first one to make that doctor who joke loses

[birdsbirdsbirds]

Who: Everyone! All of you!
Broadcast: Maybe!
Action: Definitely!
When: Anytime during the toxic moon event!

---

[boy oh boy, isn't everyone just so excited to explore this... charming... place...?

this is a game-wide mingle and the timeframe isn't super-important, so throw in with whatever you want! play war games, go shopping for gas masks, get lost in the wilderness, hide up in the Iskaulit and refuse to set foot on the moon, anything goes.

here's the main event info post for reference! have fun!]

Comments

[paraclete]

[Kaworu's looking down below. He's watching the sportsmen engage one another with paint and purpose. They're making the forest more colorful than its natural withering, and they're all full of intent, which is something to admire. Yet... as Kaworu watches, it's not the players who have his attention. It's...]

Hmmm.

[Shinji's not the only one who's thinking of this agonizing distance. It would take just a flick of the wrist for Kaworu to be able to touch Shinji's skin. Refraining is like resisting a magnetic pull — Kaworu feels like he actually has to strain to keep away. That's his own fault, though. It's his own damn fault for going too far. Ever since it happened, it's all he can think about. Focusing on Shinji has rarely made Kaworu feel so poorly, and it's affecting the warmth of their friendship, which is the worst part. If the rallying gunfire makes Shinji cringe in his anxiety, Kaworu wants to settle a reassuring hand at his back, his shoulder, his hair, his face. Anything. Comfort him, he thinks, irritated with himself. But his cowardice is the setting sun; Kaworu can't bloom in the dark like this.

But, because of the same selfishness that led to this distance between them in the first place, Kaworu will take being humiliated in Shinji's presence over being cold and estranged. And he's still smiling thoughtfully, because he doesn't want to make more of a mess than he already has.]

Both sides really want to win. They're doing everything they can. From what I can tell, neither is going to give up. In that case...

Probably, it'll be whoever's the first to make a mistake.

[He must never get tired of giving answers-that-aren't.]

I know that winning is the goal, but I empathize with the team that's fated to lose...

[The magnetism is getting worse. His eyes are on the scurry of shooters below, but that doesn't matter; the sight of them barely registers. It's all about the warmth he's missing and the aftermath of his accident. Restless, he moves his fingertips against tree bark. On the ground, there's an altercation: three red players, two blue, all firing heavily as they meet in a clearing. Kaworu lifts his hand from the branch, thinking he'll rest it on Shinji's shoulder. Then he sets it back down. Yeah, cowardice. He's thinking more about how much he wants to kick himself than about who's shooting or getting shot.]

cw: violence & falling from heights.

[astrobleme]

[Shinji closes his eyes for just a moment.] I knew you'd say something like that, [he murmurs, and he's trying his best to sound indifferent, if not endeared. He doesn't want to sound bitter. He feels bitter on the inside--he feels very bitter to think of Kaworu and Asuka getting coffee--together--didn't even bother to invite their supposed loved one--god damn it, he shouldn't stalk Kaworu's network activity anymore. Shinji simply stayed on the Heron and obsessed over what else they might have said and promised to each other. It's almost like he's regressing, withdrawing, afraid of betrayal, even as he's stumbling forward at the first chance to be close to Kaworu.

He doesn't want this middle distance with all of its paranoia, jealousy, and mixed signals.]

I think second place still gets some prize money, so it won't be too bad for them...

[Down below, the three-on-two battle is intense and fraught, but it doesn't compare to the civil war inside Shinji's viscera. He watches Kaworu's hesitation and feels himself withering a little more. If he had just ignored that mention of kissing, things would still be okay. Things would be perfect. Nothing would have changed between him and his best friend.

He wants to know what Kaworu is thinking. He can't know what Kaworu is thinking until he asks. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. He stares at the side of Kaworu's face and he says,] Kaworu-kun, can I ask you a question? [Before he loses his nerve, he says,] What did I do wrong?

[Too late, he spots a streak of color out of the corner of his eye. It's bright red, the red of an emergency hologram, and then it collides with his face. Bright red paint splatters into his eyes and his hair like a spray of blood. The neon lights and glass tubules of his respirator shatter on impact. A second stray paintball hits him in the temple: a sharper blow. The force is so strong, so sudden, that he briefly loses consciousness. His entire body goes slack and off-balance. He can't even react before he's falling off of the branch.

It's a long way down. A very long way down to the ground. His vision returns as a burning mire; time seems to slow down, prolonging that agony. He strikes another branch on the way down. He's too overwhelmed to do more than-- Am I going to die? A half-dozen encounters with terrifying aliens, and he's going to die from falling out of a tree. There's something pitiful about that. The ultimate embarrassingly boring death. In death, he's the most prosaic he's ever been.

He lands on the tainted, hard-packed dirt with a sickening crack. The pain is blinding, breathtaking--and then it disappears into numbness. More than likely, he's broken something very important in his spine. The pain suddenly returns like a pendulum swing, and then disappears again. The pain careens back. It's gone. It surges back and it's gone, and then it digs into him and stays right there. He writhes and cries weakly on half a breath.

His face mask flickers once, twice, before deactivating.]

[paraclete]

[You've made a mistake, Kaworu thinks. Shinji is so burdened with sin — his own, and his family's, and those meant to care for him... And then there's the globe of Kaworu's own sins that curves across Shinji's shoulders. Such an artwork of bones could snap beneath all that. Once more, Kaworu's empties errors by the mouthful into a sea. Once more, he asks Shinji to keep treading water. Shinji is so burdened with sin and he thinks he's sinned again; he asks what he's done wrong. He thinks that any of this is his fault, as if he hasn't been punished greatly enough already. Kaworu wants to bury his face in his hands. You've made a mistake, he thinks.

Even as he shifts to meet Shinji's eyes, he's thinking of what he should say. 'Nothing,' or, 'It was me.' Maybe, 'It's all my fault.' Maybe, 'This is all my fault and I'm so sorry.' He could say, 'I'm so sorry that I've done this to you.' Or, 'I am so sorry that I'm like this.' But any of those choices are altogether lacking, not conveying enough of Kaworu's grief and dedication. Something is wrong with him, that he would posit himself as someone seeking atonement. He has no right to forgiveness when he's been so consistently terrible. He opens his mouth. He has to say something — he has to take at least this weight off of Shinji's back. He opens his mouth—

It's not blood. It's too neon to be blood, and it doesn't smell like lifegiving iron. But it bursts against Shinji's face with such violence that Kaworu can only envision a ruined body. There's no pause; there are too few seconds for Kaworu to say Shinji's name or take Shinji into his arms before Shinji is struck in the head. There's no pause before Shinji pitches out of the tree and toward the ground. With all the blood draining from his face quicker than spilled paint, Kaworu reaches out with his left hand, but doesn't even brush Shinji's shirt. His hand closes around polluted air, around another grievance. Where the fall is slow for Shinji, Kaworu perceives the event as just an instant long — Shinji is beside him, Shinji is tipping, Shinji is gone and too far away to help. By the time Kaworu has his bearings enough to fling himself out of the tree as well, Shinji has already smacked against another branch. When Kaworu's halo illuminates the paintball battlefield, Shinji is already strewn on the ground of the clearing. Just an instant, and time has rendered Kaworu completely powerless. He couldn't do anything. Shinji needed him, physically needed Kaworu's help, and Kaworu could only grasp at the air. Just an instant, and Shinji looks small and broken down on the forest floor.

The members of each team, blue or red or whatever, have paused their game to approach, ostensibly to check whether Shinji needs medical attention. 'Woah, shit,' they're saying, and, 'Oh, man, someone check on him—' But by now, Kaworu is only feet away from Shinji, and the first person who reaches out towards Shinji is met with the sudden deployment of Kaworu's A.T. Field. Ah. Now it's willing to protect Shinji. Kaworu bites his tongue hard, and derives no enjoyment from its hardiness. If his A.T. Field had been more precise — if his soul had been better at loving Shinji — then the paintball would have hit a wall, and they'd still be in the tree. Kaworu would be taking Shinji's hands. Kaworu would be scrambling to tell the truth, instead of trying to get his heart to stop rocketing. He'd come up with the proper words. If he could redo this, he'd come up with the words and he'd tell Shinji exactly what he needed to hear... But Kaworu's known for a long time that he can't redo anything. He can only find new paths. (Then, why do they all lead to the same place?)

Cowed by the A.T. Field, the players flinch back and scatter as Kaworu's halo disappears and he drops to the ground, knees hitting dirt. Even before he's fully positioned does he hold his hands out to touch Shinji.] Don't touch him, [Kaworu says loudly, and his voice is brittle, panicked. It isn't as strong as the wall of his soul.] He's— [All right, his mind provides. He's all right. He'll be all right. Kaworu is sweating and every part of him shakes. His body feels like a bell struck with a hammer.] Shinji-kun? Shinji-kun... [First he unlatches the ruined respirator and pulls it away from Shinji's face.] Ikari Shinji-kun, [he breathes, never mind the gross air, never mind the hysteria that splays through his voice like a pattern of veins. He smears some of the paint away from Shinji's forehead; but never mind that, either.] I let you think you've made a mistake. Shinji-kun, you didn't— you didn't do anything wrong. It was my own... It was me. [Kaworu's body feels as unfounded and wavering as the glimmer of a heat wave. His hands tremble that much, too, as he cups the back of Shinji's head, as he settles it atop his own thigh, while he kneels.] So please, [he says, nerves burned away in the face of his panic,] look at me and know that. It's fine if you know that it's my fault, as long as you look at me.

[astrobleme]

[Shinji's thoughts are confined to one lone boat in this sea of agony. He thinks about how he can't remember Kaworu ever sounding so breathless and afraid of something. Even when things fell apart inside Unit-13, Kaworu hadn't sounded like this, like he was about to lose everything for all time. Faced with death, Kaworu had so much dignity that he hadn't seemed human. Of course, he isn't human. He has hands like a human--they're careful--and eyes like a human--they're wide--and words like a human--they're shaking--but all of that's a part of what must be carefully crafted camouflage. None of the other Angels even came close to looking like a human boy.

The pain rolls over Shinji in waves, buffeting him repeatedly. He's just as much drenched in sweat and overheated. The center of his chest is boiling hot, which he doesn't understand, and he's even more confused when he manages to inhale. The pollution scathes his rib-skewered lungs so badly that he doesn't want to try again. He can hear Kaworu's words, but their meaning is muddled behind the awkward, unforgettable crunch of his bones realigning themselves. His body is literally pulling itself back together. He doesn't understand that, either. But he never needed to understand something to know that it's true.

He opens his eyes and looks up at Kaworu, if only because Kaworu is looking back down at him. His eyes are red, not blue. They have exactly the same eyes: blood-red, unnatural, awash with fear and desperation.] Kaworu... [The artificial paint is leaking into his eyes, but it isn't enough to make them useless. He doesn't have the breath to speak, but he manages to say,] Kaworu-kun? [He still isn't sure if he's dying or not. Of all the thoughts on that boat, he should be disgusted when he thinks, He's touching me. He's touching me again. He should be disgusted with himself. Instead, he's really relieved behind all the suffering of his bones and muscles.] H-- Hurts... [His eyes glimmer like distant stars.] It hurts, Kaworu-kun...

[paraclete]

[The mirror of Shinji's eyes cools Kaworu deeply. It's like lava pouring into a sea. There's incredible steam, a massive rush, a sigh from the earth. Kaworu sighs, too. He exhales heavily, seawater enveloping the gush of his volcanic terror, and bends, dipping his head low. With his hands at either side of Shinji's face, Kaworu touches his forehead to Shinji's. His superfluous organs are uncoiling. Shinji's eyes are always beautiful, but there's unrivaled relief in seeing them as they are now, burning bright with the promise of life. With this, Kaworu knows, it will be all right.

Against Shinji's jaw, Kaworu's fingers are beginning to tremble less. He lifts his head again, never mind the blotting of paint that now marks the fringe of his hair, and thumbs one of Shinji's cheeks gently. The adrenaline from feeling that unmitigated horror makes Kaworu feel like panting, but he doesn't take another breath. He keeps cradling Shinji's upper half, soft and vital as petals surrounding the eye of a flower. His throat feels dry and tight, but he tries to speak with water in his voice when he says,] You scared me, Shinji-kun. But you're going to be all right. [He can hear Shinji's body trying to align itself back with the reality of a human form. No other terrible thing has made him this happy.] I know it hurts. Soon, it won't hurt. Don't be afraid. You're going to be just fine.

[Of course it's regrettable for Shinji to be hurting, but Kaworu can at least cope with that. In life, pain happens. Better for Shinji to hurt and be living than to be numb in the confines of death. Kaworu understands. The Angels were hurting, too. They bled and suffered at Eva's hands, but in the end, they didn't survive like their own searing vitality meant for them to. But you're better than them, Kaworu thinks, moving his hand to stroke Shinji's hair. Eternal life is a beautiful thing and a better option when it's contained inside of Shinji.]

[astrobleme]

[The first of Shinji's hot, confused tears washes a path down his painted cheeks. He doesn't understand how Kaworu can be so calm and reassured when everything is going wrong. It's something he has always wanted for himself: a mind that doesn't buckle under pressure. He wants to be a piece of lonsdaleite, just impervious in every way. Not this delicate flesh. Not these tenuous bones. He tastes what must be blood and wishes he had anything but a heart that's so easily bruised and ripped open.

It feels like an eternity to him, but really it's less than a minute before his bodily integrity is restored. The red of his eyes quivers, then fades away, cycling through shades of purple to arrive at a mundane blue. He turns his head to the side and coughs weakly. He coughs again, and now he's coughing up blood, divorced from a wound that no longer exists. He inhales, then coughs again and again, alarmingly fierce compared to before. With the reality of a human form comes a set of lungs that haven't adapted to the moon's pollution.]

M-My mask--

[Despite surviving the long fall, despite how his pain is receding like a low tide, Shinji is outright terrified that he will suffocate here. He actually pushes himself upright, looking around for the mask, his panic a synonym for denial. The respirator isn't too far away, but it's a paint-covered ruin of plastic; it's pointless to reach for it. He turns to look at Kaworu, then, all fear and pleading, about to choke on an acrid whimper. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do.]