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nomans_land2023-05-02 05:02 am
nml_mods) wrote in nomans_land2023-05-02 05:02 am
Entry tags:
On The First Day
It had been months.
Months of terror, of families ripped apart, refugees racing against the Ark in the sky, against the Plants that had once been their only source of survival on the world and had now been turned against them, raining lightning and death down on them like the hand of a vengeful God. Humanity pushed to the brink, fleeing their homes and communities, waves of refugees fleeing across the sands as more and more towns and cities fell to the reign of destruction that had been biting at their heels every step of the way.
And then, as the last descendants of the survivors of the Big Fall clustered in the city of Octovern, spiilling out into the streets, every available, livable space filled to capacity and beyond, what felt like the final days of humanity began. The sounds of artillery fire filled the air, the sight of the Ark and its grotesque ruler loomed overhead, and in the distant sky high above, the previously-inconceivable reinforcement ships from Earth took up orbit around No Man's Land. Throughout the night, explosions lit up the sky, thundering with deafening reports through the air, and yet the civilians below had settled into a still, terrified, anticipatory silence. They couldn't see, from their perspective, the figures atop the ruins of the Earth's space destroyers that had already fallen to the ground, locked in battle for the future of the people far below. But the sight of Millions Knives high above, terrifying and grotesque with the power of the Plants he had absorbed, was omnipresent, a never-ending threat, the harbinger of doom, biding his time until he could make good on his promise to wipe every last one of them off the face of existence.
And then something had changed.
Electrical currents rippled through the air above the downed ship, carrying screams on the wind. To the people below, Millions Knives' massive form had shifted, writhing, bellowing with unholy rage and pain and despair. And then it begun to unmake itself, shredding, crumbling, tearing itself apart at the seams and floating to the ground in tiny, shining, white particles. Tiny, white feathers drifted on the wind, closer and closer before, one by one, they began to settle to the roofs of the buildings, to the tops of cars and to the streets, and to the heads and faces of the humans staring up from below.
The instant that contact was made between feather and skin, a connection was made; between Human and Plant, between each person standing side by side, minds thrown open in bursts of light and expanding consciousness, and through the doors sprang multitudes of memories spanning hundreds of years. Suffering, laughter, pain, sorrow, joy, enslavement, death, pride, love. The Plants had made the connection to their creators - their keepers - that they had been silently pleading for since their first containment, and with it every man, woman, and child on the surface of the world began to see and feel and hear their stories and their cries for help. They did not want this war, they did not want this destruction. They had seen the promises of vengeance and a paradise for their kind atop the bones of humanity offered by Millions Knives and they had felt the hopes and dreams carried by Vash the Stampede of a kinder, more loving world, and they had made their choice.
Let there be love and peace in this world.
In the chaos that followed, as the bodies of the Plants began tumbling to the ground in a writhing mass and the screams of shock and confusion began to rise from the sea of humanity below, something rippled in the air, a last gasp of those silent voices before the connection was lost.
This was...different. New. As if reality had taken the distraction caused by the calamity below to shift itself sharply to the left, and then snapped. It started at the core of the mass of angelic bodies as men and women began to rush to their aid, a shockwave in the fabric of creation that rumbled silently in the atoms of the world and ricocheted outward, along the ground, through the air, until it had enveloped the entire planet. Time froze for an instant, and to the eyes of all who had the capacity for sight, that leftward shift became manifest, the world doubling on itself as the ground shook beneath their feet.
Wails of confusion and fear rose into the night sky, and for a brief moment, it felt as if the world were about to unmake itself on the molecular level. But then, just as suddenly as it had come, the distortion snapped back into place with a loud, ear-splitting CRACK, and in the stunned silence that followed, only one thing could be certain; things were not the same as they had been mere moments ago, as if everything and yet nothing at all had changed, all at once.
The world of No Man's Land was as it should be, but all across the surface of the planet, pockets of reality had split open, sending the inhabitants of mirrored existences tumbling through wide, unseen rifts. People and places outside of time and space found themselves staggering to their feet in a world that was both foreign and familiar at the same time, found themselves face to face with their own reflection made flesh, tossed about by the pleas of a race reaching across the fabric of creation for aid in putting a stop to a war that had been fought time and time again, across reality after reality, without fail.
Thus began the new chapter in the history of No Man's Land.
[Wherever your character was, whatever they were doing, when the rifts in reality opened, they will have found themselves rocked by a massive earthquake that lastes a few short seconds before settling with a loud crack, like thunder. While no damage will be left in its wake, the characters themselves will realize that though the planet appears to be the same, it will quickly become evident that they are in an alternate reality of the place they call home. Are they standing in the rubble of a once-destroyed city now remade whole? Is the bar they had been taking refuge in suddenly gone, leaving them tumbling to the sand with nothing but their drink in their hand? And what of the friends that had been standing by their side seconds before? This is where your stories begin.]
Months of terror, of families ripped apart, refugees racing against the Ark in the sky, against the Plants that had once been their only source of survival on the world and had now been turned against them, raining lightning and death down on them like the hand of a vengeful God. Humanity pushed to the brink, fleeing their homes and communities, waves of refugees fleeing across the sands as more and more towns and cities fell to the reign of destruction that had been biting at their heels every step of the way.
And then, as the last descendants of the survivors of the Big Fall clustered in the city of Octovern, spiilling out into the streets, every available, livable space filled to capacity and beyond, what felt like the final days of humanity began. The sounds of artillery fire filled the air, the sight of the Ark and its grotesque ruler loomed overhead, and in the distant sky high above, the previously-inconceivable reinforcement ships from Earth took up orbit around No Man's Land. Throughout the night, explosions lit up the sky, thundering with deafening reports through the air, and yet the civilians below had settled into a still, terrified, anticipatory silence. They couldn't see, from their perspective, the figures atop the ruins of the Earth's space destroyers that had already fallen to the ground, locked in battle for the future of the people far below. But the sight of Millions Knives high above, terrifying and grotesque with the power of the Plants he had absorbed, was omnipresent, a never-ending threat, the harbinger of doom, biding his time until he could make good on his promise to wipe every last one of them off the face of existence.
And then something had changed.
Electrical currents rippled through the air above the downed ship, carrying screams on the wind. To the people below, Millions Knives' massive form had shifted, writhing, bellowing with unholy rage and pain and despair. And then it begun to unmake itself, shredding, crumbling, tearing itself apart at the seams and floating to the ground in tiny, shining, white particles. Tiny, white feathers drifted on the wind, closer and closer before, one by one, they began to settle to the roofs of the buildings, to the tops of cars and to the streets, and to the heads and faces of the humans staring up from below.
The instant that contact was made between feather and skin, a connection was made; between Human and Plant, between each person standing side by side, minds thrown open in bursts of light and expanding consciousness, and through the doors sprang multitudes of memories spanning hundreds of years. Suffering, laughter, pain, sorrow, joy, enslavement, death, pride, love. The Plants had made the connection to their creators - their keepers - that they had been silently pleading for since their first containment, and with it every man, woman, and child on the surface of the world began to see and feel and hear their stories and their cries for help. They did not want this war, they did not want this destruction. They had seen the promises of vengeance and a paradise for their kind atop the bones of humanity offered by Millions Knives and they had felt the hopes and dreams carried by Vash the Stampede of a kinder, more loving world, and they had made their choice.
Of course, but...what would he do at a time like this?
I wonder if he'll laugh again
I wonder if he'll follow his ideals again.
I see. You all know him as well. That young man with a gentle smile.
Little Red Brother.
Let there be love and peace in this world.
In the chaos that followed, as the bodies of the Plants began tumbling to the ground in a writhing mass and the screams of shock and confusion began to rise from the sea of humanity below, something rippled in the air, a last gasp of those silent voices before the connection was lost.
Help Us. Help him. Please.
This was...different. New. As if reality had taken the distraction caused by the calamity below to shift itself sharply to the left, and then snapped. It started at the core of the mass of angelic bodies as men and women began to rush to their aid, a shockwave in the fabric of creation that rumbled silently in the atoms of the world and ricocheted outward, along the ground, through the air, until it had enveloped the entire planet. Time froze for an instant, and to the eyes of all who had the capacity for sight, that leftward shift became manifest, the world doubling on itself as the ground shook beneath their feet.
Wails of confusion and fear rose into the night sky, and for a brief moment, it felt as if the world were about to unmake itself on the molecular level. But then, just as suddenly as it had come, the distortion snapped back into place with a loud, ear-splitting CRACK, and in the stunned silence that followed, only one thing could be certain; things were not the same as they had been mere moments ago, as if everything and yet nothing at all had changed, all at once.
The world of No Man's Land was as it should be, but all across the surface of the planet, pockets of reality had split open, sending the inhabitants of mirrored existences tumbling through wide, unseen rifts. People and places outside of time and space found themselves staggering to their feet in a world that was both foreign and familiar at the same time, found themselves face to face with their own reflection made flesh, tossed about by the pleas of a race reaching across the fabric of creation for aid in putting a stop to a war that had been fought time and time again, across reality after reality, without fail.
[Wherever your character was, whatever they were doing, when the rifts in reality opened, they will have found themselves rocked by a massive earthquake that lastes a few short seconds before settling with a loud crack, like thunder. While no damage will be left in its wake, the characters themselves will realize that though the planet appears to be the same, it will quickly become evident that they are in an alternate reality of the place they call home. Are they standing in the rubble of a once-destroyed city now remade whole? Is the bar they had been taking refuge in suddenly gone, leaving them tumbling to the sand with nothing but their drink in their hand? And what of the friends that had been standing by their side seconds before? This is where your stories begin.]
no subject
So hey. Fair play to the pipsqueak. Though he would give him credit for having the balls to bluster like that when he was obviously shitting his metaphorical pants.
Still, that got a sigh out of him again, because he really didn't want it to have to go that far. He should have walked away when he found himself staring at his own dumb mug having a temper tantrum in the middle of the desert.
"Well...I guess since you asked so nicely." It took a moment, and when the image of him finally coalesced into view, it was like looking at him through a mirage in the distance, only fainter. He gave a resigned little smirk and a sarcastic wave of his hand from where his elbow was resting on one knee. When he spoke again, the energy required to both speak and manifest himself made his voice softer, like he were speaking from a distance. "Would it be in poor taste if I said I'm dead serious? And you don't need to do any kicking, my head's already in December with the rest of me."
His focus was distracted for a moment, though, a thoughtful look crossing his face, and he started to waver out of focus, his voice trembling on the currents of air.
"I mean...it should be...last time I saw it." Which was, admittedly, decades ago, when he'd stood by, feeling numb and hollow as he watched Vash burying his body, grieving over him for what precious little time he had before the morning. "I don't know what it means that you're here, though. You'll have to kick your own head to be sure, I guess."
no subject
What could he do but laugh? A little too loud, and definitely unhinged, and Wolfwood immediately slapped his hands both over his mouth to stop any more of that crazy noise from happening. Because this was crazy. It was impossible.
Damned if he was going to avoid the city of December for the rest of his life, though. Assuming he survived wherever this was.
“This isn’t possible.” The ghost didn’t move -- it didn’t attack, or spit green snot or anything, so Wolfwood scrambled his courage together and cautiously hauled himself to his feet, a pebble secreted in his hand. “I’m seeing things.” He looked around, as though expecting his own body to appear in the sand nearby. “I’m dyin’ up here from no water for too long, and I’m seein’ things, that’s the only explanation.”
Quick as anything, he flicked the pebble right at the ghost, aimed for center mass. Was it solid after all?
no subject
"Sorry. Wish I could say you were right." Well, wait. Maybe not, hold on. His brow furrowed, though less for the pebble that whizzed right through his chest and skipped across the sand behind him, and more for what he'd said. "Why haven't you be drinking water? You're not immortal!" Well...obviously.
He wanted to say more, but the talking and being visible was draining, so he let out a soft huff and let the vision of him fade. It would take a while still for him to rest enough to feel back to his full strength, but he was too invested now, to let the conversation end just yet. At the very least, without stretching himself too thin, his voice was a bit stronger when he spoke up again.
"Why are you even out here to begin with? I don't remember some of the things you were prattling on about."
no subject
The ghost faded out, but the voice got stronger, which made a kind of sense that he decided to just go with. It was also a bit of a relief not to have to keep looking at himself. He didn't just look older – he looked different, in a way that made him worry. Was that difference the result of more sessions with that fucker Priest William? Did he want to even know, if that was the case? ]
Maybe they fucked with your memories last time and not just your body, old man.
[ And really, there was always the possibility that none of this was real and that he was back in the lab, that this was a test or a training session or, fuck, just a holding pen for his mind while some horrendous shit was being done to his body. It would sure explain why there wasn't anything out here. Even the towns he'd seen so far had looked wrong, although it was hard to place just how. The ship metal didn't look the same as what he was used to, maybe. The shit left in the streets, those treasures from the past that people had dropped in their panic, it hadn't looked right, somehow. Fuck, he didn't know anything about art or science, but even he could tell when something was off, and this whole planet right now was definitely messed up. ]
I don't know why I'm here. I don't know how I got here, or even where here is. [ Shit. Talking this much on a dry throat was really the worst. He swallowed hard, but there was nothing to swallow. ] You want me to make it to December, how about you first point me to the nearest filling station, huh? Dry goods? [ He leaned back against that rock wall, taking advantage of the bit of shade it provided. ] You could manifest a bar with dancing girls, if you really want to impress.
no subject
But...that...felt like too much bad news for one day. He wouldn't drop that bombshell in his lap.]
Don't think so. They hadn't gotten a chance to fuck with me once I started followin' Needle-Noggin. [He snorted softly to himself at the petulant little shit's outbursts, but the way his voice was starting to croak around a lack of water was worrying.] Vash was headed towards Home when something happened. An earthquake? Whatever it was... [It had done more than just throw him to the winds of wherever they had been before. Vash had perceived him. He'd touched him.] I don't know. I might have lost time, happens sometimes. He wasn't here when things settled. I can point you in the direction we were headed, if you wanna try.
[Which...just begged the question; if Vash were there...if they continued on the path he'd been headed and got there and Vash came face to face with Wolfwood again, even if it was one who was weirdly young and not-quite-right...
Well. In the long run, it was better to cross that bridge when they came to it, rather than let this other Nicholas die in the desert because he felt worried about crossing some sort of paradox.]
We honestly weren't too far out, far as I could tell. Things kind of blur together after a while, but it's as good a shot as any. [And then he gave a little laugh, the sound rippling through the air between them.] Sorry, Nico. It doesn't work that way. Best I can do is...pretending I can get anything out of smoking a cigarette that doesn't really exist. It's just an illusion.
no subject
And in fact he might have aaid something, but then the ghostcalled him Nico. Wolfwood snapped out of his exhausted lounge in an instant, glaring daggers at the point he'd last seen that asshole's dim form. ]
My name's Wolfwood, dead guy. Or if that's too hard, you can call me the Punisher. Nothin' else.
[ As furious as he was, if he'd wanted proof that the ghost was him, that was sure a good start. Nobody knew that name other than the kids back in Hopeland, and nobody other than those kids – himself included – got to use it. ]
Nico's dead. I'm Nicholas the Punisher.
no subject
That being said, if the little guy wanted to throw out the tough "I'm cold and heartless and scary" act, he could play along. The sound of his voice laughing rippled through the air for a moment, a sharp bark of a sound that was less humor and more sardonic.]
I mean, I would assume that much was obvious.
[Which was the point he focused himself again, manifesting for him to see, only this time he was...different. Grey, pale skin, drawn, haggard appearance, his hair not only unkempt - that would have been too much like 'Nico's' careless appearance - but completely askew, sticking to his head as if damp and limp and, well, lifeless.
He didn't give him the whole thing, though. He saved him from seeing the blood, the tatters in his clothes where Chapel's bladed weapon had tore into his chest and bullets had riddled his body, and he kept the sunglasses on so that he didn't have to see his own eyes glazed over and cloudy-blue. He was very obviously dead, but he wasn't grotesque. He wasn't that much of an asshole.]
I mean, you're kind of preaching to the choir there, you know. [And then the image faded out just as quickly as it had appeared. He honestly didn't like looking like that, anyway, so the less time spent manifesting it just to torment his younger self, the better.] I forgot how much I hated being called that, though. Just...makes everything worse, doesn't it? You don't even get to keep your identity. They took everything from us, even tried to take our name...Don't let them. I know you don't feel like you have a choice, most of the time, but...you do still deserve to keep that, at least. It's what the people who actually matter call you, anyway...
[Not that he expected the other him to be able to accept the advice. He remembered, albiet distantly at this point, just how deeply the self-loathing had run. It never had gone away fully, either, but...at least it wasn't as bad for him as he knew the man in front of him was feeling. Maybe he could learn to accept it sooner than he had, instead of right at the end.]
no subject
It almost made the bullshit coming out of the guy's mouth sound reasonable. ]
What do you know about the people that matter to me, huh? Are you talkin' about the kids? [ He gestured broadly behind him, indicating Hopeland and the whole southwest in one angry wave of his hand. ] Because the only thing I want to hear you say about them is confirming that the Eye left them alone after what I did for 'em.
no subject
It was also something he didn't feel like shouting out into the wind. It was too personal, too important. So when he spoke again, it was from a spot a couple of feet to the side of Wolfwood, after he'd stood to move closer so he could sit near him and didn't have to shout, but there could still be a polite distance between them.]
I promise. After what I did...the Eye never touches another kid. That's why I know Livio is fine...he...Vash helped me break him out of what they did to 'im. After that, there is no Eye of Michael. An' Livio went on to protect the orphanage after.
[There's a heaviness in his voice, hesitations where he tries not to give too much away. Give him the peace of knowing he saved them without burdening him with the fact that it was the last thing he ever did.
Even if, looking back on it, knowing how much it had hurt Vash (and still did, if the trips he made to visit his grave even all these years later, well after the Punisher he had used for his headstone had become a sand-blasted, deteriorated pile of scrap, were any indication) he knows he would do it all over again, if given the chance.]
no subject
Having an answer that made sense would have been nice, too. Wolfwood shook his head hard, frustration written in every line of his being. ]
Will you stop saying that? [ The embarrassing tears from earlier were nowhere to be seen – anger's always been more effective at getting his point across anyway. ] That blond asshole helped me wake him up from what the Eye did, sure, but then he shot himself. [ It wasn't something he'd ever forget, or he thought he wouldn't, anyway. How in the hell did the dead guy not remember that? ] Livio died on the damn sand steamer. He shot himself in the fucking head and went over the side. He's dead.
[ It was concerning, actually. If the dead guy couldn't remember something as important as that, did that mean that everything else he was saying was wrong too? About the Eye, and the orphanage?
Shit. Wolfwood looked out across the sands, scanning them once again for any signs of a town, of a filling station, anything. Anything that could mean water, transport, a way to get himself to Hopeland. ]
no subject
So. Sandsteamer, Livio shooting himself in the head, Vash being there when it happened. No, those things certainly hadn't happened in any of his own memories. But while he still refused to believe that Livio could be done in by something as simple as a gunshot to the head - he had literally smashed his entire face in himself, and watched from the in-between as Elendira tore him to shreds, and still he continued to get up over and over again - perhaps there was truth in what the other him had seen, too. They were obviously different, not egregiously so, but the differences were still there, and the more he talked to him, the more it sank in that it wasn't just himself that he was seeing.
He gave a small sigh, watching him as he could see the small signs of anxiety ripple through him. He could hazard a few guesses as to what had him so concerned.]
Look, say I accept that what you say is true, that you watched him put a bullet in his own brain and fall off of a sandsteamer. Did you see his corpse? Did you bury him? And I'm not just bein' a dick here. I saw Livio go through things a lot more severe than just a gunshot to the head an' bounce back up like it was nothin'. He's strong. It takes 'im a bit t'get there, but he's resilient. Just don't be surprised one day, when he's standin' between you an' Chapel, alive an'...maybe not well, not then. But it's gonna be the first step to it. Don't give up on 'im.
It...it'll pay off in the end.
[Even if it's the last thing they do for each other. Even if Livio carries the guilt of that fact for the rest of his life. He couldn't be more proud of his little brother, at the man he became after everything he went through. He was a better man than Nicholas had ever been, and he wasn't ashamed to admit it.]
no subject
You win.
[ If he had a gun, he mused, he could demonstrate for the ghost that a head shot was still enough to put a member of the Eye in the ground. ...Even better, if he had a gun, he could find out whether ghosts were bulletproof, and that thought put a smile on his lips, if only for a moment. Could you shoot a ghost? The rock didn't do anything, so a bullet probably wouldn't either, but wouldn't it be worth the look on that dead fucker's face to get drawn on by his own self?
That would have been sonething to see. ]
I yield, all right? Livio's alive, and I'm gonna die in December. [ His voice was getting painfully raspy, emphasis on the painful, and he was pretty sure he should be sweating a lot more than he was. Without bothering to open his eyes – the asshole was invisible anyway, what did it matter? – Wolfwood raised a middle finger in the ghost's general direction, and tried not to think about water. ] Message delivered, now fuck off and let a man die in peace.
no subject
He just sighed to himself when the other shut down, though, rolling his eyes and flicking another pebble at him from the distance as he tried to either go to sleep - out in the middle of the sun, like an idiot - or...was he actually going to try and let himself die of dehydration in the desert just to spite himself?]
Ahhhh, puta pendejo! Fine. I'll...go try an' find Home an' bring back water or help or somethin'. Don't know that I'll be able to carry it all the way here if I do find a canteen, but I guess I'll find out. Or maybe I'll finally break my damn silence an' ask Blondie t'come an' get you.
It'd serve you right.
[Vash would tear him a new one if he found him trying to waste away out here from pure spite. And then probably break down sobbing, which he did not want to see, but...Fuck. What was he even doing?
He stood, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking down at him for a moment before turning and walking in the direction Vash had been headed when the earthquake had hit. At least he didn't have to worry about getting tired and needing a break.]