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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.
no subject
But something about the pressure of Arthur's fingers makes some of that recede back, not all the way but enough to let her yank her gaze away from the thing that might have been Brian for a little while. The movement makes something wet slide down her cheek, and it shouldn't be a relief when she raises her free hand to wipe at it and sees red on her knuckles. But she'd rather be bleeding than give even a shadow of Brian the satisfaction of making her cry. And the real Brian wouldn't have done that, hurting someone in a way that might risk leaving a mark on his spotless skin, so it helps]
I was for awhile. [it's not said with shame, just raw honesty. She knows she let Brian take too many years from her, even after she got out. She lets out a very shuddery breath and makes her lips turn up] But maybe you're right. Even if I only help you, that's more than he ever did after he gave up.
[it's...freeing, to admit that Brian was the one who burned and salted everything, not her and Curt. They got out, because of what he was doing. He was the one who decided money was more important than a revolution. She still isn't sure Arthur's right, that she really matters, but maybe is a start.
And maybe it's trying to actually fight back, or maybe it's just her own screwed up heart, that makes the damn thing pull at her again, wrapping its cold arm across her chest in an embrace that is anything but gentle, and she wonders if there's going to be blood under her shirt now too as it claws--very purposefully, she's sure--above her heart]
You're still alone though. But who can blame you? How could you ever want anyone after you had me?
[fuck and shite and every other word that would have made her mother wash her mouth out with soap, it couldn't be so simple as rejecting the idea that her life wasn't worth living. It never could be with Brian]
no subject
You have helped me. Even just in the last few months, you've been there for me in a way that nobody else ever has. By itself, that's worth something, and I know for a fact it's not even close to the most you've done for people like us. We needed to know it was alright to be the way we were, that we didn't have to be ashamed. Just because he threw that away doesn't mean you weren't part of it, too.
[And, alright, he can't help it--he shoots a dark, venomous glare at the shadow, into its cold, empty eyes, before looking back at Mandy.]
And you're not alone. I'm proof enough of that.
no subject
It's all but impossible to remember that, that this creature isn't real--had never been real--when she can feel his damn breath on her neck when he scoffs and her skin crawls and she can't be sure it's completely out of revulsion, even when she knows precisely what's coming when it laughs again, a quiet chuckle instead of that hyena's cackle]
'Women are a decorative sex. They never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. '. And you're hardly even decorative, now. You could have been, if you'd been clever enough to change yourself for me. [and there are fingers in her hair and they're nothing gentle, not even teasing, and fuck, she is not playing this game, not against herself. Not when there's actually one person who can see through the bullshit they painted everything with and still find something beautiful.
She jerks away without thinking, and she is going to smash the damned computer or whatever that's picking all this from her mind with a rock because it would be bad enough without feeling like her hair and clothes have actually been torn, but she still stumbles into Arthur with a trembling breath, and it's not easy to stay grounded in him while also facing down this thing the only way she actually knows how to prove it wrong]
'You used to stir my imagination. Now you don't even stir my curiosity.' [her voice is far lighter than she'd like it to be, barely holding on to the accent that still covers her words when she has to be this cutting, awful person, and she still feels like her fingers are clammy and shaking a bit in Arthur's, but she manages to keep her gaze up and even feels the corner of her mouth tug just a little when she drops her voice back for Arthur] You mean that. Before...this [the weakest gesture with her bloodied hand at the room covered in newsprint and white powder] you actually gave a singular fuck that I was even there?
[it's at least possible to see herself stepping into the void Brian left, but looking back on it now and seeing herself anywhere but on the sidelines is quite a lot harder]
no subject
He hugs her tight and refuses to look at the creature in front of them, a twisted, cracked reflection of their former glory.]
Of course I did. I loved you. I wanted to be you. I was terrified someone would find out about the thoughts I was having, and then I saw you smiling on telly and you looked so happy and confident. That was the first time it occurred to me that I didn't have anything to be ashamed of.
[He can feel the wet blood seeping into his shirt, and he doesn't care--he keeps holding on.] He's the one who gave up on it. Not you.
no subject
We need to find you a better role model. [she does let the words roll over in her head though; some of it doesn't really surprise her, there was a reason she'd been so sure about him being more suited to Marilyn than Herman. And while part of her wants to hate Brian for making her happiness into an act...it wasn't always. Being in this room makes that difficult to remember, but she'd loved it, once, and not just for the money and the attention. And the press conference, that day when Brian had told their truth, that day was still one of the happiest in her life. And she realizes it's because of people like Arthur, not herself, and that makes it a little easier to give him a genuine smile]
But maybe it's a good thing to have someone around who can tell you from experience not to drop your entire life to make it all about boy, no matter how many songs he says he wrote for you. [that's. A difficult thing to say outloud, that nagging wonder if Ladytron had ever really been hers like he'd told her] Especially if he tells you he's the center of your world, it just means he's the only person in his.
[that's the most articulate thing she can think to say for the creature's other accusation, taht she'll never love like that again. She doesn't want to be alone, but she doesn't want to worship anyone that way again. She draws a shaking breath, forcing herself to step back out of Arthur's embrace and take his hand, not caring about the blood. It won't be there when they come to, but she'll remember it well enough ]
Come on, there's...nothing for me here. [she doesn't know if it was her words or Arthur's that made the creature seem to vanish, but she doesn't think it matters because both reminded her why she'd run out this door without looking back once before]
cw: physical abuse and violent homophobia and just throw me in a sea of my tears I'm fine
[But, as not-Brian melts away and the room becomes an empty, lifeless shell, it seems whatever he said before has done the trick--Mandy found her footing again, and he can feel it in the strength of her grip and see it in the slight, proud lift to her shoulders.
Smiling, he takes her hand and follows her out the door.
And then, in an instant, it's like stepping into a vacuum that sucks away every bit of strength and pride he has in himself, everything he'd tapped into in order to bolster Mandy up--all of it is gone, along with all of the air in his lungs in a harsh exhale as they leave the haunted-looking studio for the cramped interior and angled ceiling of his bedroom in Manchester.]
No. No.
[What had he even been expecting? Out of everything he's experienced in his comparatively short life, there's one afternoon that stands out in sharp, painful relief. Of course it's this--but, tightening his grip on Mandy's hand hard enough that his own knuckles go white, it's the last thing he'd wanted her to have to see.
Posters cover the walls. Hendrix. The Ratz. Brian--a thousand photographs of Brian. A hundred of Curt. A dozen of Mandy herself, including a few sketches he'd done himself. A newspaper on the floor, opened to an image that seems tame in comparison to things he ended up doing with one of the figures depicted.
The door, blocked by a chair, crashes open, and before he can react--even though he knows what's coming--he's staggering from the force of the blow to his face, blood trickling down his nose.]
You bring shame to this house. You bring shame to your mother and me.
[Shuddering, Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, the low, threatening growl of his father's voice spilling down his back like ice water. He can't see through the tears, but he hears it all, the words just as cruel as the striking hand.]
It's a filthy, shameful thing you're doing--DO YOU HEAR ME?
no subject
But of course it's nothing that compartively gentle. And while she'd seen this violence inflicted on her friends by drunken strangers more times than she'd like to count, it had never been personal the way this is. Which is why it makes her blood boil differently than those encounters had. She was used to stepping between friends reeling from broken noses and the cocky asshole who had done it, startling them with the fact a girl was suddenly in their face and swinging her bag at them. She'd never actually been the witness to what had left some kids hanging near the Sombrero with barely-packed bags slung over their shoulders and fresh bruises, and knowing about it and seeing it were entirely different things.
Her reflex reaction is nearly the same, though, which is good because all her mind is capable of is an inarticulate string of curses she'd really like to scream at this spectre even knowing it wouldn't change a thing. But her body moves on its own, catching Arthur and just barely touching her hand against the back of his head, dropping her voice in a way very few people ever get to hear]
He's wrong. There's nothing you could have possibly done that could have harmed anyone, particularly him, unless he was already that damn insecure in who he is.
no subject
He'd tried to shove it all down, tried to convince itself that it wouldn't do to dwell on something that wasn't a part of his life anymore--and for a while, it had worked. Surrounding himself with like-minded friends, nearly all of whom shared a similar story, but none of them had been able to bring themselves to talk about it with each other. For a while, knowing had been enough.
But it seems that all of the time he's spent avoiding this particular memory is coming back with a furious vengeance. Every detail seems to stand out in vicious clarity, oversaturated and nearly cartoonish, and he wonders if Mandy sees it the same way or if it's just his own mind torturing him with details he'd tried to forget.
Mandy. Mandy's here with him--the thought blinks up at him like a beacon as he lands, not hunched over by himself with his trousers open, but against her. His knees sag and before he can think about it, he's winding his arms around her neck and burying his face in her shoulder. The blood isn't real; it won't stain her clothes, and he feels like he might go underwater if he doesn't hold onto that one piece of brightness.
There's a derisive scoffing sound from behind him, right when Mandy says the word nothing; Arthur clings to the reassurance, but it's not enough, not with that voice still ringing in his ears.]
Am I wrong? Is it nothing that your poor mother can't go to the grocer without the neighbors whispering about you? Is it nothing that you've destroyed this family's reputation with your filth?
[He's wrong. He's wrong. He's not real. He's wrong.
She's not even there, but Arthur can still remember the look on his mum's face when she'd come running at the shouts. Shock, grief, smoothed over with a detached numbness.
But Mandy's still there, her hand gentle against the back of his head, and he takes in a shaky breath.]
I was--I was just--I was just having a bloody wank, by myself, with my door shut and the music playing. That's all I was doing.
[It feels a little more like a plea than he'd intended, but with the panic and the pain in his nose and the humiliation trying to claw it back down and keep it from his mouth, he can't manage to say it with any confidence.]
no subject
She's more aware of his unreal bleeding than her own, and it makes it harder not to whirl on that awful thing that she's sure is a more realistic represenation than what her mind had turned Brian into, but this is one time when egging the bastard on by asking if he'd do the same thing to a girl wouldn't do a damn thing. So instead, she bites her tongue for a second before nodding, resting her head against Arthur's]
I know. You're more than any prick like that could ever be. If this could ruin his reputation, what was it worth before? And you've got a hell of a lot more guts, going out there the way you want to be instead of what all of them think you should be. That's hardly the sort of thing anyone does on a whim. And who would have known what you were doing in your own home, if he hadn't said anything about it? This says more about him than it ever could about you.
[if it weren't their own damn lives, Mandy would laugh at the ridiculous symmetry of their respective shadows, what she knows they're saying. As it is, she's fairly certain that she'll still come to back in the temple with, at the very least, marks in her palms where she's been digging in her nails and face sore from grinding her teeth]
no subject
And with that, there's a sudden rage that swells up inside him. Still clinging to Mandy like a drowning man, he turns and glares at his father through the haze of his tears.]
I didn't just decide one day to play around with it. This wasn't a choice.
[His not-father snarls, advancing a step--much more menacing than his frail build would suggest, but Arthur hangs onto Mandy and refuses to look away.]
Of course it was a bloody choice! Nobody forced you to--[Lip curling in disgust, it seems the shadow, like Arthur's father, is still too British to actually say the words.] You chose to throw your lot in with these ponced-up queers!
[Arthur feels sick, but keeps looking over his shoulder, staring down the shadow. All of the anger he'd never let himself feel seems to lap at him, eager for a chance to be unleashed, and he takes a steadying breath--or tries to, anyway.]
No, I didn't. I knew when I was ten, you just thought you could beat it out of me. Well, it didn't work. It just made me hate you.
[As he speaks, the warmth of this woman he'd never dreamed would care about him like this bolsters him, and he can feel his hands clenching into fists. He's still crying, but the primal fear is starting to ebb away.
He knows, now, the kind of unconditional support he'd missed when he was young, and for the first time, it's making him angry.]
I was a ponced-up queer before I'd even heard of Curt Wild, certainly before he fucked me--[and he spits out that word, as clearly as he can, just to see the shadow flinch--] and I'm
still one now.
[It's stupid, and he knows it's stupid. Rage, after all, doesn't really qualify as staying grounded in the present moment. But there are years of resentment he's swallowed down and kept under wraps, and the floodgates are open now.]
Fuck you and your judgmental shite! I was a bloody child, and you made me feel like wanting--like loving another man was the worst thing anyone had ever done!
no subject
She'd faced Brian with comparative calm because in reality she hadn't and she knew that was the point, that in the past he'd made her lose control, lose herself and she was still ashamed of that, so much that the sensation of him probably threatening to tear out her heart with those claws hadn't even hurt. But she's not sure she could have remembered that without Arthur's presence and reassurance that Brian's goading was only that. And she has a feeling the reason Arthur is lashing out is sort of the flip side, that he couldn't do this before. And she realizes it's also the first time she's seen him like this, and she understands a little better why he'd been drawn to Curt especially on taht particular night, and that is a pain she'll deal with later.
And fuck, she wishes she could let the bastard have it. But from what she sort of understands about what's going on there, that could be a whole hell of a lot worse than what Arthur might have faced in reality if he'd done that. It takes every single bit of almost detached calm she has--the mask that can be as suffocating as it is protecting--to just slide her hand down Arthur's arm in what she hopes is a reassuring gesture]
It won't make you feel better to hurt him, you'll just remember that he made you lose control, that he tried to rile you up just to prove a fucked up point. [yeah, she's definitely not speaking from experience]