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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
He still couldn't help but hear, and even he heard it, both in something wolfwood had said before, and in the moment.
If he kept calling himself irredeemable, what could Wolfwood think of himself?
The other Vash was not falling into that trap, at least, and Vash couldn't help radiating warmth, emotionally. Contentment,and a little pride. And, something that might suspiciously feel like thank you, big brother. He wouldn't say it out loud, but... It was there.
And he hoped, he really hoped, that soothing Wolfwood somewhat - regardless of his immediate reaction, or even whether he would remember him, these words mattered - would bring relief Vash as well. It was well deserved, always, and more than ever needed, right now. ]
no subject
The words he spoke registered strangely in his mind, as if he'd heard them before, and it was clear on his face that he was trying to grab onto the thought and pull it up to the surface, his eyes going unfocused, glancing back at him, across the room, back to stare distractedly at his opposite shoulder as if he could find the answers to what was happening there.]
I told you, didn't I? I know I have. Have to've...[The sound of those words spoken by that voice were echoing in his head, or at the very least words that were so similar that they sounded like an echo in his mind. When he couldn't figure out why or where the memory seemed to come from, he sighed, and turning his head so he could look up at him, he dropped his chin onto his shoulder, leaning his weight against his arm.] Maybe not. Dunno. Don't care, either way. You're wrong. Wait. No. I mean...You're thinkin' about it wrong. 'S not your fault. Never been your fault. They hurt you. I know you. You never wan'ed t'hurt anybody.
[He was close to drifting off, his legs wiggling just for the novelty of feeling the muscles moving while numbed by the alcohol in his veins, his eyes drifting closed.]
But me...Hurtin' people's...easy. Don't enjoy it, no, but...Before you, I...didn't care. Not as much. What's a few random assholes, if it kept the kids safe? I pulled the trigger every time, an' I didn't care. That's the difference between you an' me...your heart's still clean. You never stopped carin'.
[Before he'd met Vash, he'd been able to tell himself he didn't care about anything but the kids. He would have murdered thousands more and never batted an eye. When you were as far gone as he was, what was one more, ten more, hundreds? They'd pushed him past the point of no return when he wasn't even old enough to drink.
Those were the thoughts that went unvoiced, though, as he felt Vash moving his hand from his cheek, his eyes opening to watch as he kissed the back of it. The look on his face melted into a genuine smile, his eyebrows arching up as his eyes closed again, his face shifting to press against his shoulder, and it was obvious how out of it he was that he didn't even think about what he was doing when he nuzzled his cheek against his sturdy frame, turning just enough that he could press his lips against his coat in short, gentle pecks. The fingers in the hand he held wriggled, trying to touch, to brush against his face, but he was too jelly-limbed and pliant and didn't want to made him break the kiss on his hand, so he let him continue to hold it as long as he wanted and just sighed. Affectionate and open in a way that showed how far his walls had come down, at least for now, past the point of caring what was expected of him, or why he shouldn't bare his heart for all to see, and so far gone that the affections were mindlessly offered in a half-dozing fog.]
no subject
Something shifts, between one heartbeat and the next, and suddenly Wolfwood is speaking, has been speaking for some time. He's losing time, Vash realizes, turning his hand to lay Wolfwood's palm against his cheek, and laying his own against Wolfwood's. The day has finally caught up to him – to them both, if Wolfwood's murmurings againinst his shoulder are any indication – and that means he doesn't have much time left. Enough words, then.
He closes his eyes as his lips touch Wolfwood's, putting everything he wants to say into that gentle kiss, willing – sending, really, shouting to the whole world – for Wolfwood to knows how loved he is. How cherished, how beautiful, how needed. Vash is alive because of this man. Vash knows what love is – fiery, possessive, desperate – because of this man. The grief at their separation, both the loss that was redeemed and the loss that's yet to come, is tearing his heart out, because Wolfwood – because Nick – is his heart. He's the reason there's blood in Vash's veins and breath in his lungs, the reason he fights on when he just wants to stop. This man is the reason he lived so long. This man is the reason he wishes he could live longer.
He let this man into the core of himself, let him see how, even with bloody hands and a soiled heart, so much goodness still shines through. It's all he can do. Please let it be enough.
Live and be happy, please. You deserve happiness. ]
no subject
He wasn't great at it, even as his lips did their best to return the kiss. He knew countless ways to kill a man, but had never once done this. It would have been awkward even if he'd been sober. But that didn't mean he didn't feel every brush of their lips like a wam that flittered about in his chest, making him give a soft, delirious giggle between one press of his lips and the next. And in the back of his mind, the part of him that could always seem to pick up, even if on a very subtle level, when one of the two of them were sending out those weird, Planty emotion things they did, he felt ripples of happiness, encouragement, warmth, love, so much love.
It was enough to make what semblance of coherence he had left evaporate into the ether, left him humming softly, a smile on his face so dazed and dopey that he would have never admitted to having made it when the grip of sleep finally dug its fingers into his brain and began to pull him under. The way his fingers still gently twitched against Vash's cheek, the way he seemed to still be just awake enough that he was able to press one, two more absentminded pecks to Vash's lips, were more unconscious than anything, and it wasn't long before even that was too much energy and focus for him, and he gave another deep sigh as his head dropped until he was leaning his forehead against his jaw, his breathing evening out into the slow rhythm of sleep.]
no subject
His thoughts trail off as Wolfwood slumps into him, unconscious. With a tired little laugh Vash wraps his arms around Wolfwood's chest and lets himself fall backward onto the bed, pulling the other man with him. Wolfwood's a dead weight in his arms, but as long as he can feel the heat of Wolfwood's breath against his face, as long as that broad chest rises and falls in his arms with each breath, then he can know, even as he drifts off himself, that it's just sleep. He's been granted a miracle, and he's not going to let it go.
no subject
Then he moved, gently again removing shoes, then arranged them more safely on the bed, then followed suit himself. In the end he kind of draped himself over them and tried to sleep.
Which didn't last long, a nightmare of ships crashing and people dying making him twitch and gasp slightly awake. Then he staying like that, listening to the breathing of them both. ]