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xistentiaooc2017-09-23 06:03 pm
spoofer) wrote in xistentiaooc2017-09-23 06:03 pm
Test Drive Meme #5
Test Drive Meme #5
You wouldn’t wake; i couldn’t sleep for years.
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:
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—
CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE
hells yeah
Footnotes
- 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.
- But like OOCly ask permission ofc.
raaaaaain
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.
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 ....
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.
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.
( 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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
there's pain in this, too. he doesn't want to hurt juno -- he never wanted to hurt juno. the pain of knowing he has makes most other ills of the world seem insignificant in comparison, light little paper cuts to the look on juno's face, an expression that makes peter think he's the one with the ability to read minds. he blames himself. half of peter says good, he should and the other half says he's not the only cruel one.
peter should've known better. you can't take the protector from the city he protects -- it makes him lose his worth. but, to peter nureyev, he had so much more worth than the crimes he solves, the people he helps, the lives he's saved. juno steel was simply the world, and the day the world left him, so too did a couple of other things.
his dignity, a bit. his poker face. his capability of turning juno away when he needs help. )
As the grave, I'm afraid. (charming and playful at first, his expression falls, selectively opening up in a way that only falls on juno's shoulders. ) Juno ... I do hope coming inside even though I'm there is the superior choice to staying out here in the rain
Of course I could guilt you into it by telling you you owe me. ( playfulness back, he smiles at juno, catlike and wild. ) But ... I owe you as well. So whether you come in with me, or I say out here with you, I believe we're stuck together. At least for a little while, hm?
no subject
it's just a door. it's just some clothes.
but it's the you owe me that bites him fast and hard at the nape of his neck. you owe me like a sting he knows he deserves, and though nureyev says he owes him too, juno finds it hard to believe any of that.
juno thinks about the rain, how it's soaked through his shoulders, left him tired and fighting the way his chest aches, how his shoulder throbs from an fresh wound now sewn over (sliced through the shoulder, fifty percent mobility gone. right there. from someone far clumsier with a knife than nureyev. less finessed.) this rain is murder on him, but he feels like he deserves it, the aches, the pains, and not nureyev sitting next to him with his legs crossed so elegantly, that smile like six months ago but... far more tired.
so bright.
he stays so damn bright and juno's been in a fucking pit for days. weeks. months. he left that light behind but now?
well.
juno eases up onto his feet, hands spread a bit briefly. dahliad seems to pick up on it and rises with him (it's weird and juno kind of hates it.) ]
Offering someone clothing isn't exactly most people's idea of a good guilt trip. [ it's not. but nureyev knows him well enough that it's almost embarrassing to think about. his voice cracks. it's the cold. ] But sure. Yeah.
[ stuck. ]
Let's just... look. Sure. Fine. Let's just get inside.
[ you're a fucking noodle. he's doing this for you. not for himself and all his chilled bones under his bulky coat.
let's. ]
no subject
the conversation goes something like this: )
Oh, my darling Cindy! I just couldn't stay away, could I? After I enjoyed your incredible services, I just had to get my ( exlover, friend, detective ) colleague, Juno Steel to experience it for himself. Now, if you don't mind, Juno is a bit on the ... shier side, I'm afraid. I know he would be so grateful, if you allowed me to take his measurements -- perhaps changing room number one? Oh, splendid, thank you, dear.
Come along, Juno!
( ( the bird squwaks, hearing its name, and peter ignores it. ) did someone just get swept up into getting fitted for a besotted suit???? i'm afraid so. peter leaves his bags at the counter with lovely cindy, before heading back to the changing rooms, hesitating once he comes to the door. )
Oh, Cindy? We won't be leaving here empty handed, either. If you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate if you could grab anything, hm ... ( he eyes juno critically for a moment, as if he doesn't already know what looks most dashing on him. ) Orange, I think, to match his skin tone. Reds and golds are fine, too. I'll sort them myself.
( cindy is all too happy to do as peter says, just as peter is all too happy to hold the door open for juno, leading him into a room entirely covered in mirrors, a decently sized platform sitting in the center. step up, juno!! )
no subject
god he...
he really hates himself for that.
and nureyev should hate him for that too. none of this... whatever the hell you call this.
he's more than three quarters of the way stuck inside his own head when he hears red and he hears gold and it makes him prickle a little bit and look up. he gets the good intent behind it. maybe. nureyev has the best eye for clothing he's seen in a while, has dressed him up before, made him feel weirdly violated and at the same time beautiful and he's not sure which is worse because it's been years since anyone bought him clothes. ]
Nure--Sydney, I...
[ juno wants to back out now. it'd be easier now, to not be in this kind of proximity with him. it's a gut instinct, he ruined it once, he might just ruin it again. it's not a pleasant or pretty thought, but juno's head has never been a particularly pleasant or pretty place. juno opens his mouth to continue but closes it instead with a sigh. he's cooperative enough to already shrug off his soaked through trench coat, to roll up his shirt sleeves a little, but he's still shaking his head as he eventually looks up at one of the mirrors, peripherals catching sight of the multiple slouching versions of himself while dahliad makes a comfortable seat beside one of the mirrors, feathers fanning out briefly in a bit of a shake to remove the excess water form outside before settling neatly to the side. nice. ]
I have never wanted to see this many sides of myself. Thanks.
[ juno only sounds petulant about it, but his stomach sinks, a little resigned, a little sick, a little angry at himself and only at himself because who is he to be angry at nureyev? with teeth like little pinpricks of starlight in his mouth and a tongue that talks all kinds of liquid velvet and hands that are.
they're hands, steel.
(but there's nothing else like them. no one else like peter nureyev.)
he looks over his shoulder.
this isn't what you do when you hate someone and god does he want nureyev to hate him badly. ]