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

[spoofer]

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.

Comments

[money]

( he is selectively silent, for a time. the quiet does not become a man like peter, who can often times talk himself out of any number of unfortunate circumstances, parading words like painting murals, distracting his victims long enough to find a corner to duck around, a car to hijack, some escape to present itself. rarely is he actually at a loss for words -- and lately, it seems like juno steel is the only one who can knock him that far off balance. the look on peter's face is simply exhausted, an ever present smile and look of cunning superiority currently wiped off after juno's words -- the stark reality of juno -- as he watches the disaster with the bird unfold.

after a few short but heavy moments, he lifts his fingers to the peacock, with the attempt of tickling them under her chin. )

Thank you, ( he politely says. at least they both have juno's well being at the forefront of their minds.

adjusting his gaze back to the man in question, peter lets out a suffering sigh through his nose, finding more medical supplies to rustle around with. finally, )

Yes, what you did was shitty. ( again, a short silence, as if peter is anywhere close to done, the scratching of tools inside the kit being the only sound evident between them. ) It was probably the worst thing anyone has ever done to me, personally. Or at least the worst thing in a long, long, while. And yet, here I am, still in love with you despite it all. You wish to discuss fairness in that? How I can be here -- ( a sharp breath, he loses steam, some what. ) hoping ... or wishing, replaying this conversation in my head and thinking about -- you ...

( he stops himself there. whatever fire fueled him on is hushed with a pot of water, and again he looks the very epitome of tired, eyes heavy, twice his age in looks and appearance. he shakes his head. )

What does it matter?

Lift your shirt please, Juno.

[monologue]

[ quiet is just about the only thing that doesn't look good on peter - an ill-fitting dress, a terribly done seam, a length that stilts instead of enhances. juno remains silent, takes it with teeth clenched tightly as peter, with kit laid out in order beside him, goes on and on and god it makes his heart fucking hurt. his fingers clutch tightly to the fabric of his shirt, half unwilling to lift it up. he's more than content to keep hunched over, to let the pain seep into every bone in his body, to let peter tell him how unfair it is because it really wasn't fair.

at last, he lifts it up, trying to use the precious seconds to find it in himself to say something, anything as he exposes bruises already forming along his torso, a clearly off-kilter posture hidden out of sheer determination as he favors one side of his chest, breathing coming in now a little more honest because really.

what can you do but accept when your cover is blown?

on both fronts. ]

Nureyev, I... [ mouth open, helplessly without trying to be helpless because it isn't an expression he's worn on his face a single day in his life, at least if he could help it, in front of anyone. he looks down, gathering up the material of his shirt slowly in his fingers, feeling dahliad pull away to make room. ] I wanted to. I wanted to leave with you... so badly.

[ the words betray him, feel like a vial of selfish poison swilling around his mouth as he chews through the sentiment - glass on his tongue all broken up. ] I couldn't. Any of it. Just up and leave no matter how much I wanted to... No matter how much I still want to, Nureyev, I can't...

[money]

( he can split his attention, half between their conversation and half on the purple bushels of lavender decorating juno's torso. one is profoundly easier to consider, and peter acknowledges that even a wrap won't really help the situation down there unless something is broken. tentative fingers reach out, then, long and a little chilly to the touch, to press against juno's rib cage. his rib cage. a particularly difficult vault that peter had managed to hack into without -- ever really trying, to be perfectly honest. it's like the pin code just came to him, even if the bolts were a little rusted and a more than a little worn, melded together after years of shutting people out from the precious cargo inside. falling for juno was easy -- and it was never really a question if juno fell for him, too. the only thing to wonder was if juno would ever let himself feel that way.

in the end, the answer ends up being no,even if it felt like a yes for one night. not really. slim fingers skate around juno's side, feeling out and counting his ribs one at a time. a sprain here or a shatter there is irrelevant -- he has his next move planned out regardless. his fingers, already in an optimal position, dig roughly into whatever wound is there -- only for a fleeting second, so to take him off guard and shove him back, now laying on the healing bed. he sends an apologetic look to dahliad, shrugging his shoulders loosely.

he's hovering on top of him now, a hand on his shoulder with the force of iron, and a hand on his hip with the force of an -- old lover, who's still in love. his look is contemplative, considering. )

Just lay back. Sorry about this. ( he is genuine about that. the hand on juno's hip unconsciously tries to soothe him, cool fingers brushing a small bit of skin on every stroke. ) I wanted that too, Juno. But ... only because I thought you wanted it all the same. I --

( his gaze falls downwards. )

I missed you. I was on my way back to Mars when D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. stopped me.

[monologue]

[ apology accepted, but there's all kinds of parts of him that tell him that these are all earned, every ache and hurt and sting as peter pushes him down onto the bed lengthwise, breaths coming hard against the chill of it behind his back. the sting from his fingertips radiates up and out, webs its way up in white hot pain as his eyes scream shut and he grunts. going down is easy, staying down is harder - letting himself stay down, but it's alright.

because peter seems to know this already, one hand very resolutely holding him down at the shoulder, the other at the waist and mid-action he starts to protest, loudly: ] Take it easy, you - [ another breath, swallowing air desperately, hand reaching up to grab at the wrist on his shoulder and slide fingers around it in retaliation ] - Nureyev, you were literally just stabbed, okay. I'm...

[ you're what? is the big question that rattles around juno's head, and it cancels out the minute peter continues to talk, the second the hand resting at his hip lets fingers stray to where his pants are a little too off-kilter and dip. every bruise sings out, on his chest, his back, in his mind, all the little places peter nureyev sunk his fingers in and claimed starting from day one. juno breathes in, as if maybe he'll smell it now, as clear as the day he first became suffused in it. ]

I wanted to. And for a second I thought I could bring myself to do it, you know? Stay with you, leave everything behind, go somewhere far... far far away. [ juno holds, takes another breath and his fingers flex a little, gentling their hold. the sharp pain in his side is barely subsiding to a low, constant throb, the position putting pressure in places he wasn't aware he was hurting in before. ]

I [ oh god don't say it, don't you dare, don't - ] yeah... [ damn you. he shifts uncomfortably in the hold, eyes detouring to the side, to the rise of nureyev's white knuckles on his hip. his free hand twitches beside it on the bed like an afterthought. his voice is low, thin. ]

I've missed you too...

[money]

( he sits on the bed with him, sweeping himself up closer to a spot beside juno's hip, taking some of the pressure off his arm by bending his elbow. his grips softens a little as juno's does, considering turning his hand to catch his fingers, but -- he can't bring himself. juno clearly still cares for him, and that isn't the warm, beautiful feeling that it used to be. it's -- harsh, and difficult to swallow, tasting a bit like the inevitable pain of heartbreak, like two people being in love with each other, despite both of them knowing that it'll never work out.

some differences can be overcome, but. the fact remains. peter has to leave, and juno has to stay. right?

peter knows this. has been telling himself this for the past however long, that it must be better to love him from a distance, than make him miserable up close. but peter still sits with him, loves him, strokes his side and looks at him like he's the reason hyperion city manages to stand on its termite-infested stilts. he still wants it to work, even if it can't. he still wants to find a world where it might. )

I wanted, ( he has about as much experience selling his heart to people as juno does, but when he speaks he makes sure their eyes meet, for a moment of importance. ) more than anything. I wanted to do to you what you've done thanklessly for Hyperion City all this time. I wanted to save Juno Steel from Juno Steel, and I -- I still want that.

How are we the most miserable people on this planet? ( he manages a little smile, a little wounded, eyebrows knitted. ) We have what we want, right in front of us. Is it so wrong to reach out and grab it?

[monologue]

[ his eyes are caught up in the sound of peter's voice, the way he says his name, bears in close - heat and blood and some residual scent still obnoxiously clinging to him like it's some permanent part of his chemical make up. juno's chin tilts to the side a little, and when he swallows his throat seems to stutter before bobbing up and down a little. there's no turning away when he's in pain like this, no getting up and stalking off because even as nureyev gentles his hold, it's about as effective as a set of iron shackles.

he can't bring himself to move because what if he's a dream? what if he vanishes the moment he makes an attempt to sit up and he's just brought himself here out of some kind of delirium. what... if...

juno wets his lips and tries to find the illusion behind nureyev's eyes, a tell-tale sign that maybe he's just a ghost, but all he sees is the hurt crest of his perfectly manicured brows, the way his glasses sit off-kilter, how that errant fall of his hair is completely undone, reminding him of those dim, hopeless days spent in each others company miles below the martian desert.

he can't look away. ]

There's no saving me, [ he says and looks away, at the proximity of their hands, at the slender line of nureyev's knuckles around his shoulder, at how easy it is to hold his wrist and feel his fluttering pulse there under such thin skin. ] You're wasting your time.

[ he furrows his brow and shakes his head. ] I care about you so much. You - [ a hand reaches up, lightly, skates fingers over the outline of peter's knuckles along his hip, over rings and bone and skin and tremble as they rest there like the faintest, ghostly touch. ] - you've done more for me than I could ever do for you. In a lifetime. That's not fair to you. It's wrong because you should have something better than me.

[ the touch fills out, more finger, more palm, covering nureyev's knuckles in a warm touch. ] I want to be better... but I'm not sure I can be.

[money]

( he knows it's no easy admittance on juno's behalf -- accepting that he has feelings was not an easy stone to skip, and hearing it again now reminds peter of the weight in the words. juno's care might be the most precious thing peter has never held in his hands, but the fact that it's there reigns it's residual importance, the little whispers of love and the gentle hold of his hand. it aches. juno's love hurts, and his words hurt, and all peter can do is shake his head, frown lines settling deep on his mouth.

he flattens his hand, locks their fingers together. his thumb rubs almost anxious circles on juno's knuckle. )

I don't want better.

( the hand on his shoulder slides up, cups his neck slowly and carefully. the bristle of his unshaven beard is -- pleasant. a good memory. he wonders if he should be attempting to say goodbye to it. )

Juno. I don't want better. I want you. There's nothing you could say — or do — that will ever change that.

If you decide tomorrow that you don't want me, I'll continue loving you regardless. And that's not a question, it's a promise. This is ... new, for me. This — feeling, that you've given me. I owe you for it, as much as you feel indebted to me.

[monologue]

Oh...

[ juno sighs out his name like an afterthought, feels the way peter's hands move against him, leans into them on impulse because the coolness of his palm feels pretty damn real, edge of his palm against his cheek like... like a dream he's dreamt up before. there's hesitation in how he tilts his head, but eventually it turns, leans into the touch, eyes flicking over peter's face, the expression of his mouth.

his fingers splay upwards.

peter. peter nureyev.

says he loves him.

and it feels like he's going to explode.

the hand locking with his at his hip gets a squeeze, weak the first time, stronger the second as juno swallows his uncertainty. it isn't easy, in fact, he's got half a mind to say forget it, to try and roll away and avoid all of this, any of this, before he breaks a promise to peter again, before he says he can be something he isn't. something that's not broken up into a bunch of fragmented, ruined pieces that don't know how to function properly without fucking everything up in the process. ]

I do, I mean. [ and juno reaches up with both hands, as far as his ribs will let him to take peter's face if he lets him. he pulls it close, fingers caught in fine, dark hair and probably disturbing his bird no doubt, but he has to say it this way, soft so no one hears, not even whatever karma's out to kill him. into his ear he says it like a dying man's words, a low murmur. ] I love you. [ mouthed, barely before he pulls back, but only a bit to look nureyev in the yes. it feels like he's written himself some kind of death sentence, but in a victoriously spiteful way that glimmers in his green eye with life. ]

For tomorrow... day after. You're not exactly easy to forget about, Nureyev, I just don't want you to regret me.

[ he holds his face a bit longer, finding the familiar angles of it, the smoothness of his complexion, the sharpness of his jaw. the proximity is a lot to deal with, but somehow juno stops feeling the ache in his ribs, the sick anxiety and hate roiling in his stomach because peter is looking down at him and he's looking up at peter feeling like it's just them and only them in this room. ]

[money]

( for two broken up men with a mountain of grief stacked up between them, this sounds a lot more like a hello than a goodbye. if juno hoped, or -- thought, that maybe in some way that he was helping peter at first by breaking his heart, then he really is a fool. he has no idea how good this feels, words pursed up against the shell of his ear, felt more than said, the words i and love, and the small kiss of you at the end. a heavy weight feels lifted. that's good -- that's better than good. not that peter had a doubt per say, but the only other time they told each other those words had been under a pile of stress leaves and just before juno had left him for good so. peter breathes out as he feels it, fingers twitching where he holds juno, emotion burbling up the column of his back.

three words, that's all it takes. i love you. i love you. it rattles his head around, makes him sick and happy and terrified and pleased and.

he knows, somehow. this is it. this is all there's ever going to be. it doesn't matter if life tears them apart, and if juno moves on, and if this war kills them both. peter's heart only has one place, and it's in the hands that cup him, hold him, pull him in.

pull him in? maybe he's pushing. regardless, their foreheads touch, the tips of their noses brushing and peter shakes his head, sucking in his upper lip. )

I don't regret a thing. And I'm not sorry. ( he pushes, he knows it that time, crosses that forbidden distance and the one line that should definitely not be crossed, and their lips press together. and it's. not exactly fairy tale, but nearly just, a sensation like coming home after a long distance and sitting down after miles of running -- it's a wonder how peter ever thought there would be a planet more entertaining, more necessary than whichever one juno finds himself on. ) I can't give up on you as easily as you want me to. I won't.

[monologue]

[ juno thinks a lot of things are better off being broken altogether when it comes to him. why mess with a pattern that seems to be cosmically driven throughout his entire life or some bullshit like that? he can still taste the words in his throat, heavy on his tongue, and he's not sure if he's said them too quickly out of impulse or dizziness from the ache of his entire body now - one throbbing pulse of pain under nureyev's hands. ]

You still might.

[ and then suddenly he's close, and the gravity of juno's words start to really sink in, pinching him hotly at the back of his neck like a set of teeth. he doesn't realize he's tugging until peter's forehead meets his own, until they're practically on top of each other in the quiet and juno is acutely aware of two things: how warm nureyev is and how cold he feels and how the two together make for a situation where he's loathe to let go.

nureyev's a goddamn super nova at its peak, stars under his skin making him almost too hot to touch. this is how juno sees him - untouchable (but he's touched him once, run fingers over his skin, clutched him too tightly to keep breathing.)

the kiss hurts. but that's mostly because juno had fallen on his face a few times in the span of the fight starting and peter's being stabbed. his nose hurts (maybe broken again), his teeth hurt (bruised hopefully and not chipped), but the kiss despite it all feels

well it feels nice. keeps him silent. his fingers slip downwards, curling in what they can catch, fabric of a shirt winding around his fingers as he stays utterly still beyond reciprocating hesitantly, and then a little more firmly towards the end so that when peter finally pulls back, he's left with that warm, prickling feeling on his mouth like he's just been drugged. ]

I'm sorry, [ he says, fingers splaying on his chest a little. ] I'm so sorry, I just. I thought I made the right call, I thought that if I left, you'd be better off and I'd be able to... I...

[ softer, if even possible. again: ] I'm sorry. [ he should say it at least a dozen more times. ]