nysalogs | ❪ event ❫ hour of ruin

Entry tags:

❪ event ❫ hour of ruin

HOUR OF RUIN

Sometime after midnight, after preparations have been put aside in favor of drinks and rest, a thunderous beating of wings shatters the air — the High Dragon Ysverai, once again risen. The sound echoes high off Namarak Mountain, but travels easily to both Wyver and Olympia: scream after scream rends the still night, as though a creature were dying rather than being born again.

Having only had days to plan their defense against the creature, Olympia and Wyver snatch up their arms. The Royal Guard and the Knightryders can be seen on their steeds hurrying through the cities, because Ysverai doesn't remain isolated at the mountain's peak for long.

There are pictures of Ysverai in abundance throughout both cities, but the creature that circles in the sky looks nothing like the majestic creature spoken of in history books. Even from far below, wounds and lacerations can be seen marring what should be smooth scales, and blood falls with every beat of the dragon's wings. The damage becomes more clear when moonlight illuminates Ysverai, revealing the rotting dragon for all to see.

The sight of flesh peeling away and thick blood where it oozes from his cracked, greyish hide is as frightening as the power he possesses.

REASON'S TRANSCENDENCE

Mad from the anguish of his forced revival, Ysverai will show none of his renowned wisdom or compassion, mindless and seeking to inflict his pain onto whatever emerges in his path.

His very presence creates chaos: animals (Olympia | Wyver) domesticated and wild, flee from the merest hint of his approach, panicked and stampeding in wild droves. The reason is obvious: organic matter exposed too long to his presence begins to rot and decay. A field he lands in rots and lies fallow. Buildings crack and crumble, their supports pitted and corroded as though they've been left in disrepair for years. Even the ground that Ysverai walks upon is tainted; a corrosive sludge bubbles up in his massive, clawed footsteps, the ground beneath him putrefied and toxic, oozing corruption. This sludge can be tar-like, poisonous and sucking people in like quicksand; panic, and you'll only sink faster.

Prolonged exposure to Ysverai takes a mental toll on anyone in his proximity as well. Effects similar to those from being near his heart — selfish desires and lowered inhibitions — will begin to fester in those around him.

Every time Ysverai roars, pain will run through all those that hear him — a pain not just physical, but of true, anguished heartbreak. Those who hear Ysverai will feel (to a degree of your choosing) a sharing of his pain, the agony of flesh rotting from their bodies, blood oozing from under their skin, and a terrible, incandescent fury — and beneath that, a gut-wrenching sadness. This effect is further enhanced by any exposure to Ysverai's blood, and being drenched in greater quantities will cause one to become more in sync with the dragon.

Finally, Ysverai is aggressive, attacking anyone and anything that approaches. He starts by breathing out a smog, acidic and putrefying — characters caught directly by this attack will find that medicine and healing magic of any kind hurts them for hours after exposure. The dragon will ignite the smog to breathe fire, if sparingly.

IN WYVER

Ysverai's shadow falls over the near reaches of Wyver first. Upon hearing Ysverai's cry, the dragons in Wyver become completely frenzied, turning against their partners among the Knightryders without the slightest resistance. Those familiar with dragons might deduce that they're in pain, though they don't show any sign of injury. The dragons knock their riders off their backs in midair and dive at citizens, jaws wide. Any attempts to soothe them will be long fought, achieved with great difficulty, and will see them retreat into a cowering state.

It's not just the airborne Knightryders taking to the defense of the city however, and people on the ground are mobilizing as well. On rooftops across the city are cannons set to fire harpoons. And if the spearheads alone aren't enough to injure the beast, they're coated with a paralyzing poison as well. Unfortunately, the soldiers stationed on the rooftops are prime targets to the frenzied dragons populating Wyver's skies, leaving the cannons open for ordinary citizens to use should they choose. Left alone too long, and cannons may fall under the control of the few remaining radicals that had opted not to flee the cities to join up with their leader Raysc, choosing instead to wait for an opportune moment to unleash their anger on the people of Wyver. These radicals will need to be dealt with before they can turn the cannons upon Wyver's defenders.

IN OLYMPIA

In Olympia, the gryphon partners of the Royal Guard react with immediate hostility to anyone showing signs of Ysverai's influence. Their keen senses allow them to pick up the smell of Ysverai's blood and they attack anyone with so much as a drop of tainted blood on them. Those who bear lingering effects of Ysverai's mental attack and who remain in sync with the dragon after hearing Ysverai's cry are also targeted and must face the gryphons' wrath without mercy or restraint. The gryphons must be disabled, for Olympia will not look upon any injury to their prized steeds lightly. However, the gryphons also show some resistance to Ysverai's cry, which is a great boon in battle against the dragon — gryphons that have lost their riders will be available for use, able to carry two passengers at a time.

The people of Olympia aren't planning to restrict their offense to pure brute force, and the mages of the city can be seen across Olympia wielding enchanted chains, using telekinesis in the hopes of restraining Ysverai and assisting in the airborne troops. But like the decaying buildings and wildlife, Ysverai is warping the magic around him, the chains faltering as they approach him, whipping back toward the city instead to cage whoever happens to be closest. It's not just the enchanted chains either, but other magic might behave erratically in his presence, as if the very essence of the spells have been corrupted.

VIRTUOUS VERSE

Both cities realize they need to seek survival rather than victory against Ysverai, switching gears to carry out diversion efforts and evacuation plans. It falls to refugees to continue the offensive while the Royal Guard and the Knightryders devote their attention to ensuring the safety of the citizens as they flee.

With official forces stretched thin, civilians and refugees alike will also need to step up to help herd citizens toward safety among a maze of collapsing buildings. Others will need to see to gathering resources for the evacuation, and while gathering non perishables is easy enough, it's considerably harder to wrangle livestock into cooperating amidst such chaos.

Those fighting may be asked to act as bait for Ysverai. Chatter through official troops speaks of a switch in strategy: the objective now is capture the dragon's attention and draw him away from the populous cities and towards the South Outpost. Whether or not it's possible to defeat the dragon remains uncertain, but there's no question that it will be easier to battle him without worrying about civilians.

THE RAGE

Luckily, the dragon is indiscriminate in his rage, and easily lured so long as a suitably infuriating target is before him. It doesn't take long to draw him to the South Outpost, but the trail of destruction he leaves in his wake is vast. Once there, the combined forces are greeted not just by Ysverai, but also by the appearance of Ysverai's master.

How bravely you've all come to meet your doom! Great heroes, one and all, ha! I welcome you, bring your best. Show me the power that's protected Olympia and Wyver, all that you have to offer me, whatever pitiful excuse for valor you seek to cling to when the fear has you cowering in your beds. All will be for naught in the face of Ysverai's might!

Let history witness the day the glory of war is reignited — the day that Wyver remembers its fangs once more! Come, Ysverai, last and greatest of the High Dragons! Come, and restore Wyver to its rightful place! Come, fulfill the promise as our protector that you could not in life!

Raysc lifts a gleaming device as he issues his command. Red lights blink and blood, the same oozing liquid that drips from Ysverai's many wounds, runs in clear tubes through the device. Ysverai rears back as Raysc makes adjustments to a control panel — and then lunges forward, mouth agape. With a single swallow, Raysc meets his end.

Raysc's attempt to control the dragon has only enraged him further, spurring Ysverai on to new heights of fury. It's become more vital than ever to face the dragon and take him down here and now. A few effective strategies are learned from research efforts and observed while defending Olympia and Wyver: goading the dragon into breathing fire will hurt him, burning him from the inside out, and attacks to his joints, eyes, wings, and exposed bone are effective. Ice is a natural repellent to dragons and can be used defensively or to weaken the dragon's hide. Healing spells will also react unnaturally to Ysverai's flesh, hastening his decay.

However, while concentrated efforts will lock him down, Ysverai cannot be permanently killed in this state — his flesh constantly rots and spawns anew. Attacking him here is to protect civilians, keeping him busy to avoid mass destruction elsewhere. Therefore, the battle is one of attrition, a matter of a race against time. You must destroy his flesh faster than it is able to regenerate to have any hope of victory.

Finally, when Ysverai is weakening, little more than bones with a few last vestiges of rotten meat hanging from a skeleton, the pathetic remnants of the last High Dragon takes to the skies. His wings are barely intact enough to carry him, yet desperation lifts him, higher and higher, until he lets out one great, earth-shaking roar.

A roar that carries across the battlefield, sending all who hear it to their knees. A roar that shatters the swords in soldiers' hands, that rends apart the very air itself — Ysverai's last act, a great curse upon El Nysa, to bring down the sky.

AND THE WORLD STOOD STILL

The terror of Ysverai's destruction hangs overhead — a tear in the sky, darkness pouring through, tendrils reaching down towards El Nysa to swallow up the planet in the dragon's final act of revenge. And yet nothing moves. A halo of brilliant light surrounds the rift in the sky, holding the grasping, hungry tendrils in check. And on the planet, not a creature moves. Not a blade of grass stirs. You're not able to even draw a breath. No matter where you are, not even the heart in your chest is beating. Everything has stopped — time has come to a standstill.

In a wash of light, an aurora of transport, you find yourself delivered to Thesa Station. Darma stands before you, her expression solemn, perhaps even grim, though that may just be a trick of the station's harsh lighting. She explains what has happened in short order: planetside, time has been completely frozen.

We have seen the birth and end of worlds. The rise and fall of civilizations infinite times over. We have seen all threads of possibilities that could have lead to this very moment... Or should have. Perhaps you might doubt our sincerity when we say this comes as a surprise to us, as well...

Special technology has been used to blind us. To this day, we only know of one region capable of creating and utilizing such technology... you will find this technology in a city known as Nadril. We understand that you have created a life down in Wyver and Olympia, but now we must ask that you put that life on pause. We ask you to travel to Nadril and find the original Refugee, and with him, answers. As you will discover, he does not wish to speak to us. It is no matter. By now it is too late to keep the Nysan public unaware of our existence.

We commend the efforts of those who wish to protect their comrades on the battlefield below, but a creature like poor Ysverai, twisted and warped, given unnatural life with terrible magic and technology, does not simply go down with manpower. Please, leave Ysverai to us. Time on the planet will remain stopped while we determine how to deal with the dragon. For now, rest and recover your strength. We have returned, and soon, there will be new refugees awakening. Perhaps you might like to prepare yourselves to greet them?

I'm sorry that I can't answer more questions, but for now, all our attention must turn to finding a way to stop what Ysverai has wrought.

A bank of monitors behind Darma displays the battlefield below: Ysverai's frozen, looming figure and the breach in the sky, and the Natha's halo, holding the destruction back. Though time passes normally on Thesa Station, El Nysa remains frozen, and all Refugees are unable to return to the planet until Ysverai's menace is dealt with. Luckily, with the Natha's return, full functionality has also returned to the station. The lights and environmentals are back to full power, access to all areas has been restored, the cafeteria is serving its normal offerings, and there's no evidence of any glitching or malfunctions.

Doubtless, the period of rest is much needed after the hard-fought battle. For now, with time on El Nysa at a standstill, there's little else to be done but enjoy the reprieve aboard Thesa Station.

FINAL OOC NOTE

Characters that reach an AC length action thread in this event will receive 2 rep for all factions, including Natha. Note that while these are split up for ease of processing, players may submit for all three.

OLYMPIA | WYVER | NATHA
Players can expect this event to run three days ICly before everyone is teleported to Thesa Station! From thereon, all characters will be grounded at the Station until the Test Drive Meme later this month.

QUICK NAV

premise ● 
faq ●
lore ●
map ●
npcs ●
bestiary

taken ●
atp/emp ●
application ●
rep/acp ● quest bulletin 

calendar ●
hiatus/drops ●
modbox

[ FULL NAVIGATION ]

elnysa

nysalogs

nysaisles

nysaooc

elnyan

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's a good way of asking the question, all things considered, and Ianto nods in response to it. He is, more or less. Singed here and there from the dragon's fire, but otherwise he's made out of this pretty well, all things considered. Certainly in better shape than Jim himself.

"Yeah, I..." He swallows, thickly. "I know where my limits are, and the only weapon I have is a stun gun, so I. Was working support, mostly. Water, ammunition, bandages, I..." He glances down at the state of himself. "Most of this isn't mine."

As for his state of mind, however. That's a whole different matter entirely, and it's there in the haunted look in his eyes and the way the image of it keeps replaying itself in his mind. In the fact that he's not searching the crowds for that other familiar face. He knows he won't find him there when he looks.

"That's good." Sincerely, both for the fact that Ianto isn't injured too badly, and that he was doing vital work. Jim, on his part, didn't expect to be down in the thick of it - but he's got disaster control experience, and helping with evac and the close proximity of the Outpost and Wyver... some of it's a blur, but it's also not surprising to him. Kirks aren't built with brakes.

"Something else is wrong, though."

Not a question. It doesn't take the 200 year old telepath hiding in the latent corners of Jim's mind to see that, in Ianto, just someone used to spot-counseling subordinates and friends through trauma. (His own trauma, you ask? Ha ha why would he need anybody for that, how ridiculous.)

It feels wrong, to have Jim looking at him like that. Especially when the man is in as terrible shape as he is -- there is blood coming from his ears for crying out loud, even if it does seem to be drying. But Ianto can't seem to shake the twist in his gut and if Jim isn't going to let him deflect from that feeling by fussing over him then what else can he do but tell him?

He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, chewing on it for a moment as he shakes his head. Lowering his eyes to the ground between them because he doesn't want to see the look in those bright blue eyes when he gathers the courage to speak. Doesn't want to know whether they'll pity him, or whether there will be sorrow there, or whether there'll be nothing at all because he and John never seemed to get along that well anyway -- a fact which Ianto will never understand because of all the people he's met so far, he feels himself drawn to both of them the most. Or maybe that was all just John. He doesn't want to face up to the reality of the situation, but he'd seen it happen, and he hadn't been able to do a damned thing about it. And he'd had the other man's life signs detector in his hand. Ysverai hadn't given him a chance for heroics. By the time he'd cleared the scene, it had been too late, and Ianto can't...

"He's dead, Jim," Ianto says, quietly, and is silently surprised with how steady his voice is when he does. "The dragon, it..."

For a long moment Jim just looks at him, piecing together what he's being told, like a tired hamster attempting to make the wheel go. Through some miracle or another he doesn't ask Who?, but just barely. He's well aware that some of the refugees had fallen, on the battlefield. Natives, too, and Jim remembers the bitter, awful feeling of pulling a Knightryder out of a ditch only to realize she was already gone, and knowing that the Natha won't have any reserve magic left for their lives.

"Sheppard?" Shot in the not-so-dark. He's not sure who else Ianto is close to, and his attachment to the drunk roommate hasn't gone unnoticed.

But:

"The Natha are back," he points out, mild confusion audible beneath the scratchy, damaged sound of his voice.

Ianto flicks his eyes up to the other man, not really understanding the logic in where the other man is going with that. Yes, he knows that the Natha are back, is that a question?

"Yes," he says quietly. "John. He's... He was in the air force, yeah. Before all of this. And then on some research mission to some alien outpost that I'm not sure I'll ever understand. But I talked him into coming with me, to escort the Heart, and then when it was stolen from us." He runs his hands over his face and only succeeds in smearing some of the blood around. He probably looks a mess but he feels. He feels so much worse.

"He blamed himself for having lost it, you know. Because of his position, he should have stopped it. And I tried to convince him otherwise, but I think it made him -- I don't know, he had to make up for it somehow, and I couldn't talk him out of it." And he'd tried. He really had. But it hadn't been any use. And now that's another person that he's lost. It's not a very good record.

He takes in a deep and shuddering breath. "Anyway, it's like you said. The Natha are back now, and... And I suppose we're just supposed to keep. Moving forward." Leaving everything behind. Friends they have lost. The lives they had known.

It sounds like a eulogy and Jim feels immediately-- not quite awkward, but something tinged with sympathetic embarrassment, because he feels like a total heel for not having barked out the truth of it before Ianto started talking. (If only the 200 year old telepath actually lended him any telepathy, but alas.) No matter what, death is a terrible thing to experience, even just as an observer.

So he's quiet, letting the other man get it out. Not really paying attention to the details about Sheppard, who Jim has relegated to an oil and water sort of thing with an internal shrug, but respecting the emotion. They're clearly attached to each other.

"Ianto." A little stilted. Jim offers his good hand, supportive. C'mere for a second, buddy.

"We were brought here to start a new civilization. We can't reproduce, and in exchange for that, refugees - only refugees, not natives," Jim can't suppress all the bitterness, there, "aren't permitted to be dead. You can go wait in the medical ward for him."

Ianto reaches for Jim's hand as he offers it to him, in case he needs him for something, not quite understanding that the touch is for him at first. At least not until Jim keeps talking and he processes what the other man has to say.

It takes him a long moment, after all. It's not every day that you watch someone you care for die in front of you, start to settle into the idea that you might never see them again, before you're told that's not entirely the case after all. The fact that this is the second time in Ianto's life that this has happened is fairly significant, all things considered.

Ianto's hand tightens on Jim's, his eyes widening as the words finally sink in. "I don't..." he says, stumbling over his words as he tries to process his thoughts.

"It's an awful thing," Jim says quietly, with weight to his voice. "To go through, to watch. You don't have to turn around and be fine."

He finds it difficult to talk about death. He always wants to make sure he doesn't sound too knowledgeable; what he's been through is no-one's business, and it's not something he wants to bond over, or share about. But he can still sound like a captain, steadying a comrade to the best of his ability.

"Just breathe for a minute."

Breathe Ianto does, because it definitely takes him a second more to process it. That he's alright. No, he's not alright. But he's alive, and that's. Everything. The gentle tone of command in Jim's voice helps Ianto calm himself down -- he's always been pretty ready to follow an order. But it's his hand, warm in Ianto's own, that grounds him the most.

He takes in another shaky breath before he nods, slightly. He's not fine. He'd watched his roommate, his friend, run into battle with a dragon and then in the course of events to follow, lose his life. Burnt alive. It wasn't a pleasant sight. The sights, the smells of the battlefield, it had brought him right back to...

"There was an attack," he says, abruptly. "Where I worked. When I worked in London, that is. An attack on the office I worked in. More than an attack, it was. Chaos. A battle, they called it. The Battle of Canary Wharf, but it was really just a slaughterhouse. There were... So many people died. My coworkers. My friends. My boss. ...my girlfriend." He doesn't really know why he's telling the other man all of this, but once he's started it all just seems to keep coming.

His warm, gross hand, covered in blood and mud and the weird, rotten remains of what were once some nice leather gloves. His skin isn't peeling off, though, which is a small miracle considering the fate of organic material near Ysverai. One intact and supportive appendage is better than zero.

London has a rough time in plenty of worlds, it seems, though Jim wasn't present when a terrorist attack demolished one of the Section 31 hubs there. (An awful tragedy, but after his further experiences with the disgraced operatives, he finds he doesn't miss them. Fucking spooks.) He listens patiently, keeping a firm hold on Ianto's hand. Post-traumatic stress disorder? He wonders. Probably something akin to that; one traumatizing event dredging up the wounds of an other.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs.

It probably is post-traumatic stress disorder, of a sort. From Canary Wharf, and from its aftermath. Rescuing Lisa out of the wreckage of the tower, trying to keep her alive. Doing everything he could to keep her comfortable, to find a solution to what had been done to her. Flirting, scheming, begging his way into a job at Torchwood Three to set her up there with the necessary resources so that he could bring in Doctor Tanizaki. Watching it all go to shit as she murdered the doctor and turned on the rest of the team. They'd gunned her down in front of him and he'd been ordered to take 3 weeks paid leave and he'd taken it, because he'd known full well that Jack would have had the authority to see him executed for his treachery. And then his first few weeks back to work and they'd taken him out on his first field mission to the Beacons, and he'd come back with such nightmares that he'd nearly decided the whole thing was all too much.

He feels a little like that here as well, but Jim's hand in his own helps, it really does. No matter how warm and gross he may think it is. Ianto's is equally as filthy, really. He had been doing field triage, after all. He's got small spots here and there from where he'd been singed from all the burning material around him and he should probably get it looked at, but he needs this more right now. (Especially if Jim isn't going to let him get any help, though Ianto's a little shocky right now they might take one look at him and derail any of his attempts instead.)

"There were only twenty-seven of us that made it out of there alive. Twenty-five surviving, the last time I ran the numbers." His fingers tighten on Jim's again. "You'd think after everything I've seen, everything I've been through, I'd be better at dealing with all of this," he says. "I mean, I work for Torchwood, for god's sake." Like he isn't only twenty-four years old and he wasn't recruited at twenty-one to work his way up through the research team from there. Like any of this is supposed to make sense to Jim.

Every so often when discussing trauma with someone, Jim does actually wonder why this or that person hasn't developed sturdier coping abilities. It's not a kind thought, though, and not something he ever voices; he knows it's born from his own history of abuse and survivor's guilt. He's well-educated in that way, with the number of times mental health professionals have had to clear him for return to duty, or earlier - coming back in from the ruins of a failed, starving colony - a return to society.

Jim puts a few things together. Torchwood must be the branch or defense project that Ianto works for, possibly classified given his earlier prevarication about offering a solid answer. That he's a little younger than Jim had initially suspected-- and that while he might be in over his head, he'll probably be alright. He's speaking in complete sentences, he seems more like he's venting than falling apart.

Humans are durable. For better or worse.

"It's no one's job to be unaffected," Jim tells him. "Give yourself permission to feel what you're feeling."

He'll explain Torchwood eventually. He trusts Jim to understand what it is that they're attempting to do, even if they haven't always quite accomplished that. Even if at more than a few occasions they've failed, instead. It's in their failure that Ianto will probably have the most difficulty getting Jim to understand what it is that they were trying to do. He's the captain of a well-oiled ship, as far as Ianto can understand. Torchwood by comparison has been treading water barely staying afloat for a while now.

Give himself permission to feel what he's feeling, Jim says, and it's surprisingly sage advice from a man in as poor shape as Jim is. Ianto takes a deep breath, holding it for a long moment before letting it out slowly, nodding. What is he feeling? He's... He's not really surprised that the dragon couldn't be beaten, truth be told. It had seemed impossible, like they'd been missing a crucial piece that they just hadn't had enough time to pull together. But the rest of it. John's death, and now his resurrection. All of the sights and sounds of the battle with the dragon, the horror of it. The sights and sounds of everything here in the station. Thinking he might die, and now settling into the idea that that's off the table again too. Breathing deeply as he lets himself think through it all, or at least try to.

"I just. We tried so hard, and where have we gotten?" Ianto asks the other man softly. "People I care about gave up their lives for us to get this far--" he swallows hard, "not knowing that the Natha would be able to bring them back. You." He shakes his head, taking in the state of the other man. "The state of you, Jim. And where has it gotten us?"

The miracle of medical resurrection - if that's what it actually is, and not some kind of extension of stasis they just aren't capable of detecting - here on the station unsettles Jim, and he doesn't expect Ianto to be wholly comforted by it. Especially now, with the state of Ysverai, such an immediate, horrific illustration of why dead things should stay dead. And so, talk of people giving their lives sounds just as significant as it would be without the postmortem fix.

(No one goes through it and is fine, even if it's fine. Jim knows.)

"We don't know yet." Jim doesn't shrug, it's not that simple, but there's still something determined in his tone despite the exhaustion. "Trying doesn't always pay off. Working, doing the right things, pushing to absolute extremes. Sometimes things just fall apart. And we find yourselves in a position where we have to decide if we're going to call it failure or if we're going to call what we do tomorrow Take Two."

Now, Jim does shrug. "You've asked me before about optimism. That kind of stubbornness is easy. This, getting up the day after, is the rough part."

Ianto takes in another deep breath -- he seems to be doing a lot of that here -- letting it out slowly as he tries to gather his thoughts. He's doing his best not to fall apart on Jim. He has a feeling that it won't all hit him until later anyway. Traumatic incidents have a way of doing that. Sinking in through the cracks, needing time to settle under the skin before he really understands the magnitude of everything that's just happened. The day after, as Jim said, is the rough part. And it's only just begun.

"It's easier to put on a brave face not knowing what it is you're getting yourself into," he agrees. Ianto distantly realizes he's been clutching at Jim's hand this whole time and squeezes it gently, not quite ready to let go but in recognition of the other man's being there for him. He doesn't have to be, after all. He's sure Jim has his own priorities to take care of. Other people to see to, himself included. He's grateful though, for the time he's allowed for Ianto himself.

"I don't know. The Natha said to leave the dragon to them, but. With this new mission they've given us..." Ianto doesn't know what to think. He's never really trusted them and certainly now that they hold the balance of -- well, everything in their hands. It all just seems so precarious. "And they still haven't said where they were, to suddenly return just now to miraculously save us all." He shakes his head. "It just. It all feels too convenient, I don't know. I'm sorry. Maybe I'm just not thinking straight."

"You don't have to figure it out right now. None of us do. Even if the motivation turns out to be manipulative, all of us collectively are in a bad enough way that we need to take this reprieve for what it is."

Jim feels like they're in an experiment. The refugees are mice, testing electrified walls, and their handlers keep changing the landscape as they progress. But is that really the case? Or are the Natha just struggling, as uncertain how to proceed as any mortal mind, only incidentally gifted abilities to hide from the Storm they fear?

"Not every victory is one that ends with a big parade and everyone getting medals. This is-- I don't know. We edged a few pawns forward. Darma's told us more in the past hour than she has in a year, whether she's aware of it or not. And Rasyc, at least, is gone."

"You know, I thought that might be the case," Ianto replies. "It seemed to be more answers from Darma than I've ever heard myself, but then again I've only been here for... Three months or so?" Has it really only been so long as that? It feels longer, but then again so many things have happened in between now and then. The coalition. The mission to transport the heart, and now this.

He takes in another breath, letting it out slowly before moving his other hand to cup Jim's between them. "But you're right. The dragon did solve at least one of our problems. Though it obviously created far more." He squeezes Jim's hand between his own. "And need to use this time to regroup. Recover. Speaking of which -- I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... Here I am going on like this and look at you, Jim. Your hand." Not this one, but he saw how awful your fingers look.

I've been here almost half a terran year Jim thinks, and it twists something in his gut. For someone so determined to be skeptical about the allegedly inescapable end brought on by the Storm, he's sure been fucking stuck here for a while.

Stuck here alone.

Jim shifts, his gaze drifting to his other hand, still perched awkwardly against his knee. Slowly, he flexes his fingers, unable to quite hide the grimace on his face. "Just broken bones," he says, for all the world looking like someone who's simply in pain, and not suddenly desperate to scream and hit something. He swallows it. "I can still move and feel everything."

(He tells himself it doesn't matter. He was isolated in his command position anyway. No one here understands or gives a shit about Federation values. It's fine. Everything is completely fine.)

"I just need a couple things looked at and a few days solid of sleep. I'll be okay."

Ianto winces and reaches out a hand to his wrist, his touch gentle but hopefully stilling the motion of him trying to flex those fingers, for the love of god stop trying to move those fingers it hurts him just to look at you.

If Jim were to ever talk to Ianto about these feelings, he'd be willing to listen. To understand. He knows what it is to feel alone. More than a lot of people, really. He's never been in command, of course, but he'd lost all of his friends and coworkers once before, and here it seems it's happened all over again. The fact that they're supposedly in a stasis pod somewhere is hardly a consolation if he'll never see them again. He may not understand the Federation, but he understands loneliness. (And he's there for you.)

"You had better be," Ianto says, firmly. "Just because the Natha don't let us die doesn't mean that those of us left behind don't suffer for it. This had better not be some attempt at machismo. I've already dealt with one fatal case of that today." He aims for his tone to be light but he isn't kidding about the suffering bit.

"What, you don't like a little machismo in you?" --Is a horrible line on the best of days, but Jim injecting forced sauciness into his voice when he a.) sounds like he's been gargling with sandpaper and b.) looks like a bear has been idly gnawing on him makes it terminally intolerable. At least he seems self-aware about it being terrible, as he sobers a heartbeat later, giving up even the deliberate pretense.

"I just know my limits, is all," he sighs. Granted he's been pushed, with this, but not as hard as he's been pushed before. Many times over.

A deadpan followup, "We'll just have to see how fun recovery is without the medical technology I'm used to."

It may be a terrible line but the fact that Jim's trying it in the first place earns Jim a wry snort from Ianto. He sounds terrible and he looks even worse, but the fact that he's still giving him lines like that must mean that he's in the clear. He's definitely looking rough, but he'll make a full recovery. Eventually.

Ianto smiles crookedly and squeezes Jim's good hand, tilting his head to the side slightly as he replies, "Well. If you find yourself in need of any nursing or other entertainment, you've got my number." Not that that's quite how the mobiles work anymore, he supposes, with phone numbers and the likes, but the point remains. Call him anytime you like, Jim. For any reason you want. He'll be good for it.

Sooner than eventually; the tech on Thesa is helpful, that way, and Jim has no prideful qualms about seeking medical attention. (In days of yore, he was stubborn, but you don't end up best friends with Leonard McCoy and keep habits like that.) That Ianto cares is touching, and Jim believes his offer is sincere. He seems like that kind of a guy.

"Thank you." Jim manages a smile, though it's tired. "If you need to fuss over somebody, let me know and I'll see what I can do."

Probably complain. But you know how it goes.

"What you can do now is help my busted ass up so we can find Claire." Or like, something, idk, she has him and his foot soup in another thread. Timelines.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

❪ event ❫ hour of ruin

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

wrap here probably?