Test Drive Meme #5

[spoofer]

Test Drive Meme #5

You wouldn’t wake; i couldn’t sleep for years.

INTRODUCTION ⇄ FAQ ⇄ APPLICATIONS

CRASH LANDING

Exit one dimension, enter the next. It was chaos: pressure against your ears, light bending in an impossible, unimaginable way. The very molecules of your body vibrating against one another. If you have windows, the view outside makes no sense. Even if not, your hands, your face, your feet seem like an uncertain thing. It's the feel of reality itself tearing apart, reshaping, reconnecting, thread by thread.

And suddenly, there's a beach— or ocean, whichever you land in. Smoke. Fire. Salt water churning up, fizzing around.


Maybe you crash, in a ship wrecking into sand. Maybe you merely stumble out of a portal, a ragged wormhole in space. Or maybe you fall off the back of an incredible steed, some creature that carried you into this place. Either way, there's pandemonium around you. Incredibly, severe injuries are far and few between— nobody's screaming about the dead. But you might have to help pull someone free of wreckage, or move quickly to salvage burning belongings from the landing craft. Maybe it's the crafts themselves, that you're trying to salvage.

Likely, you don't know them, these other strangers who arrived here^[1]. Maybe you don't trust them— you just came out of a dying world, after all. But you all have one thing in common: you're here now.

When you get a second to breathe, maybe you'll see it. The brilliant green forest across the sand. Beyond that, the glint of a faraway city.

THE RAIN

Here comes the rain. Trickling down the rafters and tinkling down the trees, it starts as a drizzle and steadily increases to a downpour. Maybe it catches you by surprise, chasing you indoors or to share the umbrella of a friendly stranger. There's something oddly elaborate about the gutters of Xistentia's city-- it clearly carries the water toward the temple in the East, a storm system that causes the lamps to pulsate without threatening to shut down.


You'll notice too that you're prone to nostalgia which even infiltrate your dreams, memories sad or happy. This is easily a private experience, but you might find yourself wandering the city to get away from old ghosts or feeling invincible in the glow of memories. More oddly, whether or not you're an artist, you might be inspired to draw on the windows with your finger in the condensation.

Personal symbols, detailed illustrations, these inextricably lead back to the nostalgia. Whatever it is, it might pull someone to ask.

NETWORK

By now, the city of Xistentia has a population of over 400 people. Shops line the streets of downtown, and increasingly well-trodden paths will take you into the agricultural zones nearer to the forest or even down to the beach. There are still distinctive animal presences around— careful with that— but the most common critters you'll see are birds crapping on your stuff outside and tiny winged hairless people creeping your food.

One afternoon, you are taken from whatever you’re doing - taking a walk through the city, sunning yourself on the beach, running around in the forest shoring up defenses - by a message, appearing on your Daemon’s network screen. It’s a simple line of text, that reads:

PHOTO SENT

It would appear that your daemon accidentally sent a picture, perhaps one from your photo roll or instagram, or a random shot of you or your surroundings. Wait. Was that a public network post? Wait—

IMAGE CODE TEMPLATE
<center><img src="URL HERE"></center>

CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE

hells yeah

Footnotes

1. Some of these can be nameless, plot-device NPCs to facilitate interactions! But even in this case, please avoid gore in describing their current state of being. Anyone dead or catastrophically injured will have disappeared by the time your characters make it to Xistentia. There are no corpses or dying here.
   
   
2. But like OOCly ask permission ofc.

Comments

juno steel / the penumbra podcast

[monologue]

i. crash landing

[ waking up isn't the most dignified experience, but then again, juno's not really worried about looking very dignified as he jerks up from his place face down in the sand and the salt and the water, the heat of fire the first thing filling his lungs instead of cold air as he sputters alive like some old, rickety car left to die out in the middle of the martian desert but somehow miraculously finding it in itself to work. once he's up on his feet, he doesn't exactly go making himself scarce.

there's a fire, a wreckage, smoke and debris, you see, and among it, there are people who are struggling and shouting, as you do. and then there's juno who, unfortunately, isn't sure what save your own skin or even give yourself a second to breathe means anymore. so of course first thing he does is head straight for the heart of what he's call "A Bad Time", getting his hands dirty with blood and leveraging up pieces of scattered scrap that have people pinned too close to the fire.

but juno's only human and by the time things start to wind down, he's feeling the burn, literally, dragging himself up from the edge of the beach with blood on his hands, blood on his coat, blood on his trousers, and smoke and smudged ash about everywhere else.

if you even look remotely like you know what you're doing and weren't one of the people caught in or around the wreck by the beach, he reaches up with one hand that looks in pretty bad shape. ]

Hey, [ he half-rasps, smoke pretty comfortable where it is sitting in his lungs. yeah. great. he never asked for you to make yourself at home. ] Where's a lady gotta go to get a decent drink around here?

[ yeah that's a forest behind them, and the silhouette of a city decorated by the slowly dipping sun that he should start heading towards, but juno's got priorities. you don't survive a thing like this without booze, right? ]

ii. rain

[ umbrellas are for chumps, which is why juno doesn't have one. awesome.

besides, he's pretty sure he deserves to get rained on regardless. it's damp, a little humid, but hey. free shower. so not all that bed. except for the fact that he's wet and his daemon is pestering him aggressively with the fact that she's just as damp, feathers at her crown and throat wet and raised upwards in indignation with every drop. dahliad is clearly unamused by the whole weather phenomenon, walking as close to the shop overhangs as she can while juno lingers in the main street, grousing some paces away from her.

"detective," she says in a way that makes juno's fingers flex instinctively, in a way that makes his heart sink straight down to his shoes. "you'll catch cold that way." ]

Didn't they disprove that like thousands of years ago? Don't-- [ can peacocks look disappointed? they can if they're dahliad. ] Fine fine, just... don't get your feathers in a bunch. Hang on.

[ birds amiright? can't he just be allowed to brood in the rain in peace?????

juno makes it quick regardless, trying to find some overhang he can loiter under maybe until the rest of this storm is over, however long that might take. clearly he's doing this for her, not for himself, not because he's soaked to the bone or the warm lights of window shops have him edging closer towards them, some of them pretty average looking, but as he sits down in the first available bench under some cover, daliahd pressed up against his side and slowly squirming her wet, feathery way under his coat for warmth, he realizes he's next to a rather nicely-done up clothing boutique, and the closest thing to his head is a slinky red number, lined in gold from bust to ankle, the kind of thing you might wear on a night out on the town.

you bought me clothes?
don't say i never get you anything! see you soon!

now juno's never been much of an artist, but it's pure impulse that he reaches a hand up to the panel of glass beside him and starts idly drawing out what might look like a train.

dahliad pipes up: "what an extraordinary-looking... mm. hm. is that caterpillar on fire?"

juno gives her a very flat look. ]

No one asked for your input. When you sprout fingers then you can start criticizing my damn art.

[ "well, what is that supposed to be, darling?"

juno doesn't answer, mouth twisting a little as he gets comfortable squabbling with a white peacock hanging out underneath his coat. these are the people you want to hang out with. totally. a busted-up-looking, drenched detective and a peacock that looks about as smug as a peacock gets. please interrupt them. ]

iii. network

USERNAME DAHLIAD


or make your own adventure.

[ i ain't choosy. ]

beach;

[servomotor]

[There is a metal man descending from the sky, all red and gold. Against any light as bright as the sun, most objects would appear silhouetted, darkened and dulled out. But not the Iron Man, who remains as subtle as ever. A lot of things have changed since JARVIS powered his suit, but not his penchant for color and preferences about the palette. Repulsors on, the pressure fluctuates across the sand below his feet, ripping heat through the air, and scattering more particulates into Juno's eyes, probably.

Sorry about that, Juno. But in a moment, it gets better, because he cuts the thrusters and drops neatly onto the beach.

His faceplate is either impassive or grim to look at, depending on how you tend to interpret the glowy eye slits and the severe horizontal of his mouth. But his voice is pretty perky!! emerging in digitized format, as he reaches down to grasp Juno's hand with a mechanical gauntlet.] Gender stuff aside, [he says,] do you happen to be experiencing an oxygen problem? You sound a little asthmatic, buddy.

[monologue]

[ oh cool. metal men from the sky. that's not dredging up any bitter memories from juno about how the hell he got here in the first place. he covers his eyes a minute because boy that's a fuckton of sand and he's not all that keen about getting it in places it doesn't belong when it's already well and situated there along with the seawater (#thanksxistentia).

whoever it is though sounds awfully chipper and isn't about the whole "shoot first, ask questions later" so steel is going to take what he can get, even if it's with a wary eye. he grabs the gauntlet and hauls himself up. ]

I'm fine. Just always had sensitive lungs, especially when people go flinging sand around everywhere while making a flashy landing like that. Nice one. Ten outta ten.

[servomotor]

[#xistentiawelcomes. Iron Man also welcomes. There is considerably better-than-human strength in the mechanics of his suit, enough to hoist a car or steer a nuclear missile in an entirely different direction. Thus! He plucks Juno out of the sand like you'd lift a lost doll out of the beach. He gives Juno's sand-matted tummy area a cursory whack, not very hard at all, freeing a few more grains down into the beach.]

Thanks.

[He releases Juno after a moment. Turns his head to scan the beach real quick, assessing the information that his HUD feeds him inside the quiet of his helmet. Fuel receptacles on a fallen craft set to explode, but the people scattering away from it already. There have been enough crashes on this damn beach that people know what to do when ships start to pop off wheezy fires.] I don't have an inhaler, but I can probably put the helmet on your head. Help you balance your O2 stats. Are we worried? You don't look worried, but I'm getting irreverent sarcasm vibes.

[monologue]

It's fine, I'm fine. Really. Sand in my eye, but nothing's worse than Martian sand so all in all, not bad.

[ well. said sand in the theia spectrum, which makes his right eye do a little bit of a technicolored dance and awkward chameleon roll to the left and right, isn't great, but he's had worse? so he'll deal with it as he's dusted off briefly and gives his own coat a little bit of a shake off. better. closer. warmer. still grainy, but nothing he can't shake out in private probably. ]

It's just a typical Tuesday. I'll be okay. Don't need a bucket on my head, Tin Man, but thanks for the offer. But a change of scenery might be nice. One that's not as sandy.

[ he's worried about 10 million things but they're all screaming so loudly that they go dead silent so he has to fill that silence with sarcasm. it's all good here, iron man. ]

[servomotor]

[Iron Man doesn't believe you, but he is a compulsively skeptical person. Even of himself! Especially of himself. Mostly of himself. He's thinking about himself even now, as he evaluates the beach and determines that his incredible heroism is not required by anyone in imminent peril.] City, [he says.] You're talking about the city beyond the treeline. No pubic hair reference, just the skyscrapers.

Sounds good, sugarplum.

[There's a charming metallic swizzswizz zip! sound of fine motor parts moving, as he spreads his arms to offer Juno a proper carry and straightens, his rocket-booted feet planted solidly on the warm sand of the beach.] Princess or fireman's, up to you. Free tip, the latter does not have the benefit of clearing the airway a` la Heimlich. And it's actually— Iron Man. Or Tony Stark. [It seems fair and polite to introduce oneself before the intimacy of rescue.]

[monologue]

Juno Steel.

[ he eyeballs his outstretched arms, his own folded a little as he tries to make a choice quick. ]

And I'll have the one with the least turbulence, minor collateral damage via barf, and a view that doesn't include staring death in the face. So princess it is, uh--Tony. We'll go with Tony.

[ boy. that's a name. iron man. it's not one he knows, we're not fourth walling here, but that's a silly ass name. then again, juno's kind of been turned off superheroes for a long time so maybe that's it, it just reminds him of those stupid comics from when he was a kid. that and no one's name is ever going to beat "andromeda the chainmail warrior" so you didn't stand a chance to begin with. but anyways. not everyone can be cool like andromeda.

name aside, he's being offered a ride, which is nice considering every bone in his body still feels a little tender from... whatever the hell that was and while he might refuse under normal circumstances, these aren't normal. so he'll just take it. and try not to vomit.

heights are the fucking worst. ]

crash - edits to fit my agenda

[upside]

( she knows what it's like on the first day, surrounded by violence and chaos, always living bodies but some just on the brink. it's not happy, but it happens once a month, every month and shepard has made it her priority to see to the new arrivals, make this transition a bit easier with padded blows. and to get information, if she can, but not even she could tell you what she's looking for. gripping at strings, probably, hoping for something better.

in walk juno steel.

more appropriately, in drowns juno steel -- a lump of brown and black and red buoying in the ocean, bobbing face down in the thrashing waves. first death in xist? shepard chases after him without a thought, picking him out of the water with immeasurable strength, hauling his form over his shoulder while she helps him out. that's easy. he's breathing, she finds out when she sets him down on the sand, thumping his chest with her palms a few times for good measure. alive, that's good news. she breathes a sigh of relief just before he says that -- and a laugh is stolen from her chest, abrupt and sudden, surprising even her. )

First things first -- you got a name, soldier? And how about some dry clothes?

thanks dad

[monologue]

[ oh god.

that's a lot of salt water.

that's more salt water than juno has ever... ever swallowed in his entire life, and more than he ever wants to swallow again. just give him a second shep, he's rolling over just. getting a little dignity here. oh god. she carried him. she carried him out of the water, he felt that.

does she lift?

focus.

no... no. almost vomit first. yeah. spit up a little water, but nothing else. super attractive, but his stomach is pitching a fit so this has to be done before he manages anything else.

now focus.

"do you lift"-- ]

Juno Steel. And unless someone packed my suitcase before throwing me down whatever the hell that was, no. This is, uh, this is all I've got.

[ it's uncomfortably wet. ]

np daughter

[upside]

( juno steel, he says. interesting name. i know a star named after you, she'd say in an ordinary circumstance, but now doesn't seem like the best time, so she very politely keeps it to herself, instead offering him a pat on the back while he coughs up, hopefully enabling him to empty his stomach a bit better. it's alright juno, shepard does not have a judgmental bone in her body.

she nods once in understanding, and then again in a specific direction, sitting back on her heels. )

I took off my hoodie before I ran and got you. Sit tight, Juno.

( she scatters to go collect her abandoned, sandy n7 hoodie. the board of human civilization would absolutely have a fit if they found out she'd given it to anyone, but they aren't here and juno is, so.

she patters back to his side, hoodie in hand. holding it out, )

I'm Shepard.

[monologue]

[ juno doesn't really have words as he rolls over in the sand for a hot second, patting himself down slowly. keys to his non-existent car that's somewhere in the martian desert still, his blaster is somehow still in its holster, though the cartridges are probably soaked, wallet, yeah. yeah... just... he's not all put together, not all there, but he's getting somewhere at least. as he sits up, his head throbs, the cybernetic right eye going absolutely wild with colors and readjustments to having gotten salt and sand all over it--

REBOOTING. PLEASE WAIT.

this. oh this sucks. that's one eye going dark while the other tries to adjust to the sudden impact of only seeing half the world again. may as well cover that up while the theia is working its magic, huddling in his drenched coat for just a few moments longer before shepard's quick steps return and he peeks out of his only good eye to see the hoodie in her hand. ]

My hero, [ because as juno (hesitantly) takes the hoodie, he realizes just how terrible at retaining heat his coat is right now and all he wants is to be dry and warm.

this is a start.

god he doesn't deserve this. but. he's going to shuck off his coat quickly and pull the hoodie on over his shoulders, narrower than the deceptively well-cut coat indicates. that feels... so much better already, even if he has to listen to the theia countdown the seconds to full restore (54... 53... 52... 51...) ] You make a habit out of cleaning up the water?

[ bc he's garbage u get it but he's also asking for a real reason ok. ]

rain!!!!!

[mistuh]

( there's a tidal wave worse than the downpour from the sky headed juno's way -- he might find his memory stirring by some unruly murmuring from off screen, in a voice that sounds scarily familiar in an annoying and childish way, but once the wave locates juno, there's no hope for him at all. she comes, feet stomping, clothes wet, hair deflated on her shoulders. it seems like one (1) rita the great was in the middle of a rant with herself, which she starts fresh off as soon as she sees juno. )

Mister Steel, oh you've done it, you've really done it this time! You believe this? I wake up in the middle of butt nowhere and some robot guy's yelling at me going, oh the world's ended, bye Mars. No way! I try to contact Mister Steel, you know, like always, and what do I get? A voicemail! Yet here he is, plain as can be, making googly eyes at a peacock in the rain. Absolutely unbelievable! Do you have any idea what I'm missing back at home, Mister Steel? Do you? It's a movie marathon of The Lion, The Witch, and the Tentacle Monster from the Outer Rim. I mean, mind you it's not the top tier of movie entertainment, but there's this real nice looking lady in it -- I remember my friend Lizzie was telling me about her once, she was in some ad campaign for some kinda sexually transmitted whosie-whatsit, but just cause she's in the ad don't means she's got the disease, right? Anyway I remember Lizzie telling me all about this --

( it could go on forever please help me )

i literally cannot believe u did this to me??? and my heart???

[monologue]

[ oh no.

ohhhhh no. oh wow. oh yes. because he didn't get to spend nearly as much time running around the flaming "IT'S FINE!" wreckage on the beach looking for her as he'd have liked before being dragged away. and now? well, now juno doesn't waste any time. the second that familiar voice starts going off about some weird space stds, he's standing up, displacing his daemon who squawks again with an "i'm not done with you!"

well listen she is now because juno isn't even going to waste time. yeah, she's babbling on about someone named lizzie and this one time that juno is blocking out because he's got this basically down to a science, he might just be clutching her half in-half out of the rain. ]

Rita.

[ it's literally only going to last like 4 seconds before he stares at her kind of dumbly. ]

I didn't see you on the beach--you--

[ shh. don't! don't talk! don't go off on a tangent yet, let him ask the most important question before you go on. ]

You okay? Besides the... movie marathon thing.

[ priorities. rita's got 'em. good to see they haven't been washed away with the tide. it's. kind of a relief. ]

beach

[smileslie]

[Mandy doesn't know what she's doing down here with the--rescue party, welcome wagon, whatever the bloody hell you call dragging people from the wreckage of the apocalypse. But she's here today, anyway, and if she still believed in crap like kismet or fate, she might blame that since hearing someone call themselves a 'lady' with the sort of voice and body that would make others laugh at the word while they're laid out bleeding...

Well, it takes her back to a place she's not certain she wants to be, but also wouldn't forget for all the damn worlds. She straightens more than she has in ages, glad she actually grabbed her bag and wore sensible shoes before coming down here and marches over with a twisted smile]

If I knew there would be a lady in need of a drink nearly as badly as I was when I got here, I'd have grabbed a bottle of Scotch on my way out. [she says, the barest hint of a London accent weaving in and out of a flat American one as she gets close As she does, the Siamese cat that functions as her daemon jumps down to the sand at her side]

Alchol does not help bleeding. [it states, matter of factly. For her part, Mandy just gives Gildad a slightly withering look before turning back to the person in front of her, leaning down and holding out a hand that still has a few big, cheap rings and bracelets on it]

If I give you a leg up, think you can lean on me without dragging us both down? Because, while it wouldn't be my first time tumbling to the ground with a gorgeous person, I'd rather worry about just getting one of us cleaned up.

[monologue]

[ why are cats so sassy? he's done with cats. he's chanced one too many off the freeway (read: one) and now he's officially Not A Cat Person anymore. but cats aside, juno looks up at the hand offered to him and braces himself just a bit to take on most of his weight regardless. ]

Think I can manage that. Last thing I wanna do is take you down with me. View's not so great down here. Lots of sand. And sand.

[ he grabs her hand, and the grip isn't all that firm, maybe because he doesn't want to get too much blood or ash or her, or maybe because he's a stubborn ass trying to get to his feet himself. he probably would drag them both down if he tried to put all of his weight into the helping hand. still, juno appreciates it as he gets himself standing, shedding sand from his coat. it hurts, but somewhere along the line, juno can catalogue a hurt that's been worse, so he muscles through it, though not with a smile, more of a wince.

still, he's up. an improvement. he's leaning a little, but only as much as he dares. just enough to keep the world from completely spinning off its axis and sending him tumbling to the ground again. ]

I like my scotch without sand in it anyways. So no loss. [ half a beat. ] Thanks.

[smileslie]

[Mandy isn't sure if Gildad's behavior is because of her form, or because she's...well, hers. Either way, generally speaking, it's not a problem. But occasionally, the cat makes the m most inappropriate, unhelpful remarks.

Also like the person she's paired with.

At any rate, while she hasn't been playing the dual role of hostess and bouncer for awhile now, she's been helping more people than she would like to think about get around back home when they couldn't stand, so she doesn't lean too much under Juno's weight]

Don't mention it. [she grins, although it doesn't quite meet her eyes. She hardly notices that she's trying to catalog the scrapes and cuts as she works to get them out of the sand. She hasn't done that in ages, finding someone beat up and thinking quick about if she can deal with it herself] How much of that blood's yours? Because, if it's as much as I'm seeing, we might want to get you a virgin Screwdriver for starters.

[jokes about drinking are easier than...well, the whole sight around them]

I do know quite a bit about getting blood out of clothes, though.

[monologue]

[ there are a few cuts and scrapes, a shoulder that's sagging a bit unnaturally (thankfully the fall didn't reopen the sutures), but other than that, he doesn't look too bad. well. alright. there is blood on his coat in general. and on his hands, but he doesn't seem too bothered. As he looks down himself, juno gives a little bit of a shrug, face in half a rictus. virgin screwdriver. now that's something he's absolutely not going to get behind. blood loss or no. ]

I'unno. I think it gives it gives it a... [ what are they calling it these days. ] panache. Or whatever.

[ bloodstains. detective chic. that's how it works. still, he laughs (it hurts a bit, but he's learned how to chuckle around a few achey ribs). ]

But not all of it's mine. [ mostly the hands, he's pretty sure. some cuts on his forehead have already stopped bleeding, thankfully. ]

[smileslie]

[that makes Mandy properly laugh herself] I had a friend who would have said something like that. I think he used blood for lipstick on more than one occasion.

[talking about Jack to someone who isn't Arthur, even in a vague sense is...she doesn't even know. Sometimes the nostalgia is a comfort in these moments, and sometimes it's the worst thing in all the bloody universe]

Don't tell me you're one of those heroic idiots who gets themselves even more fucked up helping other people. [but it's said...warmly. Because those people are better than she and Brian ever were, for all their talk of 'revolution'. She starts digging through her purse with her free arm--it's amazing how adept you become at multitasking when you have to run wardrobe and lights for a band while making sure all of them show up where they're needed]

At any rate, I've got some kleenex, if you want to clean up a bit until you can get checked out proper. [she says, holding out the tissues she found by feel while keeping her eyes on the path]

[monologue]

[ juno snorts a little bit at the remark. nothing better than a shade made by your own body for your own body. ]

Yeah, uh, save heroic for someone else. Just a detective getting my hands a little dirty.

[ the word tastes like acid in his mouth as something small is pushed in his direction. he glances and murmurs a little "thanks." the tissues are... they're appreciated. unexpected, but appreciated as they're held out to him. he hesitates a second, glancing at his own cut up fingers and taking a couple (maybe a little roughly, his head and his body don't feel all that in sync right now, like he's still half on mars, half here, like he's dreaming and. wow. maybe he did hit his head or something. juno's been concussed enough to know when he is, but.

no, no. too much thinking, not enough blood wiping and pressing down to staunch any of the remaining free bleeding. ]

Name's Juno Steel.

raaaaaain

[money]

( what a coincidental occurrence that, at that very moment, a figure steps outside the doors of the clothing shop with big bags in tow, dangling daintily off the sharp bones of his wrists. certainly the modeled form of elegance could be lusted after, bespoke dress clinging to his lean stature in all the right ways, a spokesperson for fashion to the fullest, down to the very red bottoms of his high heeled shoes.

peter nureyev, the flesh and the bones, sighing softly at the sight of rain.

and then turning, debating reentering the shop to find a few more articles to pluck from hangers, when his own eye catches on something shiny and -- not new. not exactly. )

Oh, ( he says this once in surprise -- a moment, fair enough, before he regains himself. calm, collected. the ever present half-smirk of all knowing teases is absent from his face, but his expression does seem open, genuine, and in that, full of lies. ) Juno! What a surprise. I hadn't expected ...

( his eyes trail to the image juno's sketched on the window -- it might look like a thousand different things, but peter is probably the only one who would really know ... and he feels an ache, wide and empty, burrowing in the depth of his stomach, bugs and maggots of feelings that never really did anything other than pester and hurt biting away at him from the inside out. he's stuck by the instinct to run away, from juno, from the illness of heartsickness, but the rain effectively traps him, so.

he swallows, shakes his head. don't draw attention to it. )

It's good to see you're well.

YOU KEEP DOING THIS TO ME AND I KEEP DYING.

[monologue]

[ that's funny.

juno is pretty sure he just heard the telltale voice of peter nureyev just off to the side. nureyev has a walk that's distinct, sharp, unyielding to hesitance, the kind of thing your heart kicks to desperately because peter nureyev is a lot.

he's too much.

too much. and juno's fingertip stops on the glass just slightly, eyes falling a little to what he's lined out onto the glass in the fog the rain has left behind against the heated windows of the display. no. he's pretty sure he just heard nureyev from somewhere in the back of his mind, like a shadow of a memory (the glancing of yasmin swift's knife, hardly half as deft or cunning, sinking into his shoulder, deep, deep, deep). no. it's not peter nureyev, it's not nureyev. when he turns his head, it's all just going to be a dream, some phantom itch that he'll ignore.

and he turns without fear for half a moment. it's all in your head juno. it's all in your

head.

juno looks and his entire stomach turns, the way you might when you're on the edge of a window, when you've had too much to drink and just want to bury your face in your hands for the rest of the night. there, in front of him, tall and lean and so much heartache, stands peter nureyev looking no less put together than he usually does. ]

This isn't happening. [ he says it simply, voice soft at first, like he's still stuck in some dreamlike state because ] Nuh ah. No way. This? Isn't happening.

[ it's not. it's fucked up. and while that deceptive little yearning part of him is relieved, relieved that nureyev is here (he's resilient, he would have held on regardless) the rest of him is trying to not to bolt.

thankfully, somewhere between staring at nureyev and the shock of it all, his feet have pretty much become cement. ]

It's not.

[ his lips form a thin line, hand smearing through the fading drawing now. he left nureyev sleeping soundly in a hotel room. he remembers the little starlight pinpricks of his teeth, the soft sounds from his mouth, the barely-there whisper of his name that nearly kept him. he left him. ]

i dont ... feel bad ....

[money]

( his expression droops by fractions of degrees, a barely there knot formed in the space between two plucked brows. everything hurts -- the look on juno's face hurts, the sight of his handsome jaw or unruly hair that begs to be toyed with, his ever present trench coat, his single eye, the way he smudges the train from the window as if wiping it from history. peter has had a lot of time to practice the art of keeping himself contained into little boxes, the air of grace and elegance blocking out the angrier walks of life, the sadness that pools his heart, the rock at the back of his throat, but --

years and years haven't prepared him for juno steel, that's for sure. he can't bare to look at him after few and far moments shared between them, and he draws his gaze to the rain instead, much more melancholy. fitting, he thinks. he's always liked dramatics. )

It's good to see you're alive, I should say.

( he corrects. in a counter to the peacock at juno's side, peter's own bird perks from the perch on his shoulder -- a magpie, eyes shiny as diamonds, sea green and wistful, a bit like a lady with knots in his hair, and a long trenchcoat, and a sharpshooter's aim.

( 'well,' peter had said, cupping the bird in his hands, feeling its feather soft back under the airy weights of his fingers. 'at least i get to keep his eyes, junod. call me sydney.' )

the bird squawks. )

Sydney, your heart rate --

Well, well, that's enough out of you, bird. Be a dear. ( he taps his finger to the bird's beak in a shhh motion, swiftly nodding back to juno. it's going to be absolutely pathetic if juno ever finds out its real name. ) Really, I should be less surprised. If there was anyone capable enough to make it out of untimely and inevitable doom, it would most certainly be you, Juno dear.

you???? should.

[monologue]

[ dahliad gives a curious tilt of the head, a regal-looking bird that seems hardly befitting of juno's own somewhat bedraggled appearance. sure, he's cleaned up a good bit since the beach. hell, he's even showered, but he's tired-looking, which is something that never quite fades from his eyes, one of which seems to be a bit brighter than the other. ]

Should have figured the same about you, Sydney. Guess the whole thing about you and trouble is true.

[ you just disappear.

and sydney.

that's an awful name. it doesn't suit him. but none of his names suit him more than his real one, not in juno's eyes, not anymore. he bites down on the syllables like they're tough, tangible things in the air as he shoves his hands into his coat pockets and tries to drink in the sight of him standing there before him, like the best dream and worst nightmare, persistent, nipping at his heels.

god. goddamn it. ]

An acquaintance?

[ dahliad says it cooly, in a tone that's almost familiar, cocksure and brightly toned, like an echo. it's not juno's fault. absolutely not. ]

You could say that, [ juno replies softly, voice more difficult to scrounge up with every second that passes. so he closes his eyes a moment, lifts a hand to his temples because he doesn't get to run away from this, doesn't get to run away from nureyev who's standing here right in front of him with an armful of bags and a smile smeared over his face like he didn't ditch him like yesterday's dirty laundry in the hopes that he might find something better than him. someone with less... juno to them.

he doesn't deserve a man like peter nureyev. that's part of the problem.

juno gestures a little vaguely to the bags now, trying to... trying to come up with some sort of talk that doesn't involve him turning tail and running. ]

So what's all this for? Settling in real fast, I take it?

2bad.

[money]

I was more or less commenting on your admirable ability to run away, though I suppose we have it in common. I'll be more blunt with my quips in the future. ( after a brief, calming pause. ) Sydney. It means wide meadow.

( even getting mad feels sickly, upsetting, and peter wants no part of the proceedings. is it so difficult to go back to wrex glass, the dark matters operative, who looked at juno like he wanted to take a bite and save the rest for dinner? well yes, peter suppose it would be. there was a time when things were decidedly less between them -- less complicated and less emotional, less disastrous, less difficult, but that time is long since passed. on another day he would've teased juno, pushed his hair behind his ear and his lips to the column of his throat, but for now they're

acquaintances. strangers, practically. the pain of conversation with someone who used to love you. someone who decided your best just wasn't good enough.

it burns the pit of his stomach, juno's words. saying so little and so much at the same time -- laced with implications he's not sure juno even meant to be there, and yet here is peter nureyev, lingering on every glance, every word. stuffing himself full of juno steel, satiating himself for the long road ahead of him whenever he gets off this planet and away from juno's grasp forever.

wringing out his hands, peter sets his bags down on the ground and takes the few steps over to the bench, heels hitting sharply on the wooden floorboard. he takes a seat, tucking one leg behind the other. the peacock acts as their buffer. )

The end of Mars as we know it is no reason not to keep up appearances. The selection left a bit to be desired, but there were a few diamonds in the rough, as they say. ( raising his eyebrows, ) If you wish to discuss clothes and politics, why don't we start with you, my dear, dear detective? Soaking wet in front of a clothing shop, where all articles are free? I must say, it does bore my thieving fingers, but it is practical for bulk shopping. Let's put you in something. What do you say?

[monologue]

[ and there it is.

the cut.

juno knows it anywhere, neck going white hot with shame, guilt, more shame, more guilt, until he feels it overflowing high in his chest. he swallows it down as best he can, a rictus half-smile forming on his face in a way that's always existed, just never for nureyev. he props his elbows on his knees and doesn't quite let himself look at nureyev.

he's got a point, but then again, he always has a point (even if the point is utter bullshit flung in from left field that some people are stupid enough to eat up.) juno is soaked to the skin, but really, what part of it doesn't he deserve? especially now, facing someone he's pretty sure he'd never have to look in the eye again. someone who could have done much better, but somehow settled for him in the late hours, whispered something juno hasn't really heard in years from anyone. not anyone that meant it the way nureyev had. dangerous and quiet, lifting and sinking like a stone at the same time.

well that's not how it is anymore, not after he fucked it up, he's pretty sure. but that's how juno likes it. no one needs to get that close to him. he's a goddamn disaster area, a worst-case scenario for anyone who wanted to touch him, car crash, war-zone, nuclear impact. gut punch.

and nureyev.

well.

nureyev is a touch of heaven he didn't really deserve.

there's a sharp tug on his coat that interrupts his brooding however, his hesitance on what to say because what do you say to someone you up and left in the middle of the night? when you traded something good for something bad that needed you just as much? ]

Your biometrics state that this would be a wise decision, [ dahliad snips back quickly and juno's head jerks a bit and he scowls. whose side are you on, you little shit? ]

Well my biowhatevers can go to hell, [ he half mutters before bringing his tired eyes up again. it's. hard. but he does it. and it feels like his organs are doing a sideways slosh uncomfortably left to right. incredulously, half-petulant, the rest of him too tired and chilled to the bone to argue properly just yet (but he's not admitting that. a fucking peacock isn't gonna have one over on him): ] You can't be serious.

[ even after all this. ]