annexedmeme | Test Drive Meme #1

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!test drive meme

Test Drive Meme #1

Test Drive Info

⇝ Test Drive Memes usually take place in a virtual reality simulation occurring in characters' minds that tests them for 'fitness' before they enter the setting officially. However, for the first TDM, it will be set in the real world and centered around the arrival of the first crop of extra-universal "recruits."
⇝ Test Drive Meme threads may be considered game canon so long as all parties agree to it.
⇝ Test Drive Meme threads do count for Activity Check.

Welcome to the Broken World.

You can't even remember how you got here.

All you know is that one moment you were in a world you were used to, comfortable in. It might have been a regular day or the most important day of your life, in the middle of a meal or brushing your teeth or the battle to save the world or the moment of your death. Whoever took you didn't seem to care what you were doing when you were taken, and now that you're here, they still don't seem to care.

You wake up after what seems like the blink of an eye, nauseous and dizzy but otherwise unscathed, possessions taken away, barefoot and dressed only in a set of plain grey clothing, like the most bland uniform ever imagined, in an empty room with empty walls and one single door with a small barred window and a single number printed just above it. The door is locked and cannot be broken by any means, you can feel your connection with any superhuman powers you had severed, leaving them just out of reach - you can feel them there, tingling at your fingertips or in the back of your brain, but you just can't get to them. There is no one to greet you or explain what's happening. You start to lose track of time, the only sound the distant ticking of what sounds like a massive clock.

Just when things seem hopeless, when you feel like you're about to go mad, there's the sound of a commotion outside your door. The sounds of a battle, or perhaps an infiltration gone just slightly wrong. Either way, when the door opens, there is a figure there with a hand outstretched.

"Welcome to the Broken World. Come on, we'll explain everything just as soon as we get you and the others out of here."

i. The Rescue

The moment of peace and freedom doesn't last for long.

Even while you're still disoriented from everything that's happened in the past few hours, the person who's just freed you pushes a gun into your hands. If you're familiar with guns, it's simple enough to use, with a recognizable safety and trigger, a magazine of bullets attached to the bottom. If you're not familiar with guns, well...the person who just rescued you will give you a minute-long introduction to it. Press this button, click this hammer back, pull the trigger to shoot. Nothing fancy, but enough that you won't hurt yourself or anyone else you're not supposed to be hurting. Probably.

After being handed the gun, the person rescuing you looks at you not unkindly and gestures for you to follow, leads you through a maze of concrete corridors to the entrance of the building. There, you'll find something of a small warzone, a battle in progress though almost completed, in the parking and courtyard area between several small, squat concrete buildings. There, huddled in the safety of the building's entryway, the person who just rescued you will point across the courtyard toward an encroaching patch of jungle and quickly explain the situation - you've been brought to this place by the Sylphid, long-standing enemies who will "eat your soul" and replace you if they catch you, and the person rescuing you is part of a resistance army intending to overthrow them. You're to make your way across the courtyard and into the jungle, where you'll find someone named Brycen, a blue-skinned man who will get you out of here even as the battle rages on.

The courtyard is mainly open, with a few benches and trees that can be used as cover, and there is a small group of Sylphid - the enemy, the people who took you and are now shooting at you, but who look like average everyday people - who are taking potshots at whoever crosses the courtyard even as they engage with the rebels. You'll be provided with suppressive fire from those same rebels while you cross the courtyard, but other than that, you're on your own unless you want to take the run with whoever else just got rescued.

ii. Race Through The Jungle

Once you make your way across the courtyard and into the jungle, you'll find Brycen waiting for you about a 10 minute walk in. The moment he sees you, he gestures you over and leads you a few feet further into the underbrush where there are a few All-Terain Vehicles parked in a small clearing. Shooting you a little grin, Brycen spreads his arms to present the vehicles, then heads over to the closest one. What follows is a quick explanation of how to use the ATV, a small hovercraft that can seat two. Brycen points out another ATV that is driven by a member of the resistance, and tells you that this person will guide you to the Witches Camp, where you'll be living from now on. But it's on you to pilot the ATV from here to there.

Well, you and your new friend.

See, there are half as many ATVs as there are people, and each one does seat two. Brycen gestures at the nearest extra-universal arrival and tells both of you to hop on. Now, you're both bound for the Witches Camp together, for better or worse. It's a long walk, so don't piss off your pilot!

Or overturn the ATV or crash it, because the path from the clearing to the Witches Camp is rough, without many trails or paths that have been carved out of the underbrush, something the revolutionaries have done to avoid being tracked back to their home. The ride will be bumpy, hover-vehicle or not, with a lot of swerving to avoid obstacles and dodging to avoid branches. Hopefully, you won't have a run-in with any of the local jungle wildlife, which can range from small, relatively harmless animals to lizards the size of small dinosaurs and wild cats.

It's a wild ride, but eventually you make it to the Witches Camp, a sprawling maze of low-to-the-ground buildings and markets interspersed with jungle for cover, and the rebel leading you keeps doing so until you pull up in front of Central Command. This building is one of the nicer ones in the area, and houses the Witch herself as well as the seat of the revolution. This is where all of the rebel plans are made and where new arrivals are put up.

iii. Welcome Home

Once you enter Central Command, you'll find that they've prepared space for you. First, you'll be led to the residential area of the large building and given the keycard to your new apartment, a small furnished studio apartment with a main living/sleeping area, a desk, kitchenette, bathroom with shower stall, and a walk-in closet for storage. Once you've been oriented to your new apartment, you'll be taken to pick your network device from an array of devices ranging from ultra-modern tablets that can fold into the shape of a phone to an equivalent of regular modern-day cell phones to magical tablets or books that can be interacted with by characters unfamiliar with technology. They'll also offer to alter your own phone or device to access the network, if you prefer that.

After that, you will be guided to one of the big board rooms in the Central Command, where you'll find a large spread of food on the table, ready to be dug into - all the staff at Central Command have brought food from home to share with the new arrivals. You'll also find notebooks and pens to take notes, because this is the official orientation, and you'll come out of it having learned pretty much everything about the rebellion, the Sylphid, how the rebellion originated and most importantly, how you got here and how you can go home.

This is where the rebels point out that helping them is helping yourself, because the only way to send you home is to commandeer the device that brought you here in the first place, and the only way to do that is to overthrow the Sylphid overlords.

After this presentation, no matter how accepting or skeptical you are, you'll be given a small stipend and set free to explore the city, linger around and chat over the potluck leftovers, go back to your apartment, make a network entry to meet other people, or whatever else you'd like to do. Want some new clothes? They can direct you to the markets. Looking to start learning magic? They can direct you to the Mage's Sector where you can find a teacher. Looking to dance your cares away in the wake of this terrible upheaval? They can direct you to a club in The Electric Heart that sells cocktails that'll erase all your pain for the evening.

Go wild. The Witches Camp is your new home. What will you make of it?

iv. Network

Once you've settled into your apartment in the evening, you're free to browse the internet and intranet on your new network device. Care to make an entry and meet the others in your same situation?

NAVIGATION

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Whether it's the squeeze or the partial sentence that inspires it, his answer is a sour look—only half a glance back, short of casting it over his shoulder. In other, less deranged circumstances, he might be more forgiving—ignorance isn't a crime, tiresome though it can be—but he's got an engine under him and good grips in his hands, so the retort comes easily.

He jerks a lean against Rokuro's grip to reach down by his knee, the one with the brace, and make an adjustment: a quick tug at the mechanism, a bump of his palm to set it. Then he settles,

casually sniffs,

waits for the guide craft to get a ways ahead,

waits a little longer,

and then absolutely guns it.

No moment of frantic friction, no rubber to burn, just a sudden jolt into motion, wet air rushing cold and foliage whipping their shins. (It surprises him, too, if we're being honest; he leans into it on a delay.)

If Rokuro were the screaming sort, which he absolutely is not for both personal and practical reasons, now would be the perfect time to let loose. The next closest thing for a man of his largely silent nature is a sharp intake of breath, pressing the left side of his face into the driver's bony shoulder and holding on for dear life.

The ATV is much faster than a horse, almost as if it had the speed of multiple horses. If only there was a word to explain such ungodly power.

"Mmph. I think I might be sick." Not something Victor probably wants to hear, especially when spoken directly against his back, but at least he's getting a moment's warning.

Terrific. That makes two of them.

"Just a little longer," is shouted as much to himself as his passenger/backpack. "Keep your eyes closed!"

That starting burst must have looked like an expression of comfort level, because it's set the pace for the guide. Fortunately(?) there's just too much nature in the way to maintain it, and the sprint soon gives way to weaving... which is probably not actually helpful to the condition of anyone aboard.

Though Viktor would really rather not be squeezed like this, it's just as necessary to keep him upright as it is to keep his passenger from falling off. He's no stranger to having his personal space taken personally, either, but the roster of offenders is short—just one name, in fact—so the unfamiliarity of this sustained contact buzzes in his awareness. More noise to sort through, more details that need not be communicated—

Suddenly, a hillock, disguised by ferns until it's upon them. The hovercraft jumps, offers a fleeting kind of stillness at the apex: bellies lift, a wonderful sickly thrill, before the jerk of an air-cushioned landing.

Viktor narrates involuntarily. It goes like hoh-no, and then aah, ahaha—a nervous flutter, not quite laughter.

"My eyes are closed!" And at this point, he's far too scared to open them. Surely the camp can't be too far at the speed they're traveling. If only someone were smart enough to determine how much ground could be covered by this contraption in an hour. Rokuro can hardly fathom what such an complex equation look like.

One would need to consider distance, time, and the power of however many horses. In this case, it's at least fifty horses-- fifty flying horses when the ATV hits a bump and soars through the sky.

The feeling such weightlessness elicits is somewhere between fear and excitement. Pleasure and suffering. What monks might call Nirvana.

No worldly or spiritual statement from Rokuro, as he's too busy swallowing down everything that just came back up to make any sound other than a choked gag. As soon as they hit the ground, he turns away to throw up what was left of his last meal in Japan.

Victor is spared everything but the sensation of someone heaving behind him. The same can't be said for anyone unlucky enough to be following their trail.

"A-Apologies."

Viktor is too locked in to piloting this miraculous vehicle to give in to the automatic impulse to turn and look, which is fortunate, as the other sensational assaults are themselves a little too inspirational as it is. He's blowing a breath through his cheeks, his teeth, grinding out a displeased sound, bearing down on every molecule of fortitude in his body—

The little red lights ahead, flickering through the foliage, those are indicators—they mean the guide vehicle is slowing. At last.

Slowing, and... tilting? Disappearing? Cautious, Viktor likewise slows their approach; soon enough it's evident their guide has only gone down, into a gully, to cross water. It's a shallow ford, sandy mud banks impressed with the tracks of animals come to drink.

On the other side, twisting in the seat to watch them, the guide waits.

Viktor, sickly pale and sweating beads, dark sickles of hair wet on his neck, a stranger halfway wrapped around him, the machine humming beneath, is looking down at the water. After some seconds, his gaze lifts to the green above it. The measured urgency of his steadying breaths breaks for one long, slow lungful of clean jungle air. Just looking.

One red eye slivers open as the ATV hums to a stop. To simply sit and breathe in relative silence is a small mercy. Rokuro peels himself away from his fellow prisoner's back, their grey garb almost glued together with sweat (at least he didn't wipe his mouth on him), and sits back to see what he sees.

Water.

He can't feel it the way he should, in the same way a person is aware of their own pulse, but the sight of it offers a modicum of comfort all the same. Now that the green isn't rushing past in a blur, it's almost familiar. Not entirely unlike the sacred rainforests of Japan.

Rokuro doesn't know his sickly driver well enough to discern if he's stopped due to terror, exhaustion, or interest, so he looks back from the water to the side profile of his face. Silently studying every divot and sharp angle of flesh and bone. Upon second glance, he is younger than Rokuro first assumed, but perhaps more delicate. Not that it's stopped him from getting them this far.

"Do you fear the crossing?"

Edited (words words words) 2022-08-06 05:44 (UTC)

Air flows in between them, cool, layers of momentary relief—less for Viktor, whose back is cinched in leather, his spine covered by surrogate brass plates, a thick strap over his left shoulder, his sweat trapped beneath.

He shakes his head faintly and, on a delay, replies, "No."

Every divot, every angle. The small movements of his eye. The fine point of pigment beneath it.

"It's just... the trees."

And all other manner of flora, abundant, thriving, simply permitted to be as it will. He's witnessed unspoilt nature before, in glimpses, or at a distance; it would take less than one hand to count the number of times he's come close to it. He's never stood in it, moved through it. Not like this.

—Right. The crossing. His attention drops to the water, focuses there with effort. (Hard to focus on anything; his gaze wants to be distant, soft, stunned.) It's shallow, mere inches deep. The guide is waving at them.

"Ready?"

Edited 2022-08-08 04:04 (UTC)

In some ways, it feels like his driver is held together with string, leather, and scrap metal, like a life-sized bunraku puppet, but no sculptor would dare carve such exhaustion and hardship onto the face of a 'Genda' character, and his eyes are far too alive to be made from painted glass.

Is Rokuro ready? Yes, as ready as he'll ever be to continue traversing these strangely familiar lands on an entirely strange contraption. Still. He's never entrusted his life to a stranger before today, and would prefer to not make a habit of it. The path of the ATV isn't within his control, but and introduction is.

"My name is Rokuro Unno. Under different circumstances, I may be pleased to make your acquaintance."

He returns his hands to his driver's waist, this time more mindfully. Thumbs resting over the side-seams of the leather 'armor' beneath his prison uniform.

Not an inaccurate comparison; he often feels like he's held together with string. Some days, he'd might as well be.

The introduction is met with another pause. His focus comes in, and the angle of his head changes like he might turn a look over his shoulder, make this a properly sociable exchange, but stops short of it. They're already connected; adding eyes to the equation would be too much.

"Viktor," he says, quiet.

That will do.

The ATV belts out a sound, moves assertively down the bank, slows for the shifts in pitch with a fledgling finesse he's picking up as they go. Transition between root-riddled earth and water is all but seamless, and as they skate across the moving surface, the craft kicks up a fine spray. The controls feed him textural information through vibration alone; it feels like glass under his hands.

Not much longer, now, for real—though neither of them will know it until those red indicators ahead finally indicate the finish line.

Viktor. An odd name for an odd man, which is oddly comforting, given the people Rokuro is surrounded by back home. Each of them brilliant, skilled, and deeply flawed in their own unique and often disturbing ways-- himself included. 'Kintsugi' isn't exclusive to pottery.

Rokuro flinches as they descend, fighting the urge to hide against Viktor. This time he keeps his eyes open, albeit only half-way, which is enough to watch as they sweep across the surface of the water like a feather or leaf.

Softly, to no one in particular, "It's almost beautiful."

"Almost."

A favourite word of his. Almost there, almost finished, almost perfect; always leaving room for improvement. This landscape is incongruously idyllic—looking on it, breathing it in, they can almost forget why they're here and what they've passed through to reach this place.

Speaking of which,

"Please try not to be sick again until we reach the camp," he says, more or less out of nowhere, in anticipation of the opposite bank coming up on them now. He's holding on by a thread up here, bro.

Rokuro is the similar in his relentless pursuit of perfection. While he admires the flawless and ideal, he's most fascinated by people and things that are inherently imperfect because there's so much room for improvement.

Sitting quietly behind Viktor, as they skate up the side of the gully and back into the jungle, they almost have a quiet moment of mutual appreciation. At least until Viktor opens his big mouth.

"I will not!" Way to bring up that very embarrassing moment that was SO last... ten minutes ago Viktor. A proper gentle-scarecrow would have allowed the gastrointestinal indescretion to pass without notice. Clearly, his attitude leaves much to be improved upon-- which means he won't be seeing the last of Rokuro anytime soon.

"If you drove with more care I would not have been sick in the first place." A huff, sitting back and away from Victor as far as he dares. Rokuro isn't so irate that he would let go of Viktor, and risk either of them flying off the ATV.

"At least one of us knows how."

More or less. He hasn't ploughed them into a tree, or even a bush—at least no bushes too big to flatten outright—and that ought to count for plenty. At least one of us can hold it in would also be a valid rejoinder, but it doesn't address the challenge to his (fledgling, fly-by-pants) skill, and may yet prove to be a lie between here and camp, besides.

Hang on. Viktor sits up a little, and not only because he now has the freedom to do so without possibly causing a bitten tongue.

"There's... someone ahead."

Standing there in dissonance against the brush, one arm raised, palm forward and fingers open, like Hello there, or Here I am.

The ATV begins to slow. Is that their guide? He can't remember what they were wearing, their build nor the colour of their hair, but something about the humanoid shape ahead is vibrating wrong in his awareness—some detail he hasn't consciously processed, but his brain sees, and its only recourse is to sound the vaguest alarm—

Could be the weapon they're about to raise.

Rokuro is about to retort when the welcoming figure steps out from bramble, hand raised in greeting. For a split second Rokuro is relieved, eager to get off this miserable vehicle and away from its equally unpleasant driver.

He shifts in his seat, preparing to jump off the ATV the moment it stops, only to be stilled by a feeling he can't immediately put words to.

Without the eye-that-remembers-all, Rokuro no longer records everything he sees with perfect accuracy, but after a lifetime of bear silent witness at his Lord's side, he remains more observant than most. Having hung back from the group, watching and waiting for far longer than was practical, he got a good look at their guide. Well enough to remember his height, build, and the way he stood. Favouring one hip over the other.

There's no time to warn Viktor, not as the weapon swings up towards them, so Rokuro does the next (questionably) best thing: He violently shoves the frail young man in the back-brace off the ATV and into the surrounding bramble, diving off into the opposite direction.

Their only means of transportation hurtles forward towards their attacker, misses him completely, and carries on riderless until striking a distant tree. Rokuro rolls back onto his feet, keeping low to the ground as he attempts to gauge the Sylphid's next move.

"Stay down. You are safer there than on your feet."

Stay down, he says.

First shoves him off the vehicle so abruptly he doesn't even make a sound beyond a gasp, doesn't have time to attempt to tighten his fists on the controls before he's hurtling into tangled brush—which, for the record, looks a lot softer than it feels when you're crashing through it at considerable speed—

and then tells him, lying there like a discarded mannequin, too stunned yet to move,

or maybe tells his legs, or just his feet, whatever partial glimpse of his body may be visible,

stay down.

Sure. Fine. He understands why it was done, why it's necessary to stay down and mitigate the panicky pace of his breath—and, when he moves, to keep the pain behind his teeth, restrict it to a quick straining pop of breath and bite it off into silence. He gets it.

If they survive, there will be plenty of time to be furious about it later.

If they survive. Viktor isn't the only one close to panicking. While Rokuro appears outwardly calm, it's only so the Sylphid he's facing doesn't know exactly how small and scared he feels. Better their enemy think he has a few tricks up his sleeve than rightfully assume he's backed into a corner with no way out.

Sizing up the (big) Sylphid and his large axe-like blade (that would have taken both their heads off had they remained on the ATV), maintaining that composure feels almost as impossible as taking the man on without his own weapons and abilities.

A too-quick glance around himself for anything he could use in defense provides small rocks, dry branches, and... the crutch-like object Viktor had first handed him upon boarding the vehicle. It's not far from the flipped ATV, which is almost directly behind the Sylphid.

Which means Rokuro will have to go around or through him. Given the refuse-eating smile on the Sylphid's face, he clearly doesn't consider Rokuro capable of either.

Finally, something is in his favour.

"To die here would be simply unacceptable." Who is Rokuro talking to? Himself, Viktor, the Sylphid-- anyone. All that really matters is it gives him the drive to sprint forward (normally, not like a ninja wack-job with his arms behind his back) towards the large man with the axe, dive hard the moment he swings, and slide on his shoulder in the direction of Viktor's crutch.

"Feisty, aren't you? Very well, I'll find your friend first." And the heavy footsteps, followed by the scrape of metal against rock as the Sylphid drags his axe behind himself, head in Viktor's direction. The Sylphid can't see Viktor clearly in the brush, but the first strike will cleave a stump none too far from his head.

It's at least as difficult to see out of the brush as it is to see in, so for all he can tell Rokuro is in no position to help him, or he's fled, or he's—

Still there, and talking to himself. What he says, to whomever, is very true: it would be entirely unacceptable. Odd, but encouraging to hear nonetheless.

Crashing strides, rasping metal, a moment of tense silence that seems out of place until its conclusion: a horrible sound, too close. Bark splinters, peppers Viktor with crumbs. So much for quiet, for keeping it behind his teeth—he grinds out a noise for the scorching pain in his shoulder as he moves, scrabbles through leaf and stem and vegetative detritus toward the far end of the thicket, half on his belly until he gets his knees under him, dry leaves seeking the gaps of his leg brace. (It's not likely to have bent in the fall, at least, though it is gouging him unpleasantly; they made it strong.)

Stay down... and, what, lie there like some spindly fawn that only thinks it's camouflaged while an alien chops off his head? Pass.

Rokuro can only hope Viktor has enough sense to move when moving is necessary-- and also that he hadn't broken anything important in his fall (push) off the ATV.

Fighting the urge to lay winded against the ground, Rokuro makes a grab for crutch and jumps back to his feet. He's tired, having already fought tooth and nail to get this far, but to lose his comrade is also unacceptable.

Whether on instinct, or simply to grab the Sylphid's attention, Rokuro flips the crutch into a more comfortable position within his grasp, and screams. Not at his usual super-sonic volume, he won't be knocking anyone unconscious with his voice, but the sound is ear-piercing, bloodcurdling, and honestly... just incredibly annoying, like nails on a chalkboard.

There's something to be said for irritating your opponent. Maybe they'll make a mis-step, or maybe they'll just get really mad in a way that is both deeply (and pettily) satisfying.

At the very least, the Sylphid is distracted and turning to face Rokuro, one hand over his ear, as if he can't quite decide to take on the easiest opponent, or the most aggravating. Rokuro won't give him time to decide, darting forward and lashing out at the Sylphid's knee with the crutch. What he lacks in brute strength he makes up for in knowledge of the human body, and where it's most vulnerable.

Which is how Viktor's incredibly sentimental item ends up striking the Sylphid between the thighs, becoming the worlds most ornamental nut-buster. The Sylphid stumbles forward, dropping his axe (not so useful in close quarters) to grab Rokuro by the throat and slam him bodily into the nearest tree.

If Viktor felt like attempting to attack the Sylphid from behind, now is as good a time as any-- the Sylphid clearly doesn't think he can lift the axe, and Rokuro can't get much leverage pinned to the tree with his feet barely touching the ground. If the brick shithouse of a man was distracted for even a minute, he could squirm out of his attacker's and go in for a blow with more stopping power.

The shriek strikes him with a bolt of panic. He's only just hauling himself up, just turning, too late to see his instrument being used so indecently, but what he does see takes shape in his head as no, no no no no—

The axe isn't really an option. Viktor isn't completely devoid of muscle—though his body is slowly wasting, he's worked with his hands, with machines, through more hours of his life than anything else—but even were he inclined, even if he could muster the strength, that fall did something serious to his shoulder. It's out of the question.

But he doesn't have to swing it, only make it seem like he will. It has to be at least convincing enough to get this beast of a man to turn focus on him. No need to be quiet now. Maybe his discomfort sounds like resolution, the way he pushes it through his teeth. Maybe he looks enraged, with his flashing eyes and snarl of effort.

He finds the axe handle, yanks it upright, and in his eyes the jungle bursts white.

In the same moment, Tian's pull gives his will its own shape. The jungle bursts; the air bursts likewise into pressure, like a pair of unseen hands coming together, the enemy's head between them. It's hardly anything compared to the real, physical strength in that huge fist, but it's enough to clap the sound right out of his ears and leave only a high pitched tone and a headache behind.

Rokuro can only watch as Viktor grips the axes with white-knuckles, stars spotting his vision. If he could see his own blood right now it would be dark and still, rather than bubbling with oxygen. Heart beating with the same weak, desperate panic of a rabbit.

For a dazed moment, Rokuro almost wonders if Viktor can lift the axe, and in that same moment the Sylphid seems to wonder too. Looking back over his shoulder so he can watch Viktor with an expression between sadistic amusement and morbid curiousity. Just because he can get the axe off the ground doesn't mean he can swing it, and the Sylphid is about to tell Viktor as much, only to have the words slapped out of his mouth by the air itself.

If Rokuro was in touch with his own magic he might have felt and seen the convalescence of power, but in his present dampened (and dazed) state he can't quantify what happened in any meaningful way, only that Viktor willed it into existence.

The Sylphid drops Rokuro, stunned, scared, slapping at the air around his head the way one might try to ward off a swarm of bees. Rokuro won't let the opening to go to waste. Rising from his knees, he swings the crutch upwards in a sharp arc, and catches the underside of the Sylphid's chin with every ounce of strength he has left.

The Sylphid's lower jaw goes one direction while his head continues on in the other. A low, gurgling moan as blood bubbles out of his mouth and down the front of his shirt, and he hits the ground like a sack of bricks. Alive, by the heavy rise and fall of his chest, but in no condition to give chase.

Rokuro sinks back against the tree, sucking in air, crutch clutched to his chest. At least until he looks at Viktor, and holds it out to him with a shaking hand.

Best to not piss off the guy who is seemingly in allegiance with the wind-god.

Viktor jerks back from his own pain, automatic. The axe handle slips through his hand, drops sideways among jungle detritus. He hardly witnesses the final blow—it registers as dreamlike, swimming, surreal.

Best not, no.

But said guy is staring straight ahead, uncomprehending, sagging into his breath, an awkward arrangement of angles in the shape of a person. Blood crawls from his nostril, slips into the crease of his parted lips. His hand makes a loose, vague gesture down by his side, like it's about to reach but thinks better of it.

"You," he starts, all breath,

and it just hangs there in the quiet.

Just give him a second.

"You." Hoarsely, staring right back. His eye darts from Viktor's eyes to his bloody nose and back up again.

Although he doesn't understand Viktor's power, if power is what it is, but he does recognize the way it has affected him. Even those blessed by the gods are expected to make sacrifices. Rokuro also bleeds when he calls upon the moon, although he isn't half as frail as Viktor appears to be.

If only he could see inside of Viktor, to better understand the state of him-- and more selfishly, because he's curious.

After a moment of holding the crutch out, he simply sets it down upon the ground between him. Arm burning with exertion. If they're going to get out of here, rather than perish in the wilderness or upon discovery by another Sylphid search party, they both need to conserve their limited strength.

What is there to understand? Nothing that occurs to the wielder of this mysterious power, except that he feels strange, light and heavy in his body, like every minuscule impulse is full and soft in his awareness. He recognizes this shimmering wave of sensation just as it twists toward the corporeal—just in time to turn away.

A couple of urgent half-hopped steps, one leg stiff, one hand on the tree—

He didn't have any lunch to lose, but his body isn't interested in technicalities. Its efforts are enthusiastic.

Kindly pardon the noise.

For a few minutes, any sign that Rokuro is even considering coming anywhere near him will be answered with a hand flapping sharply back at him, no.

Rokuro won't attempt more than once. Not right away. After the initial refusal, he will simply study a nearby bird while Viktor attempts to empty his stomach. His ears are still ringing, and he can almost tune out the sound of him retching.

Finally, when there is true quiet, he will hold the crutch out (and up) to Viktor again, because it seems unlikely he'll be able to get far on foot without it-- especially after how hard he fell.

A hard, painful swallow, and Rokuro attempts the whole 'speaking' thing a second time.

"I am sorry to have pushed you so hard. Are you greatly injured?"

The unpleasantness ends as a coughing fit, full-bodied, ragged by the end. He spits one more time for punctuation.

"My shoulder," is fucked, but he can't describe exactly how. A fracture? A dislocation? Maybe just a pulled muscle? He doesn't exactly have the kind of lifestyle that leads to a lot of athletic injuries. Even so, some little flake of thought in Rokuro's mind, subconscious or otherwise, decided he could take a hard fall, and there's a kind of satisfaction in that—or will be, later, when he's not acutely feeling like hell about it.

Unluckily, the shoulder in question is the one usually pushed up to an angle by his crutch, but he has two of those and the other will do in a pinch.

His lingering look at the device's bent handle shortly turns sideways on Rokuro, meaningfully dour. Being used as a club didn't deform it, and it came away with no blood, but these aren't reasons enough to be glad. He tucks it under his arm.

"Is he dead?"

Test Drive Meme #1

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🐎💪

10x🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎💪

https://t4.ftcdn.net/jpg/01/23/67/23/360_F_123672399_C5CT55cHgoFO0hFamAFLT51DfNyQqbQs.jpg

I for one welcome our equestrian overlord.

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✨

✨bishonen senshi sailor viktor✨

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