xistentiaooc | 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:

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

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ really, juno wants to bark back. that'd be the easy thing to do. his teeth grind a little in the back as he passes one chilled hand over the other. there are worse options than choosing to walk through doors with nureyev. he's not leaving the planet with him suddenly, not getting in a car with him. he's not... he's not doing things he'd be afraid of doing with nureyev.

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. ]

An excellent choice. ( peter agrees at once, standing to meet him. the back of his dress gets dusted lightly off, as high heeled shoes bring him back to the entryway, sparing a moment to regather his forgotten backs, barely wet with rain splatter. he helps himself inside, and it becomes evident that peter has made quick friends with the shop's employees -- immediately they greet each other, kissing one another's cheek.

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!! )

[ juno glances at the bird on peter's shoulder, the kind of bird that he's fairly sure would both be least and most suited to him. he eyeballs it for half a second before letting out a sigh that's definitely, definitely, definitely suffering here. if juno blinks fast enough, though, he can almost pretend that he isn't stepping into a stall with the same nureyev he left in a warm bed for the cold acid rain of hyperion city's streets.

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. ]

Test Drive Meme #5

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