h҉a̕c҉k̵ th̴e ̀p̕lán͡e̵t̛ (ap)

oh hey wow i’m alive.

     Revolutionaries were never meant to live so long. They died historic, struggling to surmount whatever governments stood in their place. By all accounts, they both should be dead, martyrs of their crusades – but the odds had been tilted with careful planning and predictions; beating the odds had been as smooth as drawing a breath -- but that was where they’d crumbled. One stepped into the light while the other was dragged deeper down, suffocated and erased by something unimaginable. They were different now, and sharing space was more akin to caging two birds of prey, each looming at one another, not quite sure when the other would snap, and feathers would fly.

     The conversation was, on the whole, careful -- boring beyond belief. Gently prodding to see who would strike first, who could get under who’s skin before the sun totally disappeared beyond the horizon. Outside, a glimpse of sunset -- orange, pink, purple, blue, all twisting into the mantle of the night sky. Silence lulls between them, his arms crossed, eyes focused somewhere else, however briefly.

     “You’ve got something -- “ Index gestures, vaguely, towards him, and she can see the question of ‘where?’ forming on full lips before she swoops in, mischief in her mirth as fingertips brush his chin, and a kiss finds purchase on the side of his throat. The teeth of her grin brush skin, relishing the sharp inhale that robs him of the word, and it is all he can do to muster himself and nudge her away, perhaps with less fire than he intends. “There.” Lips purse with a satisfied hum, eyeing the colorful mark now pressed into his neck, allowing a giggle as thumb brushes past the corner of her lip, making sure there is no smear.

     Discomfort does not rest well on her features -- lip curls in clear distaste at the insistence of the other. The botching of her escape was, of course, intentional -- subsequent capture a necessary repercussion. But the holes in her side, bullets caught in tender flesh, were an irritating consequence. She needs to be here -- to know for sure if the bones of Overwatch are finally floating back together -- but Dr. Ziegler will not give her a moment to breathe on her own. Wincing, sullen form reluctantly lays back down, hands raised in a near mocking surrender. Long game it is.

             ❛ kinda curious about the outfit, sombrinha? ❜         fingers tap out a rhythm along sleek surface. head bobbing to some tune that only played for him. hardly does he smile at her, always preoccupied with what she USED to be and not allowing himself to move on and accept this ‘NEW’ her. but he’s making some attempt, allowing her to linger close, talking to her without venom on his tongue that spoke of FORMER self.         ❛ not too in love with your like toe shoes, honey. ❜   //  @skycodcr ( SC )

     Laughter bubbles forth from darkly painted lips, a serpent’s smirk pulling at features as eyes become downcast, hold somewhere around his elbow. Of course the other would have qualms with her choice in fashion -- he had always been more conscious of those things -- but it did little to change that it was both a matter of comfort and function.

                                     ❝  competent —- of course .  ❞  doomfist scoffed , as mean to play off his caution of her , wary of her smile . the thing , he noted , about competency was that it could be DANGEROUSLY subjective , and effected by the level of expectation . he half hoped hers were low enough . arms unevenly crossed , head canted , ❝  this is what i mean by uneven , you can look at my tech but i can’t touch yours ? there’s no fair trade in this is there ?  ❞ his tone was meant jokingly , and his question half rhetorical in nature —– the answer he expected being more prominent than any other possibility .