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Entry tags:
- #event,
- arthur stuart (velvet goldmine),
- aymeric de borel (final fantasy xiv),
- jace herondale (shadowhunters),
- jughead jones (riverdale),
- kenzi malikov (lost girl),
- kurt wagner (xmcu),
- loki (mcu),
- marcus wright (tsfb),
- mikaela hyakuya (sote),
- nico di angelo (chb),
- private joker (full metal jacket),
- rafaello d’este (oc),
- will solace (chb),
- wyatt lawson (oc)
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
meeee
his daemon, moonshined, regards shebad with interest. as odd a pair as kavinsky and kurt make, no doubt, shebad and moonshined are stranger to look at— an ocelot and a husky, a cat and a dog. true symbolism for the mismatch of their masters. moonshined rears up onto her hindlegs to place her forepaws on the interface nearby, stooping her head. unfortunately for everybody who likes cute animal memes, she doesn't actually try to type with her paws or anything! whatever link happens with the computer is much more subtle.
in the meantime, kavinsky calls out,] Sup motherfucker? [and flings his arms back, folding them under his head. like he's on a hammock in the goddamn bahamas instead of a cold temple in the middle of an interdimensional war.] You wanna start a fight, might be better to head outside. Lots of people for you to punch, sweetheart, and I'm into the whole genre-confused warrior LARP aesthetic you got going right now.
♥
The ocelot, however, rises with grace, her large eyes staring at Moonshined. Their last meeting had been interesting enough and since she has her own curiosity that cannot be satiated, she sees no problem padding over the husky to investigate. Once within range, she leaps up onto the sleek black surface and noses into the canine's head when she lowers, playful and questioning.]
No relations with any mothers, [he quips.] I'm glad that you have no problem relaxing in the middle of a war. [A roll of the eyes, both arms raising to tuck across his chest, although his face is tinting violet, revealing his flustered state.] I already punched [and stabbed] plenty of people without this armor, but— mmn, I don't know what you mean by 'LARP.'
no subject
LARP. Live... Action... Live Action Roleplay, probably, [he says.] Nerds hitting each other with wood swords in the woods, pretending they real knights and shit. But congratulations. You got five or six levels on the neckbeards. Knocked the shit out of a whole bunch of baddies already. [a lopsided smile. kavinsky glints fang at the mutant again, inviting a glint of fang from kurt in answer.] I'm just glad you like to watch me relax in the middle of war, baby. [kurt isn't wrong, of course. kavinsky's appearance of being at ease is out of place.
and not entirely honest. kavinsky's wheelhouse is a very narrow sub-domain of psychic shit. he doesn't exactly count on this psylink to be just like dream thieving.]
no subject
Except, I'm not acting? Back in my world, this is just the sort of thing I was planning for. If I hadn't broken my knife— [Kurt stops, tentatively peers over his shoulder then turns back to Kavinsky.] Thanks, I think. [Also a bit of an iffy statement, but there, nonetheless.] You like being watched? How bizarre. [Which means he's interested.
With a sigh, he promptly heads over to where their daemons are, his own lips quirking with amusement at the sight. All he can think of is the downright adorableness of the two and if there wasn't a long, ongoing battle outside, he could almost relax. However, they can't, because lounging about on a rockbed won't keep the monsters at bay.]
Well? [a gesture with his hand.] No time like the present.
cw sexual vulgarity
Mutant wants to go, [he says.] Chop chop, motherfuckers. Hey, sweetheart. This ain't my first time. You know the drill is, stay in the present. Feel me come in. Breathe. And if it hurts, push out, don't clamp down.
[his leer is awful. typical. it's the tasteless kinds of jokes that he tends to enjoy. but he's already closing his eyes, and the stones are beginning to glow, pulsing with gentle warmth under kurt's back. it's beginning. the fractured rush of memory, the vague, ghostly sense of the jungle outside. their awareness expanding, merging, threading together like the icy surface of a freezing lake above currents that still run deep.]
no subject
It's mine, though. [In case that wasn't clear. Again, Nightcrawler's features crease with disgust.] Sounds like you're speaking of something far more inappropriate, but oh-kay.
[And there's quite a lot he wants to say, but they have to focus-- he needs to, really, since Kavinsky has more experience than himself. He lets his eyes flutter, breathes out and the rush comes; an unexpected heat, followed shortly after by the press of cold stone now. His breath catches and immediately, blue eyelids crack, keen night-vision adjusting to the surrounding area.
In one fluid motion, he's slithering down, feet hitting the ground. Then, he's crouched behind a glowing slab, bending as low to the ground as he can manage. Beside him, a second block, hovering in the same manner, yet he can't bring himself to get close enough. He has a pretty good idea of who's on that thing, so maybe-- just maybe, if he stays down, that useful shadow blending technique he has can be put to use.
Nevermind the fact the golden smolder has begun to dull; a brief warning before the stone starts to lower. All the while, Kurt can only manage to suck in a breath and gawk, until a distorted, inhuman shout:] Charles! [echoes throughout the pyramid.
Both palms flatten, aiding in keeping him stable in his hiding spot. Just keep quiet, he concludes, reminding himself that he's supposed to be on a rescue mission. Which means, if he gets caught, that's the end.]
no subject
what the fuck is this place? he winds up crammed against a wall, feeling the cold of the metal seep through the fabric of his shirt. for an instant, he thinks it might be his own nightmare— even though the world is unfamiliar, kavinsky was traveling to unknown dimensions long before he went to eudio or xistentia. dream spaces filled with impossible vegetations, sylphs with hooved feet, dragons made of hellish light and smoke instead of sinew and bone. he thinks he might have invented this place, the inverse and opposite to cabeswater.
but then
charles? his head pops up. he recognizes that voice. and he knows that while he and kurt haven't had a very long acquaintance, the kid sure as shit doesn't think his name is charles.] Kurt? [he calls out, stepping out from the engraved wall. he glances upward, sees that it's as spacious as a fucking cathedral in here. or even more than a cathedral. holy shit. the echoes make a mess out of kurt's voice; he can't tell, even with his vampire senses, where it'd come from.] Kurt, man. This your shit we're reliving?
Who the fuck is Charles? [he starts to move, measuring a few quick treads down the hallway. but then he hears a quiet whump of a heavier figure stepping toward them, finds himself pressing against a column the next instant, eyes straining in the geometrically patterned half-light.]
my turn to powerprose :'D lmk if not okay
Charles, please, if you can hear me—
Then, someone is saying his name; a familiar, far too loud voice that he has to find before they blow it for both of them. While he's grateful that Kavinsky keeps talking (it makes him easier to seek out), the little blue demon wishes he would keep it down or the god-like mutant that's tromping around is sure to discover he's not alone. He isn't looking forward to what might be in store if they're caught.
A quick bamf drops him in front of the dream-thief, both of his hands raising to cover Kavinsky's mouth, their chests pressed firmly together with how close he is. In fact, he's technically sandwiching Kavinsky between himself and that fancy baluster he believes to be a successful hiding place.]
Shhh, [he pleads.
Thump. Kurt's head abruptly turns, frantic eyes darting from the shadowed figure back to Kavinsky.] ... he'll hear you. [His left hand drops, curls around the other boy's wrist and pulls as he turns to begin sprinting in the opposite direction. Hope you can multitask, K.] Reliving? What are you talking about?
cw sexual vulgarity, incest joke
- war
- hallucinatory mindshare world populated by unknown monster(s)
- mutant boy may not think of you that way, even without conditions 1 and 2 met.
but what else is new?but the next moment, kurt releases his face in exchange for grabbing his wrist with strength that surprises kavinsky, who'd basically assumed he was always going to be the more forceful of the two. nope. they're off! kurt's actually a lot taller than him, and there's this weird moment where kavinsky has to tell himself he shouldn't run at human speed, but nor should he run at vampire speed, lest he leave his companion behind. thus, kavinsky concentrates, looking down at kurt's legs. and he runs...
...medium? medium.]
We're in Xistentia, [he hisses.] This is like, some virtual reality shit, man. Side-effect of blending psychic brains to try and kill bad guys out there. Some Freudian shit. You're probably about to run into a nightmare of trying to get your weiner in your mom. Do you remember your mom? Don't put your weiner in her.
[believe it or not, this is a pretty reliable sign of anxiety for kavinsky. deflecting into turd lord humor.]
no subject
Except, this is Kavinsky and by this point, he should be used to it all. It could be the adrenaline pumping through his veins as they sprint, along with the disorienting thoughts of how the hell they're going to get away from the mutant that's stalking them. Regardless of all the derailing, he doesn't seem to have trouble navigating them through the corridors, heart pounding in time with his footfalls against the cold marble.]
Actually, I was adopted. [Pause.] That's not to say I've ever thought of doing anything like that. [His heels suddenly skid across the floor, free hand reaching out to plant against the wall, keeping them both from running straight into it.
A dead end.
He stares for far too long, brushes a fingertip up, sweat-slick palm reaching into the shadows. Hyperventilating won't help; it's not quiet and it's definitely not subtle, but he doesn't understand. The exit should be here — he knows it — but there's no sign of such a thing even existing. What kind of Hell is this?
Kurt's head turns, deliberately, his eyes wide with absolute terror.] You're afraid, [he whispers.
Another heavy whump accentuates his next comment:] You should be.
no subject
and he's probably spent far more of his life in terror than most. of himself, more than anything, the darker urges and self-destructive desires that live inside his own skin, waiting to prey on the parts of him held prisoner by them. when he looks at kurt, it feels like that. surely this blue boy, who looks alien to his own kind, dressed in cruel scars, and so easy to push and pinch in person, has some terrible monster within him. the product of evil treatment by evil people.
it's hard for kavinsky to remember it might just be the magic of the world. he can't help but think it might not be just that.]
It's coming, [he says, because he knows it's true. the room is getting colder. something approaches. he can feel the weight of it in the air, like a gravity well forming under a greater mass than he can comprehend.] Come on, Wagner.
[he attempts to force his voice light. he isn't doing a very good job.]
This place isn't fucking real. Xistentia is real. [his tattooed fingers close around kurt's wrist. he pulls with urgency.] Remember? It's where we met. It's where we're going back to, so you can sit on my dick and spin around.
no subject
[What it is, he doesn't specify, just keeps his owlish stare on the wall in front of them, regardless of the insistent way Kavinsky's tugging at his arm. He's positive he'd taken them the right the way (if this were Disney, Moana music would be appropriate) because it's the exact route he'd taken before when
Wait a minute— Before?
He promptly stiffens at the realization, at the fact Kavinsky's spiel hadn't been that at all. The cold settling around them is worse than any winter-like elements he's felt in his life; it's bone-deep, creeping up on them like shadows in the night, ready to sweep them away, never to be seen again.
Kurt inhales, sharp and brusque, pivoting on his heel to face the dream thief.] I remember, [huffs the blue demon, eyes briefly glancing up at the way too tall figure with it's dark face and freakishly glowing white eyes. Is it growing larger? The mutant isn't sure, but he also doesn't want to stick around to find out. If it reaches, it might have them and--
He returns his attention to Kavinsky, takes a moment to examine the panic on his face — how bizarre it looks there and how he hopes he'll never have to see it again — then grasps the other boy's free hand with his own, steeling his nerves against the rising agitation.] Take me back, [a quivering breath.] Back to Xistentia.
no subject
but that would be giving in to the illusion, wouldn't it?]
So, [he says, his voice forced-light, casual,] small problem, sweetheart, puppertits, light of my man womb. I'm thinking-- I can't actually do that. Like, it ain't up to me. [but his fingers tighten on the little blue hand that's sharp contrast with the tattooed white of his own skin.] I think it's up to you. Whether we bail or we kill this motherfucker because you-- gotta believe you can. Because we ain't really here, wherever here used to be for you.
[easier said than done, isn't it? the columns are growing shadows, the temperature is dropping in biting, needle-toothed degrees. golden armor is emerging around the figure at the far end of the room, but gravity itself seems to slide toward it, distorting all sense of size and perspective.]
You have to believe you can kill him. [a stuttering beat. his hands are vampire-cold, but he remembers what it was like to sweat from terror.] I'll help you.
no subject
I didn't actually battle him, [he admits, and if blue skin can get pale--] Only one of his followers. [What would happen then, should they decide to flee? In a sadistic sort of way, he's glad he isn't dealing with this alone or there'd be far bigger problems to worry about.
The hand around his own tightens and he's drawn back to the reality of the situation, to the fact that Kavinsky's said he'd help.] I'm not sure how, but we might stand a chance if we can keep him from healing every time he gets hit. [He makes a vague gesture between them with his free hand.] Find a way to be rid of his regenerative healing factor. Escaping is also an option, assuming that's even a possibility.
[Until then, that big, hulking shadow that's continued toward them is something to be addressed.
From his peripheral, Nightcrawler spots one of those spear-wielding statues (rather tacky, he'd thought before) and releases Kavinsky's hand to reach for it, digits gripping tighter for better leverage. He turns, levels his partner with all the determination he can manage in an also pleading gaze.] Help me, then, before that armor forms.
no subject
regeneration: also not a word you want assigned to a hulking nightmare symbol.]
The fuck is he? [kavinsky hisses, moving over to the mutant's side in the blink of an eye. he wraps his tattooed hands around the spear that the younger boy is hauling at. despite the fact that kavinsky is and always has been thin as a noodle, there's supernatural strength in his frame as he throws it against the weapon. he yanks. there's a creak from the statue, a crack forming. he's strong enough to flip a car, but he also doesn't want the spear itself to snap.] He ain't the same kind of thing you are, right?
[kurt and apocalypse. that doesn't seem to be like comparing apples and oranges. that seems more like comparing a particularly small cheesecloth to a fucking lion.]
no subject
He is, [admits the teleporter.] And unfortunately, he's far stronger than I could ever imagine being. [Kurt's not pessimistic, really, but he genuinely has no idea how he and Kavinsky are going to fight this monstrosity.
Chest rumbling with frustration, he abandons pulling on the spear in favor of using those convenient microsuction discs on his hands and feet to climb the wall. After shimmying into position, his feet plant one above the other, hands braced on the smooth marble so he can push with his legs. He knows there's more power behind those limbs and as it continues to give way, there's the slightest glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.
Or maybe that's just from the menacing outline he can see from his peripheral.] Break it, if you must! We can use it like a knife.
no subject
kavinsky braces his narrow vampire-foot against the statue's leg, and hauls. the screech of metal turns into a low grinding, and then sharpens into another rising shriek. and just like that, the metal spar comes loose. all in one piece. though there are a few chunks of metal where the nubs of the statue's fingers broke off.]
Okay-- [kavinsky totters slightly before he manages to maneuver his supernatural strength into something like balance. he shuffles his bony fingers up the shaft, making sure it sits in kurt's hands. not that he's unwilling to fight, merely because he is again, painfully aware that this world doesn't function with the usual logic of how to beat things up. it's about strength, in quantities and shapes and forms far from the mundane equation of physics. this is kurt's demon.
and admittedly, what with kurt already looking like a little demon himself, the notion of what might scare him feels like a whole 'nother deal.]
What do you say, sweetheart?
[false bright in kavinsky's voice. he ranges out beside kurt once the weapon is in the mutant's hands.] I'll distract him?
[him? is that the word for such a creature, as the one hulking up in leathery purple skin now. gold beginning to gleam on its legs, armor beginning now to form. slow, as if basking in their terror.]
no subject
Much to their luck, the spear ultimately breaks free, taking the statue's fingers with, except that doesn't seem like something they need to worry about right now; he's pretty sure the architecture isn't going to miss them.
Nightcrawler maneuvers his way off the wall, straightening once on his feet just as Kavinsky is handing over the spear. He accepts, wringing the shaft a couple of times in his hands then bracing his feet while swinging the weapon out in front of himself. This'll be the first time he's ever used a spear, but hey, do or die and all.]
To what? Hopefully, nothing too reckless.
[Shoulders rolling, he tips his head from one side to the other, clears his throat to avoid his voice breaking.] Be careful, [Kurt warns, tone far more serious alongside the other boy's.
Armor creeping up its legs? Perfect, that means he still has a chance to aim for the heart once Kavinsky provides the distraction they need. Anxiety-riddled eyes flick in his direction, silently pleading, then he motions toward Apocalypse with the subtlest head-jerk he can manage.]
tw suicidal ideation
maybe it's the sheer size of it. the magnetic pull of apocalypse's hatred, the power of him. maybe it reminds kavinsky of the dragon he made, the one built to kill himself with. maybe he just doesn't like to think someone as kind and generous as kurt wagner survived something like this, with all of his heart intact. enough of his heart, anyway.
kavinsky's been growing his own heart back, though. since eudio. he's been getting it back in pinched, misshapen bits and pieces, peeling back layers of sarcasm and grandiose, pessimistic announcements of himself and the world, goth flames drawn up it, turning down the noisy rap music that used to play in the background, so he could sit and hear the quiet voice of his own foolish, awful mess. these days, he knows when he's afraid.
it's not actually any better, if you ask him. except that it means he's alive. and that when someone like kurt says be careful, he is.]
Time to get some motherfuckers, [he mutters under his breath.
and the next minute, he launches. a hundred fifty pounds of post-teenage vampire, fangs out, his brand name sneakers squeaking across the doomsday palace floors, the shadows of glittering columns striping across his calvin klein tanktop. he doesn't belong here at all, but he throws himself into the mutant drama with all of his old mad abandon and all of his new painful courage.
he knocks the slow-armoring figure askew. then butts him in the head, hits him with his elbow. it's like hitting a piece of granite, and his stomach drops when he sees the ancient mutant's eyes flick toward him.]
tw for im...paling?
Kurt, of course, has no clue about this. He was unconscious during the whole epic finale where Jean unleashed Hell on the first mutant and while he's been told the story many times before, there's still the barest hint of hope that he and Kavinsky will be enough.
Baring everything in mind, he has to remember: Kavinsky's not even a mutant and he's thrown himself into the fray with a recklessness that can only be described as blind gallantry. The least Nightcrawler can do is use the distraction, ram this weapon through his nightmare's heart, and (hopefully) bring an end to this.
The fledgling charges, throws all of himself toward Apocalypse, which results in a fleeting expression of shock. He hasn't got time to be distracted, though, and the attack really does prove to be a perfect diversion because once the archaic man's focus is on his attacker, he won't see Kurt coming. It's a blink of the eye teleport, then with all the strength he can muster, he thrusts the spear toward the shadow's chest, legs bracing for more leverage. There's absolutely no way he can lift him, but he has no need to when he's short enough to duck, bend and twist in any particular way he needs to gain better force.
A sickening shlick warns him of the weapon's penetration. He never found out if Apocalypse bled; the heat that pours over his hands feels plenty real, but regardless, he continues forcing the handle forward, until the blade pops out through on the other side. ]
Oh my God, [he whispers-- for himself, for his partner during this battle.] Please.
[Let this work.]
not the sexy kind, either.
crunch. the head of the spear bites into bone, then pries it apart, grinds in deeper, the shaft sliding a wider opening through purple flesh. the ancient mutant twists his head to stare at kurt. funnily enough, the growth of his armor doesn't stop entirely though it does slow down, crawling up his body still like a time-lapsed video of moss growing for a documentary. it even closes around the spear, climbing around the sides of it, linking over the top of the shaft where it pierces into the monster's body.
and then
and then apocalypse's eyes roll back in his skull and he begins to fall.
fall
fa l l
and there's another rush of energy, a confusion of light, disruption of space and time. kurt doesn't know where he is; he has only the most blurred, the briefest and vaguest impression of kavinsky with him, somewhere and somehow, fighting enemies. but the next moment, when kurt comes back to himself, he feels the chilly gnaw of stone beneath his back. his body prone in space. and he hears the grumble and mutter of kavinsky waking not far away.]
Jesus fucking Christ, kid, [the boy vampire says, sitting up.] You got some shit in your head, you know that?
oh my god china lmfafdsfg
the monster falls and everything comes surging back, distorting his vision, but through the haze, he can vaguely glimpse kavinsky. then, silence, the cold press of the rock slab beneath him, making his eyes open with a sense of urgency he's never felt before, except.
he can't move right away.
nightcrawler can hear kavinsky, breaking up the lingering fog on his drift-scattered brain. he rises onto an elbow, lifts the free hand to rub the nape of his neck, head leaning and eyes blinking.] ... I know, [he says simply, trying to comprehend what exactly he'd experienced. a memory, the rush of fear he felt during that moment, then relief when the threat was eliminated for a second time.
blue's head turns in kavinsky's direction, lips quirked with the slightest bit of mirth, an attempt to hide his unease.] Guess it isn't just my appearance that makes me a freak.
steering this to fade since we have current day unease to rp out :D
Guess not, sweetheart.
[and then he's beside kurt in the blink of an eye, blurring into place with vampire speed. tattooed fingers reaching over, pinching the other boy on the hip. up close, his smile is feral, fangy, nightmare fresh.] Takes one to know one, [he says.] I'll see you on the streets, devil boy. [and just as quick, he's gone, his daemon scrambling after him.]
yes this is a perf spot to fade
Ah— [kavinsky's at his side so suddenly; it always surprises him how quickly the other boy moves. for a minute, he's briefly reminded of quicksilver because that's all he has to compare to vampire speed.
he opens his mouth to retort, releases a yelp of bewilderment instead when his side is tweaked, hand promptly reaching over to rub the spot. then, just like that, he's left watching joseph's retreating backside, blinking dazedly because takes one to know one? devil boy? his own companion nudges beneath his chin, drawing him from his stupor.] ... see you, [he responds to the now empty room.]