure across their connection.

Kids learn by playing, right? And what is he if not a vampire kid? Ish. Thing.

Locus vaults over and York does the same, sprinting after him at full tilt.

Locus won't make it easy for him. There are no straight lines, no staying at level height for very long. Dropping down on the other side of the building and leaping down the conveyor belt is the next route to take, ducking low and sliding down the belt, before using that momentum to leap forward as far he can.

Off, towards the giant machine with the still-bloodstained saw embedded in the ground.

Ok, shit, time to put speed on his observation ave agility in his speed. Multitasking like woah- yeah, this'll end well. Reservations don't stop him from sprinting for the conveyor belt, sprinting down the covered top and trying to calculate a point of intersection. None yet, he's gotta catch up first.

He'll have a chance. Once atop the machine, Locus pauses, as if waiting for him. His hair still hangs loosely around his shoulders as he watches, clearly anticipating his approach.

Time to see how quick he was in close quarters. It only counted if he touched him, after all.

One hop to vault up, rolling, lunging once he has his feet again, grabbing for locus' middle mid tackle. Not the most graceful but that will come in time. Now he's still trying to stick the landing. Advanced shit will come later.

Locus doesn't plan on making it easy. The lunge is easy to see and he twists aside, darting out of sight around the edge of the cab and down onto the giant wheels of the machine. A second later and he's darted around the other side, curious to see how York will counter.

Rude. He follows through, tucking and rolling and popping up to dash around, using the metal side of the machine as a springboard. He hurls himself after locus, grabbing the high ground by keeping on top of the building to get a better vantage point.

But Locus doesn't run far. He's not interested in gaining distance.

It almost seems like a dance of some sort, a true test of reflexes to see how quickly he can change direction, adjust course, realize Locus isn't there any more and find his new position, all while being within a few feet of him.

Taylor gets quicker, slicker on the turns. Learns how he can fling himself around corners and maintain control, learns how to brace himself when he slams into reverse so he doesn't lose momentum. Shit he figured out in the armor- now with only denim and a button down protecting him.

Nothing weighing him down.

The next run around he slides under the machine and pops up, trying to cut Locus off at the corner.

It's sudden, but Locus tries to pivot. Swing around him rather than crash into him, reaching for the machine to haul himself up and out of the way. There's an opening, however.

If York thinks to take it, he could still stop him dead.

Delta catches it- relays the opportunity to York- who lunges. Leans. Snags at Locus with every wound up fiber of his being, focused on catching him and holding him still if only for a moment.

And Locus's back falls against the cold, flat surface of the machine, pale eyes staring up at York with something like pride, something that quickly bleeds across that connection they share.

It appears he's been caught. What now? that look seems to say.

He's got him pinned.

Well.

He's got Locus pinned because Locus wants to be pinned and the answering twist of pleasure at making his master proud is shot through with joy and a little, uh-

Attraction.

Something about the moonlight and his hair spilling behind him like this, about the intensity of his eyes and the way he can feel himself still wound so tight from the chase. He leans down, leans in- and catches himself at the last second. He doesn't...know Locus well enough to kiss him.

Much as he might want to.

"...Got you."

"So you do. Well done."

It's remarkable, how acutely something dead can feel. No matter how deceptively calm he looks, there is something inside that rumbles approval, that ever hungers. Perhaps not for blood, in the moment.

Still. Giving in to the beast is not always the wisest course. Locus tips his head back with a hum, surveying York for a moment. Reading him.

"Perhaps you should be rewarded."

It'll never feel quite right, this thundering in a pulse he doesn't have, the shallow gasps of breath he doesn't need. Anyone else when he'd been alive and it'd be the easiest thing in the world to kiss Locus.

But he doesn't know him. Is learning him, certainly, but- there's too much unknown. Too many variables.

Still he aches for something he can't ask for- and shivers a little at the promise in Locus' voice. "Uh- really?"

It's just a game but- he did catch him.

When his hand lifts, it's slow. Slow enough for protest before it curls against the back of York's head, drawing him in closer. Not to kiss, no. Locus's head dips long before that.

Instead, there's a sharp sliver of sweet pain as his fangs find his flesh, and he pulls. Slowly. York's fed twice tonight, so taking a little more without fear of his starving is possible.

And he'd already shown that he'd enjoyed it, greatly.

No protest. No fear, no wary dart of his eyes- merely tense anticipation. His pulse would flutter if he had a heart that beat but as it is? His eyes go dark, his body boneless at the first slide of Locus' teeth. Sharply sweet and carving right down to his core- he flushes.

Groans in the cool air and slips a hand down to cup the back of Locus' skull, holding him against his throat. It's-

There aren't words that aren't some shade of obscene.

It's beautiful, the noise that slips free of him. The way he clings to him as Locus draws slow sip after sip, warm blood spilling over his tongue, tasting of York. His essence. Strong and bright, tart and sweet, and filling him...

Careful, measured, because it always has to be, but there's something carnal in it. Something base and beautiful in this sharing of the blood. York can hide nothing like this, and what he feels? So too does his maker.

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