xistentia | War with D.E.S.T.I.N.Y.

Entry tags:

War with D.E.S.T.I.N.Y.

Characters: Ensemble cast, any/all characters of Xistentia!
Summary: D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. comes to Xistentia for the first time, bringing with it violence and havoc. Combat against enemy agents, healing, emergency sanctuary, and "Drift Compatibility" happen here. Refer to the OOC plotting post and the mod announcement!
Date(s): November 4-18
Warnings/Notes: Violence, death, psychological themes, trauma. Please warn for anything else in your subject headers!

WAR WITH DESTINY

By headsman's blade or battle-axe

Fight For Your Life

Everything is, in short, super fucked. Era Ra's warning came at the right time, forewarning of some of the weapons and fighting styles that could be expected from D.E.S.T.I.N.Y.'s agents, but still, the people of Xistentia have not faced a force like this before. The ragtag combination of fighting styles and tactics promises both versatility and confusion.

For better or worse, D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. is in similar chaos.

The first to come are ships from the Western sea, bearing a mix of warriors in and monsters. Some wield old-fashioned steel swords and others bear laser blasters, and their armor is just as varied. Some creatures appear domesticated, while others are feral and snap at their own. However, one primary feature identifies the enemy: their war color is red, which adorns flags and uniforms. Interestingly, the sea and sky of Xistentia seem to be fighting back in their own way, massive waves and a storm, even animals pestering them as they attempt to land the beach. However, it's only a matter of time before the mainstay of their forces reach land, some two hundred fighters. It's then that sentient fires start to whirl into the forests, leaping from tree to tree.

You have the home court advantage. Even the foliage itself seems to cooperate with you, aiding in efforts for stealth by keeping you downwind, twigs failing to crack when you misstep. Soon, you're joined by Xistentia's other forces-- a handful of battered ships taking air, an odd assortment of elves and talking dogs, demons and aliens from outer-space, coordinating counter-attacks.

BATTLE MODE: ATTACK

You're locked in combat with a woman who seems oddly familiar, though you don't know her face and can't think of her name. You hit her in the head, and now a narrow slice of her face shows through her red-rimmed helm. She wields a rifle tipped with a heavy blade, though it crackles with electrical energy. She is a proficient swordswoman, deftly parrying and striking against you, her face eerily expressionless. Her blade has a switch that, when activated, will send out a net that numbs your limbs and drags you to the floor. Here's hoping you won't face this demon alone.

She's not your only problem. You may have noticed, that in every epic battle with evil wizards, there's always some kind of a problematically gigantic elephant. This is one of those days. At least, there's only one, its trunk as wide as a car, its feet moving slow, so that it might crush the trees rather than trip over them.

Fight one or both, or fight the hordes of nameless minions around them. Either way: there's plenty to do. Those of you who thought things were too quiet here? You'll be busy today.

SEEK SANCTUARY

Fighting isn't for you? Well, you'll want to get out of the way, then. The "wards" protecting the city are failing, and people are heading toward The Temple where the protections remain the strongest. Here, the injured need healing in the stone beds. The civilians do their best, comforting children, cooking food, trading intelligence, repairing weapons and armor where possible. Feel free to pitch in; they need all the help they can get.

BATTLE MODE: SUPPORT (PSYLINK)

And here, you've reached the Temple, you've laid yourself down on one of the many glass-and-stone beds within the safety of its stone walls. You know what the other Xistentia residents have told you about it— this is the next phase, after the memory share had raised shields against the psychotropic rain. This is the PsyLink. Through this bond, you are said to be able to activate special defenses. No one seems to know exactly what they are, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And beyond the Temple walls, times are desperate indeed.

Each drift requires at least two people. Your daemons will find and connect you, seemingly at random— and you may find yourself with the unlikeliest of partners.

Drift Compatible

The Kissing Booth participants find it easiest. Everyone else-- it's a wild jumble, finding yourself caught up in a firehose of not only your own memories, but that of someone else. Everything they think, everything they feel, is intertwined with your mind.

You can't get caught up in it. You have to let the memories of the past, your predictions for the future, and the terror of war flow in and out of you, without neither resistance or pursuit, gently tuning them out. And in this serenity, this psychic silence, this acceptance of not only yourself but the other other, you find perfect connectivity— harmony with your PsyLink partner.

In this space, you find yourself having strange conversations. You and your partner will share ghostly images, some of which seem to be images from the past— while others seem to be present-day moments from the battle outside, fighting the enemy, as if you are somehow in two places at once. You must find traction and stay in the now and stay calm, but it's harder than you think.

The instant you latch onto that memory or emotion, it's a mistake... but you forget.

Your shadow is here. Whether out-of-context, or right here where it was meant to be, it's trying to kill you.

But you're not trapped here alone. Someone is calling your name, a familiar voice in the pandemonium. That voice comes from your drift partner. It's up to them to pull you back, remind you of who you are, and balance you. Hold on to them - they're your anchor, but you'll have to do the same for them. A successful drift means helping each other. Do it well, and you'll help to power the temple's defences. Fail, and there'll be trouble for everyone seeking sanctuary here.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

i. fight for your life / @ ota

[ there's hot plasma fire that comes from an unseen direction. one shot. and then another. each of these has a deadly aim that doesn't miss. juno is hidden downwind from the fire, as is the forest's will, hidden among the foliage and undergrowth with a rifle in both of his hands. first things first, xistentia is not mars, it isn't hyperion city, it isn't the crowded population and winding neon streetlights that keep him company at night. no. it's lush, green, alive, breathing, singing. it's a promise to keep his home safe so long as he holds up his end of the bargain. and juno tries his best not to break promises these days. the last one he broke? well. that was just something that was unavoidable in the end. but he won't betray the trust of this place, not when mars is hanging in the balance once again.

juno is positioned on one of many thick boughs in a tree, leaves move slowly over him, provide cover for him. while he really doesn't like heights, he's going to stomach them in this case, swallow down the fear because this is some great cover. the theia hums to life and softly whispers to him in her voice that she's calibrating his aim, locking onto targets, steadying his heartbeat, his muscles. so it begins. he lines up shot after shot after shot, aiming to keep both warriors and monsters at bay. if there is one thing that's certain here, it's this, juno plans to take a page out but one of his namesake's great epithets: sospita, savior. protector. shoot alongside him, or join him under the cover the forest provides at least for a brief moment if you want. ]

[ it's not pretty, war. hell, juno's never had to see one this up close before, never felled so many people at once. there's no stun setting on this rifle, and maybe he's thankful for it because none of these bastards deserve that kind of mercy with all the havoc they're causing. but because of it, he's pressed up against the trunk of a tree, looking pretty green around the gills. one second he looks like he might be okay, the next he's vomiting straight onto the roots of the tree he's clinging to for dear life. the theia's influence is a burst of adrenaline and focus that he rides with every concussive blast of the rifle, but now that he's not staring down the sights of a gun, the world's spinning.

the tree itself seems to reach a bough down just a bit, brushes the space between his shoulder blades like some kind of consolation. there's blood on his hands from an ambush, blood on his shirt, his skull. ]

Yeah, uh, sorry, Mother Nature.

ii. seek sanctuary / @ ota

[ here's one juno steel on the ground with a small basin of water in a relatively empty corner. he looks relatively freshly bandaged up, some butterfly bandages holding a nasty graze on his temple together, a few on his arms from where he took the brunt of a couple of bad falls. he's crouched in front of a rather large peacock who is looking... unnaturally pink, feathers a gradient of white to red. it seems rather patient, resting a small head against juno's shoulder as he cleans her feathers with a shockingly slow and careful hand. ]

I'm not uncomfortable, [ she says, voice pitched feminine if you listen closely enough. which is weird because that'd make her a peahen wouldn't it? but she's far too magnificent. ] Please don't wet your bandages.

[ juno snorts at her, but his voice is barely above a whisper. ]

Shut up, you're not cute, Dahliad.

[ the gentleness of his motions, however, seems to betray his urgency to get dahliad clean, combing through her feathers with his rough fingers trembling. ]

iii. battle mode: support (psylink) / cw: eventual mention of child abuse / @ janus lefevre
( see ooc drift planning: andromeda and the dragon's peak for more information. )

[ so drifting isn't easy, but at least DAHLIAD chooses someone that juno knows a bit about. staying stable shouldn't be hard, there's a lot riding on it, so clearly sheer determination and focus should win out, but there's a soft voice that seems to tear its way through juno's brain, something that makes him stop dead, blood going cold like an ice floe. somewhere mid-drift, juno feels that sharp tug, like a noose around the neck yanking him back sharply, jostling the entire thing. ]

Now, Juno, [ that same voice slurs and suddenly juno is pretty sure he's on the ground looking up at a very real andromeda, chainmail warrior standing a few feet from him with her sword drawn. she shambles forward, her blade cutting, sweeping, painting tainted silver arcs in the air. ] Just hold still, this will only hurt for a second, I p͍̘͠-p-p͍̘͠r͔o͇m̟̣̫̲͞i̵͕͚̟s̞͕̪̖e҉̪̰.

[ her voice glitches, stammers and stutters and sparks seem to fly from strange plating pieces in her armor. she takes steps slowly like a cat that knows she's got her prey precisely where she wants it. she's just playing with him it seems, and it's definitely not a fair fight by any means. juno's weaponless and on the ground, sprawled while andromeda's voice is warping, a register that's striking off all the discordant bells in juno's head--sarah steel. she sounds exactly like sarah steel.

now, it isn't as though juno isn't trying to stand up and get the hell away. god, he's trying to grip the grass to get some traction and stack himself upright, but for some reason he's stuck on the ground like his legs don't work, like someone's gone and slashed the muscles at the backs of his heels and left him to crawl like a goddamn worm. which is exactly how he feels the more she talks. when he tries again, he just falls, and there's a panic low in his gut that says he can't outrun her, he can't outrun sarah-goddamn-steel because she's all over him, in his blood, in his brain setting him on fire, eating him alive from the inside out like a parasite over three decades old. juno looks like he's trying to say something, anything, but it's deafened by the roar of a dragon in the distance, of a great, booming narrator's voice glitching over and over the same words nightmarishly. ]

Now be a good boy and hold still for mommy so she can f̧͇̥̲̖̼̦̜į͇̗n̫̘͈͓̠i̠͍̱͙̤͉̝s̛ͅh ̫͓t̝̺͕̮͓̟h̡̼̫̩̬̹e͓̖ ̙͔̥̲j̠̘o̞̲̦͈̕b͈̰̞̩͜. Don't you want to be a good boy?

Edited 2017-11-06 23:12 (UTC)

[a terrible monster, janus thinks. terrible monsters are nothing new, but most of the ones that they've encountered and slewn, in their own world, were not so personal. maniacal vampires, homicidal clowns, diseased werewolves, legitimate zombies, demons that could derive no sustenance except off the flesh of thinking beings younger than eighteen. they've met all sorts, but their relationship with these creatures was always decidedly impersonal. they guard mankind, and all creatures that mean no harm to peace-loving folk, having spent their life fostering a sense of kinship for the vast worlds of innocents they'll never be a part of. but that's different.

different to seeing the substance of somebody's soul peeled back like the flesh off a skinning victim, their surprised flesh and muscle, vessels exposed and squirming to the exam table light. the biological nightmare of the anatomy of someone else's mind. the components are in and of themselves familiar to janus— they've smelled people burning, they've seen swords meet and sparks fly. they've been in the dark and hunted by neon light. they've even been to carnivals. but this is about nothing they've ever done.

this is juno's. janad had told them so.

and out of the dark, the hunter descends. or rather, they ascend, swinging their sword up, lunging to meet the chainmailed woman weapon-first. metal shrieks against metal. they're stronger than they look in reality, and it reverberates into the substance of the psylink— half a ton of strength bursting up to deflect the blade.] And a fine lady, [they tell her, because it didn't seem right not to say something when nightmare words cut juno so.]

[ there's a resignation that fills him, the same sensation that had settled in the pit of his stomach like a pile of stones as he'd sat behind that airlock listening to peter scream, watching miasma reform slowly piece by nauseating piece. that resignation that had said "this is it" and "at least you deserve it" and "every hero goes out with a bang, that's what makes a good story great." here... here it isn't quite that same. he's helpless, but god if he doesn't want to be. he wants to strike back, wants to get up on his own two feet, but he can't and just as andromeda... just as his mother in her armor swings down her sword something stops it from hitting its mark.

and he looks, and there's janus with their own sword aloft, looking like some hero straight out of those comics that juno used to thrive off of as a kid, swinging in, possessed of a motion he could only dream of having as his heart pounds furiously in his chest.

between them and between andromeda, juno doens't know where to look. the hulking warrior bears down upon the sword meeting her own, parrying it with a rage and aggression that only a monster could have, grown strong on the self-loathing of her brood. her head whirls around unnaturally fast and sharp at the angle, as if dislodging itself from the very top of her spine. ]

Stay there w̷r̹͖͕͍̪̻̤e̵t̗c͈̤̀h͉̥̝̦͔͍̱e̢d͚͙̠ ̢͉̟b̙̯̪͉͜o̡̤̣̫̪̜̳y̨̥̱̰̟̼. See all the trouble you cause? See?

[ she turns back towards janus, helm bloodied anew from the slats where her eyes ought to be as she aims another strike at them. there's a foul stench in the air, past the scent of flesh and blood--thick, sweet alcohol. ]

Don't waste your time.

[they all have their monsters. demons. seeing that of a friend out here, in the flesh, rampaging about with murderous abandon, makes janus keenly aware that they will soon face their own, no doubt. this place only singled out juno because juno had singled themself out. compassion is a pang, as sharp as the crash of sword on sword.]

You're but imaginary, [they tell her, biting out the syllables, terse from effort. they parry her strikes.] Your hate isn't yours. Not really.

[is it juno's? is this juno's rage and misery, in costume? they do not entirely understand how this psylink works— and part of them is unwilling to parse such a vile creature as part of juno's experience and interior world. not juno, who'd been kind despite his discomfiture, patient despite that janus' questions had, in retrospect, been rather stupid. what is this nightmare carnival? they deflect blows, keeping focused despite the internal hubbub of their silent questions. they wait for their chance-- saying only a little, in small hope her response might disrupt juno's sense of reality enough to take him from his stupor.

but just small hope. their larger plans are conserved for the next moment. when janus sees their opening, they lunge forward. the leap is powered with combined strength: the kick of their legs, but also the rush of magic, of janus' connection to a harpy far far away-- the ability to fly, that they remember and cherish so well. they swing their knees up, and hit the woman solidly in the chest with the balls of their feet.

and then they reverse mid-air, somersaulting backward. reaching to catch juno by his arm. flying like peter fucking pan, sword in hand. maybe they don't have peter pan on mars, and janus is a rather joyless substitute, grimly dressed in black and absurdly upside-down, but still it's time to ask—] Juno! My friend! Do you know my name?

[ andromeda doesn't go down, but she's rattled, buckling back with a roar that seems to intensify every sensation surrounding them - the smells, the panic, the blaring of the dysfunctional narrator repeating the same word over and over and over again.

juno can taste it all, the sour smell on his tongue, even the self-loathing is palpable enough to choke on if you really hate yourself, and god juno hates himself. he presses his lips together instead and andromeda laughs, one hand to her chest, a figure that might strike courage into the hearts of some looking like a nightmare.

but then there's a force pulling him away from the range of andromeda's blow enough to shake him out of it a little bit. his fingers stretch out and grab what he can despite his contentment to take it - the blade, the berating, the sound of his own voice somewhere inside his mother's hating him, hating himself. there's a blind kind of rage that andromeda swings with, something anew and hungry attempting to catch them, but not being able to with janus springing away. ]

-̞̺͈͇̣́ Ruined e̯̟̤̯̪̠͙v͉e͈̖̙̜r̜̼̦̟͍͢ý̮̥͕̭t͓̙͝h̀i͝n̶̻͓̟͈͕̯͇g̨͕̜͇̣!̭͈̪̺̥͕ I should have killed you too!

[ andromeda shrieks from the distance, and her discordant voice shifts, something familiar, an overlay of a woman's voice and a man's and at once juno looks over, fingers clutching their arm like it's the only thing that matters here and now. that's his voice. he knows it so well because it rattles around enough in his brain, when he talks to himself, telling him the exact same thing. everything you touch you ruin.

but fuck it. he fumbles with his grip against their arm and for a moment everything feels like a blur, like he can barely hear it underwater and he just sees their mouth moving in shapes until it comes through like bursting upwards to an unseen surface. his fingers clutch in some kind of half-aborted movement and the answer to their question comes out, breathless, quick: ]

Can't forget it. [ even just the few times, fumbling awkwardly in the temple over words and even moreso under bright lights and warm music, he can feel it even now alongside every iota of his self conscious, recent memory that feels awash in something good... benign. ] Janus -

[ and hell, just the name alone puts a little bit of ground beneath juno's toes again, and as unsteady as he'd been before now, he can feel a strength gradually coming back to his knees, his heels, and there's a sense of stabilization here, like the grip on janus' arm means something more, like with them there, juno can focus because god if his brain isn't like a house on fire if the house had set itself on fire to begin with.

janus doesn't deserve this shit. ]

I'm sorry - [ he says it before he can eat the words again, and they're dry like sand. ]

[janus draws the other man away. a dozen feet. further. like a leaf surfs the currents of a wind. it's the stuff of wire-fight wushu, campy television kung-fu, the odd mix of elegance and the ridiculous, fantasy and real fighting style. no more absurd or impossible than the many-voiced machine screaming hatefully at them in a cacophony.

they still aren't far enough away when janus decides that it'll have to be far enough. they know something of psychic traps, of nightmare monsters. of the tortures invented by oneself and hijacked by soul magic. you have to solve the puzzle according to its own rules, and running from these monstrous imposters is only another way of convincing oneself that their power is real. gently as they can, they set juno on the ground, descending in slow degrees so that his toes graze the grass first. then properly setting him down, even as they drop out of the sky themself, like mary fucking poppins. sword instead of umbrella. it's an increasingly popular trope in fiction.

they step close to juno after. keeping their eyes on his face, though it's half an illusion— their peripheral vision is angled just a little past the edge of the other man's scarred face, intent on the being that still rages beyond. coming toward them still.]

We're in a virtual reality, [they tell him.] Trying to fight a war. The program is preying on the cruelest parts of your own mind, I believe. [if they could possibly make this sound more dry and boring they probably would. one of janus' foibles, okay. everything sounds like it belongs in an unillustrated textbook, ten point font, times new roman.] But there are others. [they look into his eyes. wishing it was brighter, so maybe he could see them more clearly.

juno's mind is full of darkness. janus decides not to read too much into it.]

The ones that have kept you alive and moving this long. The ones that have turned-- this, into the urge and ability to help people.

[ the feeling of weightlessness would probably be sickening if it weren't for the mix of panic and anger and the black hole that constantly eats juno alive on the daily. it's janus, and he's clinging to them like he doesn't really have anything else to cling to, and on any other day, that might be true. juno really feels as though holding fast to something isn't worth it? and by "isn't worth it" he means for the other party. what's the point, right?

by the time they both touch down and juno fumbles because what's being pulled into gravity again but being reminded of the sinking feeling in his stomach as he looks into janus' eyes and finds himself at a loss for words. the clarification is... it's good. it's solidifying their place here - they were trying to do some good with this strange tech, trying to fight back. his own eyes glitter in a lopsided sort of way, one far dimmer than the other. ]

I... okay. [ juno takes a breath, believes it - why wouldn't he? it's janus, he's gone alongside people with less merit and the world nureyev echoes in his head painfully. his fingers still grip their arms just a bit, as if he were still floating. ] Don't know about helping people, Janus. I fuck a hell of a lot of stuff up. [ the doubt is palpable - cass kanagawa, alessandra, nureyev, all of them disappointed in him. ben too dead to be disappointed, his mother too angry to do much but hate him, really.

the admission is quiet as he digs his fingers in briefly before letting go. ] A lot of stuff. [ he swallows tightly. yasmin swift, that moment at the precipice of the cart, watching her fall. his teeth tighten against each other, grind. ] People died who shouldn't have. Didn't deserve to. And it was my fault. Not sure if that's helping anyone.

[the ground is strangely solid under their feet, or at least it's pretending to be, this figment of illusion designed to terrify and reassure by turns. janus understands something of fear, how it teaches one to become dependent on tokens of safety— how it teaches weakness. ground and sky here exist only to provide context for a monster. distance allows them to pretend there is any hope for escape, insists that escape is the only answer.]

It is not your fate to be blameless. When you have the responsibility to try and the power to effect change, regret is inevitable.

[janus should never run a greeting card business. there is a terrible kind of peace that comes with their work, understanding its purpose, its raw righteousness, its cosmic evil, its uncertain margins of error. and the necessity of it.]

A perfect world wouldn't need us. It is your terrible privilege, to know that what called you out of the dark was more darkness. But it's still a calling. [they say such stupid things sometimes. but it's that specific sort of cheese and rhetoric that allows them to look into his eyes, unflinching as his fingers bite into their arm. they hold him too. in the distance, metal rings, the monstrous chimes of her voice, the crunch of her footfalls coming closer. janus doesn't know the names that pass through juno's mind, the faces, the guilt, but they can guess.

(it scares them, a little; knowing how it migt be for them, when the tide turns.)]

You regret having tried? Do you think there's a world somewhere out there, that turns, where you didn't?

Edited 2017-11-28 05:42 (UTC)

juno steel / ota

meeeee

youuuu

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meanwhile @dad

Sanctuary

woof

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