Test Drive Meme #6 (tw violence)

[spoofer]

Test Drive Meme #6

I want neither revenge nor relief.

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.

BATTLE WITH D.E.S.T.I.N.Y.

November has barely begun, when chaos strikes again^[2]. Perhaps you've had weeks to settle in, finding yourself a new home and getting accustomed to the neighborhoods... or maybe you've had no time at all. Your daemon warns you of a massive invasion coming from the West, the ocean where you first arrived.

The enemy has come for you again. D.E.S.T.I.N.Y., the cosmic threat to not only your homeworld but the entire Multiverse.

When the violence makes land, it's shockingly similar to the exit from your original world, yet mashed in with the experiences and genres and world details of other refugees— soldiers in red armor wielding weapons of all kinds, both advanced and rudimentary; airships, bizarre monsters; firestorms and quakes that seem sentient in the way that they move, pursuing people through the beach and the forest. You see the injured and the dead, and people running in panic. Heat and gunfire break up the ordinary peace of wilderness, driving animals into stampedes and filling the sky with panicking birds.

There are children and doctors and engineers among the many refugees of Xistentia, and not everyone can fight back— but maybe you're one of those who can.

Think fast— that's a crimson spear launching at your head now.


The city's defenses are buckling too. While ordinarily, the civlization possesses unnatural physics that subvert violence, the onslaught starts to wear agains them. The only safe place is the Temple. Here, civilians and injured combatants are banding together to try and boost morale... which coincidentally also can boost the defenses of the land by with the energy collected from emotional connectivity. For better or worse, there is plenty of negative feeling to go around, the air thick with fear.

Whether you're recovering from injury or afraid to fight, you can still contribute here. Tell a story, sing a song, make a meal out of one of the cookfires started in the hallway, or even help with medicine. One thing is for certain: we're in this together.

NETWORK

Today, it's peace time. By now, the city of Xistentia has a population of over 500 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 notification, that reads:

TEXT MESSAGE SENT

It would appear that your daemon accidentally sent a text message misfire.

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. This is connected to the war plot, coming up in November. Please read the announcement for more information! Features include good, old-fashioned violence, hurt/comfort, and "drift compatibility."

Comments

Ann Takamaki | Persona 5 | OTA

[modelofvengeance]

Battle: I'm ready to take them down now
[Ann has seen a lot of monsters in the last year, both the ones that look like them on the outside and the kind who look human but are even more disgusting on the inside, so the sight of the red soldiers doesn't scare her. Some of them even look like Shadows, kind of.

What scares her is what they're doing. Even when her world was falling apart thanks to that dumbass giant cup, the Shadows hadn't been attacking people. They'd made them happy to be slaves or made them vanish, but they hadn't...hadn't…

She squashes down that fear as much as she can, the fear that belonged to the helpless puppet she tries not to be anymore, charging down the beach with a fierceness she doesn't quite feel. Not without the others here to give her strength. She hasn't tried to draw Carmen to her since she arrived, not knowing if her other self can come out in this place, but she has to try.

She stands right in front of a line of those red-armored creatures, taking a heavy breath before holding out her hands, hoping for the first time that in a moment her sweatshirt and leggings will be replaced with that ridiculous latex suit]

Come to me, Carmen.

[it's only breathed; she doesn't mean to scare the creatures off with just words. Because if this works, something much more terrifying should do the job.

She feels herself enveloped in that strange flame, feels the mask back on her face and the long whip in her hand. That's a relief, but not as much as the sensation of the large woman-shaped being rising up behind her, almost giggling as it whispers in Ann's mind]

We will avenge them

[Ann doesn't need to ask who Carmen means--the bodies both laying silent on the ground and running screaming around them. She's sure the sight of her with her whip and machine gun and the glowing being behind her won't help their fear, but they will understand when she's saved them]

Yes. [she says, simply, before running down the beach at the nearest red-armored being] Go, Carmen! [this is said much more joyfully, as she lets the Persona throw out a ball of flame, hoping it will do something. Sorry, any already scared people who haven't seen much like this yet, a teenager in a red latex catsuit with a big giant fire throwing lady can't be helping your nerves]


wildcard
[if you want the sweet-looking angry Phantom Theif somewhere else, hit me up at keenquing]

PETER NUREYEV. ▎the penumbra podcast

[money]

ＢＡＴＴＬＥ

( that's the thing, about peter nureyev. you never seen him until it's too late, and by the time he makes his presence known, he's gone too fast for you to fully comprehend who -- or what -- he is. a flash of starlight black in the trees, plucking the crimson soldiers off one by one by one. it's not an effective war tactic, really, but he's not actively trying to fight them. he has no interest in war or fighting. the black shadow of the trees makes his way further to the city, instead, stealing lives for where their numbers are more sparse, and where peter can just

disappear, as it is.

at the edge of the forest, he finally settles on two feet, hands buried deep in the pockets of a well fitted jacket, a black bird on his shoulder cooing peacefully. he walks in opposition to all the people going off to war, equally contrary to all the wounded being shuffled off back into the city, people bleeding or screaming. peter just walks, sliding in between the clusters of people interrupting his flow. )

ＴＨＥ ＴＥＭＰＬＥ

( he's not suited for war, he fully accepts this. in place of battle armor or finely blacksmithed weapons, peter has a tailored dress following the soft points of his body, and a single knife he swings around his hand, graceful and thoughtless, while he thinks quietly and so himself. he's only just arrived to the temple, but the peaceful charm is quick to run dry on him. he pokes his fingers around eventually, bored with all the disabled tech, but pleased enough to find the chronological cartographer still lit up with energy.

it doesn't take long to find his name, peter nureyev, sitting towards the bottom of the list. ( it takes equally as long for him to see juno steel on there, somewhere. )

that'll be a problem. potentially.

feel free to find him tapping around the screen, somewhat obviously trying to find someway to edit and change the contents of this hard drive -- although for what purpose, it's difficult to say. )

ＡＬＳＯ ＴＨＥ ＴＥＭＰＬＥ／ ＮＥＴＷＯＲＫ

( more leisurely in the temple now, peter is seated on some console, the magpie daemon JUNOD cuddled sweetly in the palm of his hand. elegant fingers stroke over the back of its head, lightly patting its soft feathers. unbeknownst to him, the daemon starts documenting his words. )

You know, I do think a single magpie is meant to represent sorrow. You know, the old rhyme? How does it go ... ( he chuckles. ) Two for joy. Three for girl and four for boy. Five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told.

( unconsciously, he becomes aware of how much he has in common with magpies, although it takes number seven to really sell him on it. he sighs. )

Eight for a wish, nine for a kiss, and ten for a bird whom you must not miss.

★
DAEMON: JUNOD

You know, I do think a single magpie is meant to represent sorrow. You know, the old rhyme? How does it go ... Two for joy. Three for girl and four for boy. Five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told.

Eight for a wish, nine for a kiss, and ten for a bird whom you must not miss.

temple / makes something up bye

[monologue]

[ people like alessandra strong are meant for war.

juno? hell, juno's never seen one up close and personal before, not on this scale, not with this many casualties (and there's not a damn thing you can do about most of them, that terrible terrible voice inside of him says with every fired off shot, every deadly mark he makes with the theia aiding him, making his muscles thrum with induced electricity it feels.) but he tries, he's trying with at least one person.

it's blind adrenaline that has him hauling up the nearest person over his shoulders. his blaster's got two shots left and he's not wasting them, not when this person is still alive, heavy but breathing shallowly. it's what he dedicates his time to doing as people retreat to the temple, an attempted evac effort that feels like it stretches on forever until someone taps juno out, telling him to go back inside, to get cleaned up. he doesn't realize it, but his hands are slick with blood, his muscles are burning, and dahliad is a frightening shade of pink-red at his side. she's not meant for war either, but she stays as close as she dares.

so in walks juno steel, covered in blood streaked to the elbows, looking wholly worn out, and hauling a very gore-covered peacock in his arms (she doesn't need help walking, but that's not going to stop him) when he notices a silhouette at one of the consoles, tall and dark and eerily familiar enough to make him stop.

he calls out indignantly anyways. fuck it. ]

Hey, you.

[ pleasant. he doesn't care. everyone's out there hauling ass or treating the wounded or doing something else. ]

You know how to work that thing?

[ says the guy who only knows how to play solitaire on a computer. ]

[money]

( it's an interesting little thing. peter has thought, sometimes, when the wound feels a little less deep and his heart a little less broken, about all the things he might venture to say to juno, if they ever met again. mostly childish daydreams -- fantasies, even, because there really has been no intention to ever reunite with him. that ship left the harbor so to speak, carrying one person where two tickets were bought. a honeymoon peter went on by himself -- no, he will never see juno again. that's just how the story was meant to play out.

even he can acknowledge the superficial dramatics in that. he's dreamed, thought about seeing juno again and he's -- rarely angry. he wants to cry, wants to make him pity him. he wants to crack open every one of his ribs and reveal more secrets, show more of himself to juno, convince him. manipulate him, have him. trick him.

the point is that, even if he's thought about it a few dozen times, with the moment finally here, his brain just. shuts down. he doesn't need to turn around to know that it's juno steel, private investigator, mother protector of mars. he just knows, buying off the way his spine tingles in anxiety, or the sound of his voice that haunts peter like a ghost. in his dreams and not, every waking hour of every waking day.

he's right there. peter doesn't turn to meet him.

instead, he stands up straighter, pulling his hands away. they fall uselessly at his sides, and he spares a few fleeting moments to wipe the shock off his face, the pain and the misery, the look of anguish that crosses the whites of his eyes. )

No.

( is what he says, eventually. the pointed click of a heel strikes the ground as peter inevitably turns, halfway, to meet him.

-- but. the cool consideration of his face quickly wipes into worry, and his brows knit, taking half a step forward before remembering his place, stopping in his tracks. )

Juno, you're ... ( his lips twitch. ) You're covered in blood.

[monologue]

[ no.

no no no no.

juno thought the familiarity was a whisper of guilt clawing its way thickly up his throat. he was expecting someone else, someone he didn't know, a total stranger, but instead here's...

here's peter nureyev... in the flesh... staring him down from his place at the console doing who knows what and it's like a nightmare that juno's had a couple dozen times where all he does is wake up feeling that regret, that palpable moment in the doorway yawning like a hall that doesn't end and by the time he wakes up he's covered in sweat and covering his face with his hands mouthing a name that was a gift he didn't deserve to start with. you made a mistake, he tells nureyev without words. you made such a big mistake giving me your name.

his fingers dig into dahliad's feathers, the way you clutch onto something for comfort. ]

Nu--

[ he stops. no. no that's... that's private. ]

Most of it's not... not mine.

[ he swallows. the nausea's been at bay thanks to the theia, the adrenaline still flooding him enough to override the churning of his stomach, but this is nureyev standing before him and there are too many feelings for that chemical to stifle. the yearning and the guilt and the nausea and the loathing all at once have him in a vice that makes it hard to breathe as the theia murmurs calmly in his brain that his cortisol levels are lowering and rest is highly advised as he may suffer from--

dahliad nudges his jaw with her head carefully. his voice is thready now, quiet.

blood. there's... there's a lot of blood, and his heart isn't pumping as quickly so much as his stomach is churning. ]

I'm gonna be sick.

[ sick and furious and relieved and dahliad squirms out of his arms and to the floor with a wet slap of feathers that only helps in making him a little sicker. how do you say your sorry? juno hasn't apologized enough in his brain yet, hasn't found the right combination of words to tell him he was wrong, to justify what he did, why he did it, why he couldn't just... leave. ]

[money]

( it hurts more than he thought it would, honestly. he'd imagined the pain of waking up in a bed alone would've been his greatest heartbreak, but seeing juno here, wounded and sick, and being incapable of helping him feels stifling, feels worse than any prior ache. he longs for him. or maybe he just longs for an easier time, where juno could look at peter and not cross his features with anguish, or when peter could make some sort of tease and see the sharp lines of juno's shoulders silently relax. it's different, now -- complicated is a good word for it. peter's used to being confident and aware, but he feels the tingling of self-doubt curdle his belly, feeling just as sick as juno says.

it'd be easy to say they don't have time for this. there's a whole war going on out there that peter has no intention to fight for, regardless of the safety of worlds and mars, and whatever incentive is supposed to will them into fighting. peter doesn't care about mars. he is not the blindly heroic one out of the two of them. peter cares about juno, and if juno is safe, then that's all that matters. even if he isn't ... it's not really his responsibility anymore, is it?

that's funny. as if juno could be in trouble and peter wouldn't come to his rescue. as if juno could say he feels sick, and peter could just let that be.

his steps forward are a little more measured, more careful, his heels hardly making a sound. he nods his head to the flanking walls of the corridor, offering a hand, should juno need help. )

You should sit. ( he offers a short, mostly fake smile. ) At least this situation is a little bit better than the last time I saw you covered in blood, hm? Now that I've got free range, I can go ... find something to clean you up with. I think I saw basins of water further in. You'll feel better when you're clean.

( pointedly. ignoring the elephant in the room. it's much easier to deny than to talk.

junod seems a little bit taken with dahliad -- a bit smaller, but no less nurturing. flying from peter's shoulder, it rubs its black head on the underside of dahliad's chin, attempting to clean with its feathers.

it's not that easy, junod. )

[monologue]

[ juno would be an awful detective if he couldn't identify fake, even if the room is tilting a little and he feels very close to puking right on his shoes. he swallows the feeling down, eyeballing the hand stretched out to him and then nureyev, who looks...

like a dream he wants to never wake up from and jolt awake from at the same time. they start like this, nureyev swinging in on his proverbial shooting star and juno scrambling for an answer, for an excuse, for anything other than he had to because that big mean city will eat everyone alive if he isn't there to stop it. what a time and a place for the master thief himself to show his face, a place where he can't roam far, a place that isn't fair like that.

he swallows the nausea and it's almost without thinking that he hesitates, hand streaked bloody, shaking.

he grabs his fingers but only because the room won't stop moving and nureyev is right there and he swears underneath the iron smell-taste-feel of blood there's nureyev's cologne--spiced and cloying and abating the tide of sick in his belly. his voice is rough and he hesitates to meet peter's eyes, but needs to in order to be sure. he's not a figment, not a dream, not a wish because when things seems bleak, peter is... always there.

so he looks him in the eye with both of his own now, one a faint green, the other mottled with blinking lights as he looks at peter's face, catalogs everything from the one impossible night. oh god. ]

Just... gotta sit. It's okay. I can clean myself up later.

[ the prospect is more than he ever deserves. he'll get clean in his own time. whatever. but he'll let peter lead him to a place to sit, he'll let that happen as dahliad rucks up her feathers just a bit and leans down just faintly to nudge junod with a delicate tap of thanks. she's fickle, but no less curious, her elegant neck rearing tall now as she seems to beckon quietly for the magpie to follow. she won't be caught far from her charge if she can help it, her tail leaving a faint, gauzy pink trail in its wake.

juno adds: ]

You were doing something there. Whatever it was... had to be important or something, right?

[money]

( there, it isn't so bad. peter clings back on juno's hand, taking that inch and sweeping forward, catching a hand at the curve of juno's waist. supporting him, mindlessly pulling him to the wall to rest against. peter crouches down with him, forcing him into a sit, hand against his chest for a fleeting moment as if pining him there. the temple has been the safest place in the city throughout all this, but now that peter actually has something to protect, he worries about the fortress, sharing paranoid glances to all his sides as if expecting someone to come raging in. as it stands, they're entirely alone -- most people either fighting outside, or situated on the healing beds somewhat further inside. most people don't have the time for emotional breakdowns, but peter and juno are everything before they're most people.

leaning silently back, peter picks off the coat from around his own shoulders and lays it atop juno, sort of -- well, hoping it's reassuring, but also encouraging that he cleans himself off with it. a lot of the blood looks cakey and dried, but some of it is still sticky and likely uncomfortable to have on. peter can draw his own conclusions to the lights in juno's eye -- it isn't that hard to guess, provided he knows whatever struggles juno had with it before -- but he kindly keeps any questions about it to himself, for now. the question game is turn based, after all, a juno made the first move.

peter looks back at the console, considering. he has his hands on juno's thighs, briefly, before he pushes himself off and sits against the wall beside him, one knee bent. he stares at the screen. stares and stares. he can see peter nureyev even from here, only because he knows what he's looking for. )

I'm assuming this machine somehow gets cataloged with every new person brought into the city. My name's in there -- yours is too.

( he clears his throat. a small crack in his ever-perfect disguise, a nervous hand threading once through his hair. )

You can see how that is ... distressing. I was attempting to override the system.

( a pleased trill leaves junod, a somewhat shy sounding if undoubtedly happy, hopping with her scratchy bird feet on the floor, blindly following dahliad's lead. )

[monologue]

[ this coat is too nice to clean up with.

way too nice.

but it's warm and it smells like peter, suffuses his clothes with his scent, surrounds him in something he was fairly sure he'd never come across ever again in his wildest nightmares. he looks over at the console as peter speaks, sees what he'd been doing--opening up the roster, scrolling through. the theia helps just a little, sharpening juno's vision enough that he can see the faint outline of peter nureyev's name, a name that shouldn't be anywhere save a criminal registry somewhere on the outer rim. it should be off in the furthest reaches of space, terrorizing a floating city in the sky with the threat of plummeting to the ground. it shouldn't be here. shouldn't be for anyone's eyes to see. ]

Shit, Nureyev... [ he croaks, the name almost foreign on his tongue, bitter like a poison he drinks down. that's a problem, a problem peter's probably been able to do away with before. ] If you wanna get back to it... don't let me stop you.

[ the little stab of anger grows hot in his gut. peter's name, more precious than any goddamn thing in space, here on a registry. his eyes flick from the console that's just a worthless bunch of beeping lights to him right now (the theia is exhausted now, the headache it brings on is something dull and thrumming over and over again) and then to peter, sitting so close. the warmth of his hands on his thighs for a second feels tattooed there.

peter. peter nureyev sitting beside him, looking put together for everyone else. but juno can see the hairline fracture, thin and apoxied over again and again from close calls and near misses that he imagines come with anyone's youthful days of their career. peter's an expert now (it's always the thieves with years under their belts that are the most dangerous) and to have his name there on display for anyone to walk through and see if they dug around enough.

would it mean anything to anyone here?

there's no point in taking that chance. in breaking a sacred rule peter's held up since he left brahma (he knows too much, juno knows too damn much and it hurts.)

he reaches up a hand and starts to unbutton the front of his shirt from beneath peter's jacket. he doesn't use the expensive material to wipe himself down, rather, almost to keep up some modicum of modesty that doesn't matter in a place like this where it's the two of them and their daemons mingling with one another. looking at the pair of birds (god this place is weird) makes juno sink further down into peter's jacket as dahliad is settling close by to slowly dip down and start to preen the magpie's dark feathers with her beak. juno turns away and uses the fabric of his button down to slowly wipe away at the blood, shoulders peeking up bare from the jacket. he'll find something to replace his shirt with eventually.

god.

the last thing he needs is to muck up anything else in peter's life. ] I can watch the door if you want to keep trying.

william hainsworth ( original | eudio crau. )

[basileum]

a.

( The feeling of being ripped from one world and thrust into another is disorientating enough on a good day. To someone who comes from a place of candlelight and frozen wastelands, however, it's even worse. What little he's learnt about swimming involved another, calmer sojourn across universes, and it took him too long to remember he had to kick up. Thankfully his fingers had caught on something - debris from an explosion, maybe - aiding him in his efforts surface wise.

Feel free to ignore the soaked and leather clad prince upon the shore. He's busy at the moment, coughing sea water inelegantly onto the sand.

It takes him a long time to orientate himself, his thoughts a churning mass. The time he spent in Eudio doesn't slot neatly into his memories so much as it assaults across his thoughts, questions crowding at the forefront even as his eyes burn and his lungs ache. William struggles to his feet - weighed down by his attire of fur and metal armour - but his keen blue eyes don't waste time in searching for the person nearest. He has to do something. ) Are you alright? ( His hands reach for them, to help them perhaps, or to comfort. ) Are you hurt?

b.

( The Ponyta finds him a little way away. William doesn't see the horse like creature at first, too lost in his thoughts where he sits with his back against a tree. Upon hearing the hooves though, he looks up.

And smiles. )

I remember you.

( But his daemon wastes no time in explaining everything. That is has taken this form for a reason, that it isn't the pokemon he had before. William would have figured that out himself, actually. It breathed fire, not electronics. With every bit of information though, the frown between his brows deepens. Eudio, gone. Hagan, gone. Everything he has been through, everything he has done, all for naught. And then he is told of an invasion. Warned of it. His gaze cuts to the horizon, fingertips resting at the sword strapped to his waist. This would have frightened him before, but when he stands there is very little of the timid boy he used to be in his frame. Instead there is stern dignity there. )

Then let me meet this destiny. I have a few things I would like to impart upon them.

( It does not take him long thereafter to reach the battle, the shape of his daemon helps - useful when you can ride it - and he launches himself into the fray within seconds knocking a spear from the sky with a flick of his own weapon. To the target, he is quick to pull them back upon their feet, voice cutting through the chaos. ) Stay behind me.

c.

( He finds his way to the tavern before he attempts to find his home, bones aching but something like satisfaction uncoiling inside of his chest. It was a hard fight, but a good one, and William knows the best place to start gathering information is with the people. By now he at least looks less soaked through, his hair braided loosely to keep it out of his way and his armour strapped to the Ponyta's side. The only thing that suggests he isn't a stranger to a fight is the scar that runs with jagged edges from just below his ear to curve half way across his throat.

But when he leans against the bartop, there's something innocently friendly in his stance. His eyes are kind when they flicker around the small space, they invite conversation with anyone who passes. He wastes no time in initiating it either, deciphering a list of drinks all the while addressing who is nearest, indicating the menu. Help him out here. )

What would you suggest I choose?

d.

daemon: dagrny
remind me how to work the rain box.

e.

( Wildcard. Hit me up at athosing. )

c.

[lacquers]

[ The longest and most thoughtful of sounds is your answer, dear William. Hmmmm. It's promptly followed by a second, less lengthy hum of contemplation. Hmm. Looks to be emanating from the colorful individual to the left, who also seems to have been cogitating that list. Lots of choices, for sure. ]

Well, I guess it all depends on your reasons for drinking. Are we celebrating a happy reunion right now? [ It's not the most subtle way to ask, "hey, do you remember me from another universe?" But it gets the job done, by golly. And Magnus is absolutely, definitely, 100% hoping that the answer to that question will be 'yes,' because here's a face he's missed terribly. A bit changed, he notices. But that does not change the fact that seeing Will again arouses a deep feeling of fondness in him.

So. He hopes... hopes for a happy reunion. ]

[basileum]

( He should have paid a great deal more attention to the people around him because he wouldn't have wasted time even looking at the menu. But in all fairness to him, it's been a long day. When said colourful individual speaks though, William definitely reacts, head whipping in the direction of his old friend with enough force to leave a lesser man dizzy. )

Magnus!

( He hadn't known to hope. When the daemon told him of Eudio's fate he'd assumed -- but no, no Magnus is hear and William is pulling him into an embrace without a second thought, clapping him on the back before holding him tightly. He hopes you're the embracing type, friend. He forgot to find out before. )

You're all right. ( Still holding him by the shoulders, but pulling away to search his face. ) I heard about Eudio, but you're here. And Alec? Tell me he is too.

[lacquers]

[ Magnus remembers the kind of long day a person has when they first arrive here. He remembers it very well. That said, he promptly forgets almost everything else (for the moment) in the face of seeing Will again.

And giving him a big hug, which he is not at all averse to doing, no sir. He'll return that embrace just as heartily as it's given to him. ] William! [ There's a definite note of relief there. ] I can't tell you how happy I am to see you again.

What a sight for sore eyes, hm? [ Oh, yes, the question. An important one, which he will answer: ] Alexander and I are both here. We have been for a few months now.

[ He leans back a bit. ] How about you? Are you all right? [ His eye falls on the scar for a second, but doesn't linger. ]

[basileum]

When I awoke this morning I did not foresee my involvement in a galactic war. ( He learnt that word from his daemon, surprise. ) But I am all the better for seeing you. Let me get you a drink. You can tell me what I've missed.( Because he doesn't know when he left Eudio, can't recall the decision beforehand. He knows for himself it's been just over a year. But for Magnus? Well, you can never tell by looking at his face. William remembers that much.

He manages to attract the attention of a server, settling into the seat beside Magnus with ease. Already his nerves are settling, relief and joy managing to sweep aside the worry for now. It might have been different, had he not found a friendly face.

Actually, he's just going to keep smiling even when focusing on difficult subject matters. )

You've been here for months, you said? Has it been in battle the whole time? People seem so carefree.

( He's no stranger to finding the good during dark times. His people still do their best to celebrate even with the way things are. But he can sense unease in them. In the city here it feels almost too like Eudio. )

[lacquers]

[ That's quite a word to be adding to your vocabulary. ]

You are not alone in that, dear William. I think we were all caught completely by surprise upon arriving here. Still, it's not all bad and the company's certainly not lacking! [ Here's a reassuring smile. One that, yes, looks just the same as it did last time they crossed paths. You can't gauge much from Magnus' appearance. ]

Let's have a drink and I'll tell you everything I can, all right?

[ They can settle in together and have a wee drink and a bit of a chat. ] I don't think you'll find it too hard to settle in. The surroundings aren't entirely dissimilar to Eudio, though some of our circumstances are different. I also don't think I'd call this a war in the typical sense, [ maybe a "cold" war that's briefly gone "hot" - of sorts ] just as our contractual obligations in Eudio were far from typical.

Have you found a place to stay yet? [ That's an important query. ]

[bangitybang]

[there's a crunch of impact, a friction-heavy sound of force moving against-- or through flesh. janus straightens, half-turns. sand scatters across their clothes, their arms. they see that a red warrior had been trying to kill them, their bristling spear still weighing heavy in a half-raised hand. but they see too, flames curling around the armor, a flailing of the empty, gauntleted arm. the enemy drops their spear, and janus stoops agilely, picking it up.

they heft it just once. raise it, and throw. it goes soaring, following a trajectory of deadly accuracy. then it catches the red-armored being squarely through the gut. they watch long enough to see the thing's biology begin to fail, stumbling and weaving. copper-colored blood leaking out, visible under the glint of still-burning fire.

then they look at the oncoming stranger and her oddly enormous companion. they blink.] Hello, Thank you.

Daken | Marvel Comics 616

[itsdesigner]

crash landing.
[He woke up like he had so many times with the distinct, but familiar, feeling that his body had taken some kind of massive damage. His clothing and bits of debris around him only reinforced the distant echo of injuries. As usual, he was completely uninjured, not a scratch, not a bruise, nothing.

This place didn't smell at all familiar and that, more than anything else, had him immediately on edge. The people around him, other survivors it looked like, were people he'd never met before. He knew that with complete certainty.

Gracefully, he got to his feet and took a moment to brush sand off his somewhat tattered pants and shirt and then run a hand through his hair.

Time to figure out what the hell was going on.]

battle+temple.
[Daken was good in a fight. Very good. In fact, most days he wondered if it was the only thing he was good at. Killing was in his DNA and these creatures felt familiar. His memory was spotty, but he knew they were somewhat responsible for... everything. And now they'd shown up to finish the job. He was prepared to make that as difficult as he could for them.

Unfortunately, not everyone is quite so good and he can't help but sigh as he came across yet another injured fighter, or maybe just an unlucky civilian. They're unconscious, but he can hear a pulse and there's a lull in the fighting. It might also benefit him to endear himself to the locals, so he throws the man over his shoulder and heads to the temple, which seems to be the central place of refuge within the city.]

Medic! [At first, quick glance he doesn't look so great himself. Some of the blood is his own, most isn't, but a closer inspection will reveal no injuries. The man he's rescued, however, will need some attention, but doesn't look critical.]

network/daemon shenanigans.
List your available commands again. Can't I make you not speak unless spoken to? [Daken grumbled at his daemon, a wolverine named IRONYD. He hated it. Everything about it was basically there to mock him. He was sure of it.] Don't look at me like that either. If I want your opinion or your judgments I'll ask you for it.

DAEMON: IRONYD
I want your opinions.

[He glances down when the notification pops up.] ... What message? I didn't tell you to send any message. [He inhales deeply and sighs, muttering under his breath.] You're the worst.

daemon: sophiad

[helical]

Is that a riddle?

slides in here

[monologue]

UN: DAHLIAD

Okay, but opinion on what? Best kind of jelly for PBJ? Good bad art?
Whether these shoes go with that dress? I could go on.

You're keeping me in suspense here.

battle;

[shadowblends]

[The shouting of "medic!" captures Kurt's attention right away.

He raises his head, focusing an intent gaze on someone approaching with another wounded. Brow furrowing, the blue boy assures his current 'patient' that he'll be right back and gets to his feet, hurrying over to assess the situation.]

Is anything broken? [he inquires.] If so, we'll need to find someone else to aid with that. [Doing a quick once-over on the person Daken is carrying reveals no grave injuries, but that doesn't mean there aren't internal things to fret over. Then, of course, he has to imagine that the rescuer might have been attacked as well.]

Are you hurt? Here— [he gestures with one hand toward a spot for the unconscious one, beckoning Daken to follow him with the other.] Put them over there.

[itsdesigner]

[A long suffering sigh.]

So that's what it sent.

As interesting as all of that sounds, maybe advice on how to improve your daemon. Is there an upgrade, or something?

[itsdesigner]

I found him. [The reply is curt and detached, an indirect answer to Kurt's question.] He's breathing.

[Daken eased the unconscious man down onto one of the empty spots. His focus, however, was keenly trained on the young mutant. Of course, he recognized him. Nightcrawler. In fact, he'd fought and bested the other mutant once. He looked different. Younger.

If Wagner recognized him, he was doing an amazing job at hiding it.]

I'm fine. [He took a seat though and grabbed some water.] Any word as to how things are going? [He picked a little blood and gore out from underneath one of his fingernails.]

[monologue]

I can't even get her to play solitaire with me so I think that's just a big fat no for you right there.

text;

[servomotor]

I NEVER GOT CUTOFFS THAT WERE CUT OFF SO HIGH YOU COULD SEE THE INTERIOR WHITE POCKET FABRIC. IT'S JUST NOT MY THING.

[itsdesigner]

No trading either, I'm guessing. We all have something different. Something 'personal' in some way, right? Or is this thing just spouting lies in the hope that I don't ditch it the first chance I get?