(general event mechanics note: all these dreams are intended to be the play along at home type, i.e. join the tableau and participate, so they're all also open to being mixed with others' dreams!! octavian will have already woken himself up but he's having a little adventure and will play in the space. just lmk if you have double dream ideas.)
this is what dreams are made of (OPEN. this is the silly one)
[You know how when you're dead for thirty years, and you don't sleep, the whole dreaming thing is kind of a non-starter? Right?
Well, during the time Octavian has access to his new temporary body, he doesn't like to sleep - feels like a waste of precious physical time - but if he does, the confused and still mostly dead bits of his psyche that can conjure dreams have only so many things to choose from. Fragments of his life, dominated by the end of it, or—his fondness for board games.
Welcome to Board Game Time, or: you are now metaphorically a game piece on a game board and the illustrations on said board have become the environment. Unfortunately, Octavian has recently become enamored with the Aldrip equivalent of Mouse Trap, and so this game-world is a cluttered mess of machinery pieces, cheese wheels for some reason, and the massive, awful contraption he himself is putting together. It definitely no longer looks like a fun machine that drops a plastic cage on a toy mouse, but what it does is a complete mystery.
To you. He knows. Probably. He's perched up fairly high on his tower of horrors, and reaches around to where he's stacked up some of those cheese wheels to grab one and push it into some kind of a chute? A slot? The noise of this cheese tumbling down the inside of the contraption is terrible. He leans away from the tower and calls down to you, dear visitor:]
Hello! What has become of my cheese?
[It's dealer's dream choice, that cheese could be unharmed, Very Harmed, morphed into a puppy or something, anything - it's dream logic and it's up to you. What has become of his cheese.]
do you like to dream baby (OPEN......2!! this is the one with lore)
[When you enter this dream you find yourself on the steps of an opulent home on a street of similarly opulent homes, if a little closer together than is strictly fire safe or totally necessary. If you have the time to turn around and look, the streets, a deep red, are clean, and every few houses a number of spindly trees grow beside the sidewalk inside protective - but fancy! - small fences. There's dust in the air but not too much, but as it settles enough large enough amounts it gives everything a reddish tinge.
Welcome to Mars. No time to think about that, though, as you have actually been holding down a doorbell this whole time, and the door has finally opened.]
What are you doing? Stop.
[That's Octavian at the door, eyebrows raised, reaching over to brush your hand away from the doorbell. Stop that at once. He's significantly alive down to an extra spot of color in his cheeks, in a sweater and slacks, and motions you inside to a sitting room full of solid mahogany furniture and expensive-looking decor; this is a rich family's house, for sure.
Currently the room is occupied by three people: a man who looks just like Octavian, only without the glasses and with a nicer haircut; a slightly younger man with reddish hair and a nervous twitch to him that could be another brother, perhaps? a cousin?; and a tall, sedate man standing in the corner, facing the wall, unmoving. The other two are having a pleasant chat about nothing at all. The man who looks like Octavian pauses to pat at his sleeve, which has started to smoke.
Octavian, who now sports a rather gruesome head injury, flicks a drop of blood off his forehead as he takes in the scene.]
This is not how it happens. Obviously. Of course. But I like to pretend. Would you like a canapé?
la creatura about town (still OPEN, not explicitly dreamshare-related)
this one cut for length since it's not a dream✨✨✨
[Or: since Octavian has a body now, sort of, kind of, more or less, he's taking it for controlled runs (not literally running, ew) around the city. When you see him around, it's obvious immediately that he's a solid person now, and his feet touch the ground, and he's very much moving a big flesh body around instead of ghostly drifting—emphasis "moving a big flesh body."
You see, there's something off about the way his temporary body moves; it's pretty convincing, but in the way that a really detailed animatronic is convincing at a theme park, a little bit uncanny. Some of his movements seem too loose and fluid, others the opposite: too rigid and abrupt. He's not had one of these for a long time, see, and it takes some getting used to again. That and the body itself doesn't have, you know... all the right things inside... a nonzero amount of his movement is how he consciously remembers moving around while alive, not automatic signals from a proper brain to a muscle and so on.
So he looks a little weird, is the thing. He's always going to look a little weird, and he's completely fine with that. However, he's also a little, hm, manic? The body has a time limit, and he wants to maximize how much he can get done before it breaks down and he has to wait a bit to summon it again.
Hence: Activities! He can be found doing the following:
Sampling Local Cuisine, that is, going to as many establishments as will tolerate him and trying to bum free samples. He is, of course, still broke, so sniffing around for generous samplings and maybe a day-old here and there is his plan. It's fine, he doesn't even know if this new body has a discerning palate yet... Catch him doing this and take pity on him or catch him trying to convince a restauranteur to give him a discount (read: free food) Because He Asked. This will be done with zero charisma unless his weird smile and flat jokes are particularly appealing.
Just Being Outdoors, a remarkable thing to experience when you have nerve endings and the vague suggestion of real lungs. Periodically whilst wandering Octavian simply stops in the street to absorb the atmosphere, the sounds, the air, all of it. He is especially enamored with the sunlight, standing with his face turned up to what scant winter sun he can get, looking incredibly pleased with it, eyes closed. He'll crack one open if someone approaches or passes close enough, suddenly saying,] Do you feel it? Is it not remarkable? The bite and the sting. The radiance.
[it's fucking effervescent out here babes]
[He might also be Just Moving Around, perhaps seeing what crates left out in in front of buildings he can climb (he is not a physically well person even solid, so this is an herculean task), running his fingers along every available surface, walking over different ground to hear it make different noise—at one point he even decides to lock his hands around a lamppost and just... spin for a moment. Wowza.
So, he's around. He has absolutely no regard for how strange or in the way any of this appears. Join him or don't! Cowards!]
misc/wildcard
[dreemz... special features for murder, robbery, and just chilling if you want a more direct memshare type thing, just lmk! otherwise dream logic to your heart's content. pm me or hmu at jojoveller if you need me.]
[This dream episode begins with opening a door, heavy and wooden and carved with delicate patterns, into a workshop room full of different alchemical instruments and tables and shelves and tools and half-finished projects— a hobby space, it feels like, for its relative cramped size and overall disorganization. This is a workshop hobby room in a home, not a professional workspace.
Octavian is there, perched on a stool, back to the door, tinkering with something on one of the work counters. He pauses when he hears the door open but doesn't turn, saying,] Come to argue about it again? I am not changing my mind, you know.
[He's faintly amused when he says it, which feels weird and sick and heavy with dread. Then the view seems to skip and puts Charles standing closer to Octavian, a hefty weight in hand, lifting it higher—
Then the proper Octavian leans in from the side to press a fingertip to Charles' temple, mutters,] No, I would prefer not to, [and the view skips again, and now the Octavian on the stool is the ghost Charles knows, and the body on the floor is already dead; head cracked and misshapen on one side, hair matted, the pool of blood already sticky and dark and still. Octavian on the stool swings his foot, idly, considering Charles.]
[ he doesn't know how he gets there. doesn't know why he's opening a door instead of — something else, except what else could it be, doors are meant to be opened, after all. and octavian is there; of course he's there, where else should he be? he came here knowing he'd be here, didn't he —
except, no, it's all wrong, like there are vines wrapped around his limbs, squeezing him, trying to drag him down into something dark and unpleasant; he opens his mouth to say no, except the scene around him blurs, there's a weight in his hand and he's feeling nothing but cold, a passenger in this dream... at leas unless octavian's voice speaks close to his ear and the whole scene blurs once more.
only, it's not a better scene that unfolds in front of him, now: he looks from octavian on the stool to the body on the floor and feels utterly sick. ]
Not your fault, [ he manages eventually, voice hoarse. ]
[So in an objective sense this is his fault, he thinks. He feels bad about it in his unique way, that is, only because Charles is the one who'd been forced to experience it. Charles is soft, and Octavian likes him very much, and Charles knows the most details of Octavian's death out of everyone in this world— so to have it be Charles specifically who is forced to see this, to embody Hiram in this moment?
Cruel, actually. The thing running this place trying to learn about humanity or whatever it's doing should take note: this is callous at best. Octavian shakes his head, gestures for Charles to come over here, away from the body.]
Come see what I was working on. Looking at my body will only upset you.
Yeah, and you didn't force me to come here, did you?
[ he may not know much of how these things work, here, but he knows that much — octavian would never hurt him, would never have shown him this if it had been up to him. which means it isn't, which means charles has stumbled on this all on his own, which means, ]
Sorry, [ he says quietly, despondently, with a breath that catches in his chest like he's not forgotten how it feels to breathe. he takes one step, then another, glances down at the body once more; entirely of his own will, this time, as if committing it to memory, regardless of how much it hurts. ] It should.
[ it should upset him — of course it should upset him. but someone needs to remember. it's an injustice, and it's wrong, and unfair, and if no one else aside from octavian is going to know that in this place, then he will.
with a soft sigh, he closes his eyes and turns to the ghostly octavian, walks over to him. ] So, what is it, then?
[And that's that, really. No, he would not have done this to Charles on purpose; no, he would especially not have put Charles in that particular point of view— but he is still here, and Octavian could have been more vigilant. Now Charles is making his forlorn face at the body on the floor, and Octavian wishes he wouldn't for how much it visibly stings him, but he doesn't drag him away from the sight.
It is and odd feeling, to be in this space right now, at this "time," with another person here as witness. Of course it would be Charles; that only makes sense, now that they've both appeared in here.
He still spins back to the workbench with a little pep, to motion for Charles to look at a half-finished contraption lying there next to some miscellaneous tools. Right now it's a lot of gears and copper wires bent into vague shapes, a thing that's intended to move one day but for now will sit here on this desk.]
A music box. [He leans down to peer more closely at it, squinting, then taps a finger against one of the bent-wire pieces.] This part was going to spin.
[You've had this dream before. Strange and impossible, to dream of one's own death, but in this different world where death means so little, it would be inevitable—to dwell a little. Of course, anyone would think about their own death, if they were able to.
So the scene is familiar: the room and the dim light, the table strewn with all kinds of clutter and sundry, the lab equipment. You've been tinkering with a little metal contraption for an hour now, which is strange, given how your hands are bound, but sure enough there are the tools and the small machine sitting on the workbench in front of you. On the table, that is, with the dolls and the candles and the mess.
There's quiet there moments before it happens, before the argument explodes. He stands behind you, and you know without looking back that he's all stone face and crossed arms and tension, ready to start yelling at you again about his stupid, greedy ideas.
Then the argument, and all the shouting, and someone is missing this time but also everyone who should be here is right here, and when you reach for the gun—you don't reach for anything at all, you put your tools down on the workbench-table-bench-big-block-of-wood and you don't have time to turn around before she swings the vase, hefty and solid and thick plaster, it has gold flecks on it like a starburst, you know it, into the side of your head with a sickening crunch you hear more than feel.
From the floor, where you land, you can see his fine shoes step back from the advance of blood pooling out of your head, and you can hear her pleading in the small voice of a child, and if you intended to say anything, it comes out as a wet gurgle before the world turns out the light.
You know, the way you remember it happening.]
sorry for the delay, trying to figure out intermingling their deaths right off the bat
[Silco had seen his daughter's mental manifestations before. He had asked her to draw them, and their brightly coloured scratchy outlines had matured as her mental afflictions had progressed. Mostly, he knew that signs and symptoms of her having an episode where these apparitions would torment her.
He was tied in the chair at the opposite end of the miserably and gaudy tea party table from the source of annoyance. The Sister was also tied but unfortunately was able to open that big fat mouth and make everything worse just like her father. She kept talking and pushing Jinx, undoing all the work, all the coping mechanisms, breaking apart his daughter. The two arguments - his and Octavian - overlap, a confused melding of words spoken in one but now in the other.
He tried to control the situation, but he knew Jinx was too far gone, lost and alone with her own inner demons. He struggled in the ropes, twisting and violently shoving his body against the restraints. His hands stretched and strained until they closed on the pistol left strategically close to him. He lifted it, pulling the cocking mechanism as he swung around the pistol in a similar but opposite motion of the vase (his hand up, the vase down).
He pulled the trigger within a second of the gattling gun discharging and there was shock of pain as bullets tore through the chair first then his chest then the other side of the chair in a sweeping motion. He was forced back against the chair and his hands dropped down between his legs as shock registered over the pain, the chair swinging. The pistol clattered to the floor but with the sound of a body rather than a metal firearm.
His breath caught in his throat as his daughter came to him, his life bleeding out of him, spilling from his lips and his vision was already narrowing and darkening. She touched his face, forcing his focus on her. "I never would have given you them. Not for anything." His vision faded to unseeing, but he could see her in his mind's eye. "Don't cry. You're perfect." He meant to say more, meant to comfort her further but his heart skipped and trembled as his chest filled with blood and his chin instead settled against his chest as his consciousness permanently faded.]
[Voices and sounds that shouldn't be there, too many people, the wrong kind of pain— and is that gunfire? Octavian lies under the table in a sticky puddle, more aware than he'd expected to be after having his head caved in. He listens, he waits; his murderer's fine shoes carry him away, everything feels swimmy and disconnected again, and he isn't sure how long he lies there before the young women have apparently also gone.
He was never sure how long he'd laid there before leaving his body behind that first time, either, so at least that much is proceeding how it should. Inevitably he lifts himself up, although with a grunt this time, as the whole of his body entire comes with, and he is bloody from the waist up, a gruesome thing to look at, and also:
his head hits the underside of the table, which feels like an insult to injury. He mutters something and drags himself out further, looking around at what is and is not his murderer's private workshop, the stool he'd sat on flickering into the shape of a chair and back again. All of it seems to flicker from his perspective; all that remains strangely solid is the shape of the man slumped in the chair. That's wrong; he was not killed with any witnesses or, hm, companions. Octavian hauls himself to his feet, hands bracing on the table-bench-whatever. He coughs, wetly.]
Wrong, [he says, and then, to the still shape of Silco over there,] Can you hear me over there? Call on your ambitions to open your eyes.
[That was the end of it, the passing of his life, and the full circle downfall of all of his ambitions. Yet, why did he perceive footfalls walking away? There was someone hauling themselves back up by a work table except that work table doubled as the long table with Jinx's effects and characters for the tea party.
His shoulders twitched at the sudden words, not Jinx or the sister or the enforcer. A different voice, a male voice, and who would that be interrupting this final moment of his? Jinx had risen from in front of him, choosing her position finally and seating herself.
Slowly he lifted his head from where his chin had come to rest on chest. He set his hands to the arms of the chair and pushed himself out of it, dragging himself from the corpse that he had once inhabited. He stood, turning to look for the voice and spotting an odd amalgamation of the scenes. A work shop and a burnt out cannery.
He wiped blood from his chin with the back of his hand, turning to look at his own body. Such a morbid scene. ]
What are you doing here? [He noted the puddle of blood that in no way came from him.] We're both dead then. I see.... [Did he, though?]
Dying, [Octavian says, to answer what he's doing, even as Silco continues with his observation. Yes, they both appear to be dead, not that Octavian finds it very surprising. Silco had danced around it in their prior conversation, but assuming they were both in fact very dead didn't seem too far off. And now... well.
They've learned. Maybe. The whole room is a strange, overlapping mess, but at least a handful of details seem consistent and solid compared to the others.
Octavian touches his face and frowns down at how bloody his hand comes away; he wipes his cleaner sleeve over his cheek and really just makes the whole look worse, but at least he isn't dripping.]
Very nostalgic. [A beat; his death and its circumstances have always made him angry, but his vague awareness of Silco's conversation just now makes him wonder if they have that in common, too. Hm,] How do you feel?
[ Root in her dreams is being constantly pursued by Samaritan agents. Of course she's holding down the doorbell annoyingly until someone opens the door, and maybe she knew this was the house of a friend of hers and maybe she didn't, but it's going to be safer than being out on the street. She's dressed all in black and has two pistols tucked into her waistband and a tactical shotgun in both hands, and she's breathing heavily, focused with laser-sharp precision on where she is and what she's doing.
She needs to stay present or she'll start thinking about what's happening to Shaw, and she can't, she can't, that's not going to help her get out of this situation and it won't help Shaw, either.
Root ducks in immediately when Octavian ushers her in, a harried, hunted air about her. It makes complete sense that he would be bleeding profusely. She grabs his arm roughly with one hand. ]
Sorry, no time for snacks. I can't stay here -- I'm putting you and your family in danger. This is them, right?
[ Despite the urgency of the situation, Root can't help but pry for information. ]
[Root's appearance doesn't mesh with the rest of this bizarre dinner party, sure, but Octavian remains unflappable as always; he's since woken himself up and come back here by choice, after all. This is intentional, much as he lacks control over the minor details. When she grabs his arm he doesn't react beyond a blink, and a brief wave to the two who've paused their conversation to look over in concern.
Problematically, she wants him to leave, and he would prefer not to. The blood in his hair drips onto his nice sweater.]
Yes. Mostly. Not... oh. He has gone. [The man who'd stood in the corner, although not for very long, as he appears quite suddenly on Octavian's other side to take hold of his free arm in turn. Octavian makes a face.] Not him.
[ Root is very far from realizing she's in a dream; everything feels sharp, acute, like it's digging at her and burrowing under her skin and she needs to do something.
Her gaze sweeps to the man holding onto Octavian's other arm and turns flinty. She lets go of him in order to put both hands back on the shotgun, grip going smooth and loose in readiness. ]
Wait. Is this who hurt you?
[ She's getting distracted, because someone she likes is injured in front of her and she doesn't know who this is manhandling him. Root has a massive streak of protectiveness and it's a violent one, unhesitating and unflinching to take action. She will absolutely blast this man's face off with a shotgun if Octavian needs her to. ]
[Oh, she's going for the gun, alright. This deters the taller man not at all; he doesn't even flinch. Octavian doesn't look at him again but plucks at the man's fingers on his arm, peevishly, while he looks at Root instead.]
Hiram. And just the once. [And that isn't an excuse he's making, or anything like that. It was just the one time, and then he was dead, so it wasn't going to happen any further. He isn't sure Root is aware of reality enough right now to pick up on the nuance, but that's fine - she has a shotgun, and he has a not insignificant desire to see her use it.
Just for fun. But, with a glance at the other two,] Not in front of my family. Let me show you the kitchen.
[Hiram is far less opposed to Octavian walking further into the house, after all. The kitchen.]
[ Just the once is enough. She knows Octavian is dead and she knows he'd never felt he'd gotten justice for how it happened. Root doesn't know the details, but her innate sense of loyalty means she doesn't feel she needs to know; if Octavian tells her to shoot someone, she'll shoot, no questions asked. That being said, not in front of my family is a very reasonable request, and hey, she's not an animal. Root knows how normal society works even if she elects to not participate it.
She follows Octavian to the kitchen and checks the safety on the shotgun, slipping it over her shoulder on the carrying strap. No accidental discharges here. ]
That wasn't a no, [ she points out, alert and on edge, scanning the windows and doors to build a mental model of the room in case a Samaritan agent tracks her here. ] You need me to shoot anyone for you, Tavvie? I can make a little pit stop while I'm on the run.
[ It's a completely genuine offer. Root is in fight or flight mode and she's happy to flip the switch at any point. ]
[ the dreams are a marvel. different worlds, times, places, all opening up in front of him like a story made real, almost as real as the simulation they've all been placed in. viktor cares little for the memories they hold; instead, he walks from a cobbled street to a beach to a spaceship to here, these deep red streets, eyes wide with genuine wonder.
in his hand, no, under his arm, is his crutch — no, it's a cane, it's a staff, all metal and twisted and beautiful —
and by his side, a large, pinkish-purple creature vaguely resembling a giant axolotl skitters about, sniffs the ground, coughs and makes a dust cloud of red puff up around her. she has been sticking close to him ever since he gained lucidity; but now, she takes off, all of a sudden, until she's made her way to a door, her nose gently pressing on a doorbell.
viktor makes a disapproving noise as he follows. ] No, [ he says, ] We do not want to disturb anyone here. Stop that —
[ except the door opens to a familiar face, and it is not a hand octavian will brush away from the doorbell but the face of this strange creature. viktor, now leaning on a cane and walking with less difficulty than usual despite looking the exact same as ever, sighs as he walks up to the door himself. ]
I apologise for her. [ but octavian is motioning for him to come in, and he finds he would in fact like to do that, instead of continuing to explore mars — which is not very common for him, choosing a family gathering over gathering knowledge... and yet refusing to come in does not even cross his mind.
(well, no, that's a lie. it does, but only very briefly.) ]
[Ah, it's Viktor, Octavian likes Viktor— he's even more inclined to get him inside and wave finger foods at him, but first,] Who is this?
[This big pink lady shuffling into the house, hello? Octavian bends at the waist to peer at Rio, as there is absolutely nothing like her on this whole planet. Too dry, if he had to guess? He's not an expert on fauna by any means, but she looks like a creature that would enjoy water. Should he run a bath, he wonders...
He has a hand already reached out to touch her head when he glances up at Viktor, aha,] My brother's house. I stayed here often.
[At "my brother's," the man who looks like Octavian turns toward the two of them and raises a glass in greeting, before turning back to his conversation. The conversation is lively, there's the faint noise in another room of what sounds like, of all things, a hammer and chisel (Sterling's wife, a sculptor, but Octavian had barely known her), the man in the corner remains in the corner.
A normal family gathering. Tell him about the big animal. He is waiting expectantly.]
Rio, [ comes his succinct answer, though he does offer a few more words as he watches the mutation fondly, ] I used to know her, when I was a child.
[ that she is here now is a sort of painful nostalgia — he remembers her still, in one of those tanks, forever in suspension, surrounded by green liquid; he supposes his subconscious is trying to drown out that memory with her here, alive, sweet as she had ever been. sweet enough to nudge her head up into octavian's hand, too, making a little skittering noise.
he makes a little noise, too, not quite an oh as octavian speaks of his brother and said brother takes the moment to raise his glass at viktor, who inclines his head in return a little awkwardly. he's never done great with family gatherings, has avoided any and all ever since his parents' passing, and so he glances around and says, ]
[She's quite possibly the biggest animal Octavian has ever seen—Mars is not exactly known for its megafauna, or anything like that. He makes a surprised, sputtery kind of noise when she bumps into his hand that isn't quite a laugh. Honestly he probably made this same noise about the cats that other time, so congratulations to Rio, classified now as "large hairless cat" in his mental bestiary.]
No, this is fine, [he says, glancing over at the conversation. Strange as this tableau is, with the flickering suggestions of disaster and the impossibility of it all, Octavian regards it like a precious thing suspended in amber—even the prick in the corner, who can just stay over there. Viktor needn't participate and frankly, Octavian needn't participate either; he could stand here and just watch for hours, if he had the time.
Ah. But Viktor is not as enamored with staring at this, he realizes after a long beat. That makes sense.]
[ the noise makes viktor chuckle under his breath, his lips quirking into a fond smile — it's not a laugh, no, but it's still very cute.
cute in a different way is how octavian looks at his family; by now, viktor feels is somewhat adept in reading his friend's moods, and the way he watches the arrangement of family in front of him is like he is painting the scene in his memory, a solemn kind of nostalgia, not unlike rio's presence with viktor.
and though with someone else — no, with most others, he has never had much success in lying to himself — he might agree instantly, take the chance to be elsewhere than where he obviously does not belong... but he shakes his head, just a little. ] No, I — [ he has to turn his head, then, cough into his fist as even in this dream his body seeks to betray him; it doesn't last long, luckily, and he tries again. ]
No, not yet. I would like to see it, you are correct... but tell me of them, first?
[ he wants to know, he realises then; he isn't saying it as a courtesy, as much as he's disinclined towards that in general, but rather because he looks at octavian's family and is confronted by his lack of knowledge about them, and he would like to know. ]
[ This dream sure is something. Shigeru doesn't think he's ever been dragged into a board game dream before?! But it looks quite fun and Shigeru waits in anticipation for that cheese to come down the shoot?! It turns into, well, a mouse made of cheese but it's surprisingly cute??
Shigeru will look delighted regardless. He will pause and blink looking back up at the other. ] Um!! It turned into a mouse...made out of cheese?
[Octavian leans— and leans and leans, to try and see all the way down to this alleged cheese mouse. He's probably leaning too far out from his perch than is wise, but this isn't real, so does it matter? This is fine.]
Is it a living mouse made out of cheese? How large is it?
[ The mouse sure is alive as it looks back at Shigeru with eyes made out of...olives and whiskers made of breadsticks. It'll give a little squeak as it moves closer to Shigeru who lets out a soft huffed laugh. ] It's...kind of big f-for a mouse, I guess? It's surprisingly cute too. Oh! But the size, r-right! It's um the size of a small cat??
[ Giant cheese mouse Shigeru has only known you for like five minutes, but if anything happened to it, he would kill everyone in this dream and then himself!! ]
Do you think we should give it a name? [ Just a thought as he looks back up towards Octavian. ]
You may name it if you like. Hold onto it for a moment.
[He disappears from view for a good long beat, only to reappear trying to scoot-shimmy down a pole on the side of this big contraption. He's in a tidy sweater vest with a crisp shirt and slacks, so he looks like he's heading for a lecture hall and not at all athletic enough to be shimmying down this thing.
But he makes it to the ground without falling, and crouches down to look at the bottom of the machine first. Hmm!]
I did not expect a live mouse. It was supposed to shred.
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expiationlogs2025-01-13 12:39 pm
octavian | original
this is what dreams are made of (OPEN. this is the silly one)do you like to dream baby (OPEN......2!! this is the one with lore)la creatura about town (still OPEN, not explicitly dreamshare-related)misc/wildcard
special adventure for charles
Octavian is there, perched on a stool, back to the door, tinkering with something on one of the work counters. He pauses when he hears the door open but doesn't turn, saying,] Come to argue about it again? I am not changing my mind, you know.
[He's faintly amused when he says it, which feels weird and sick and heavy with dread. Then the view seems to skip and puts Charles standing closer to Octavian, a hefty weight in hand, lifting it higher—
Then the proper Octavian leans in from the side to press a fingertip to Charles' temple, mutters,] No, I would prefer not to, [and the view skips again, and now the Octavian on the stool is the ghost Charles knows, and the body on the floor is already dead; head cracked and misshapen on one side, hair matted, the pool of blood already sticky and dark and still. Octavian on the stool swings his foot, idly, considering Charles.]
Hello. Sorry about that.
slides here
except, no, it's all wrong, like there are vines wrapped around his limbs, squeezing him, trying to drag him down into something dark and unpleasant; he opens his mouth to say no, except the scene around him blurs, there's a weight in his hand and he's feeling nothing but cold, a passenger in this dream... at leas unless octavian's voice speaks close to his ear and the whole scene blurs once more.
only, it's not a better scene that unfolds in front of him, now: he looks from octavian on the stool to the body on the floor and feels utterly sick. ]
Not your fault, [ he manages eventually, voice hoarse. ]
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[So in an objective sense this is his fault, he thinks. He feels bad about it in his unique way, that is, only because Charles is the one who'd been forced to experience it. Charles is soft, and Octavian likes him very much, and Charles knows the most details of Octavian's death out of everyone in this world— so to have it be Charles specifically who is forced to see this, to embody Hiram in this moment?
Cruel, actually. The thing running this place trying to learn about humanity or whatever it's doing should take note: this is callous at best. Octavian shakes his head, gestures for Charles to come over here, away from the body.]
Come see what I was working on. Looking at my body will only upset you.
[Well, uh, more. Point being, come here.]
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[ he may not know much of how these things work, here, but he knows that much — octavian would never hurt him, would never have shown him this if it had been up to him. which means it isn't, which means charles has stumbled on this all on his own, which means, ]
Sorry, [ he says quietly, despondently, with a breath that catches in his chest like he's not forgotten how it feels to breathe. he takes one step, then another, glances down at the body once more; entirely of his own will, this time, as if committing it to memory, regardless of how much it hurts. ] It should.
[ it should upset him — of course it should upset him. but someone needs to remember. it's an injustice, and it's wrong, and unfair, and if no one else aside from octavian is going to know that in this place, then he will.
with a soft sigh, he closes his eyes and turns to the ghostly octavian, walks over to him. ] So, what is it, then?
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[And that's that, really. No, he would not have done this to Charles on purpose; no, he would especially not have put Charles in that particular point of view— but he is still here, and Octavian could have been more vigilant. Now Charles is making his forlorn face at the body on the floor, and Octavian wishes he wouldn't for how much it visibly stings him, but he doesn't drag him away from the sight.
It is and odd feeling, to be in this space right now, at this "time," with another person here as witness. Of course it would be Charles; that only makes sense, now that they've both appeared in here.
He still spins back to the workbench with a little pep, to motion for Charles to look at a half-finished contraption lying there next to some miscellaneous tools. Right now it's a lot of gears and copper wires bent into vague shapes, a thing that's intended to move one day but for now will sit here on this desk.]
A music box. [He leans down to peer more closely at it, squinting, then taps a finger against one of the bent-wire pieces.] This part was going to spin.
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giving this one a 🎀
2 dead old guys (for silco)
So the scene is familiar: the room and the dim light, the table strewn with all kinds of clutter and sundry, the lab equipment. You've been tinkering with a little metal contraption for an hour now, which is strange, given how your hands are bound, but sure enough there are the tools and the small machine sitting on the workbench in front of you. On the table, that is, with the dolls and the candles and the mess.
There's quiet there moments before it happens, before the argument explodes. He stands behind you, and you know without looking back that he's all stone face and crossed arms and tension, ready to start yelling at you again about his stupid, greedy ideas.
Then the argument, and all the shouting, and someone is missing this time but also everyone who should be here is right here, and when you reach for the gun—you don't reach for anything at all, you put your tools down on the workbench-table-bench-big-block-of-wood and you don't have time to turn around before she swings the vase, hefty and solid and thick plaster, it has gold flecks on it like a starburst, you know it, into the side of your head with a sickening crunch you hear more than feel.
From the floor, where you land, you can see his fine shoes step back from the advance of blood pooling out of your head, and you can hear her pleading in the small voice of a child, and if you intended to say anything, it comes out as a wet gurgle before the world turns out the light.
You know, the way you remember it happening.]
sorry for the delay, trying to figure out intermingling their deaths right off the bat
He was tied in the chair at the opposite end of the miserably and gaudy tea party table from the source of annoyance. The Sister was also tied but unfortunately was able to open that big fat mouth and make everything worse just like her father. She kept talking and pushing Jinx, undoing all the work, all the coping mechanisms, breaking apart his daughter. The two arguments - his and Octavian - overlap, a confused melding of words spoken in one but now in the other.
He tried to control the situation, but he knew Jinx was too far gone, lost and alone with her own inner demons. He struggled in the ropes, twisting and violently shoving his body against the restraints. His hands stretched and strained until they closed on the pistol left strategically close to him. He lifted it, pulling the cocking mechanism as he swung around the pistol in a similar but opposite motion of the vase (his hand up, the vase down).
He pulled the trigger within a second of the gattling gun discharging and there was shock of pain as bullets tore through the chair first then his chest then the other side of the chair in a sweeping motion. He was forced back against the chair and his hands dropped down between his legs as shock registered over the pain, the chair swinging. The pistol clattered to the floor but with the sound of a body rather than a metal firearm.
His breath caught in his throat as his daughter came to him, his life bleeding out of him, spilling from his lips and his vision was already narrowing and darkening. She touched his face, forcing his focus on her. "I never would have given you them. Not for anything." His vision faded to unseeing, but he could see her in his mind's eye. "Don't cry. You're perfect." He meant to say more, meant to comfort her further but his heart skipped and trembled as his chest filled with blood and his chin instead settled against his chest as his consciousness permanently faded.]
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He was never sure how long he'd laid there before leaving his body behind that first time, either, so at least that much is proceeding how it should. Inevitably he lifts himself up, although with a grunt this time, as the whole of his body entire comes with, and he is bloody from the waist up, a gruesome thing to look at, and also:
his head hits the underside of the table, which feels like an insult to injury. He mutters something and drags himself out further, looking around at what is and is not his murderer's private workshop, the stool he'd sat on flickering into the shape of a chair and back again. All of it seems to flicker from his perspective; all that remains strangely solid is the shape of the man slumped in the chair. That's wrong; he was not killed with any witnesses or, hm, companions. Octavian hauls himself to his feet, hands bracing on the table-bench-whatever. He coughs, wetly.]
Wrong, [he says, and then, to the still shape of Silco over there,] Can you hear me over there? Call on your ambitions to open your eyes.
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His shoulders twitched at the sudden words, not Jinx or the sister or the enforcer. A different voice, a male voice, and who would that be interrupting this final moment of his? Jinx had risen from in front of him, choosing her position finally and seating herself.
Slowly he lifted his head from where his chin had come to rest on chest. He set his hands to the arms of the chair and pushed himself out of it, dragging himself from the corpse that he had once inhabited. He stood, turning to look for the voice and spotting an odd amalgamation of the scenes. A work shop and a burnt out cannery.
He wiped blood from his chin with the back of his hand, turning to look at his own body. Such a morbid scene. ]
What are you doing here? [He noted the puddle of blood that in no way came from him.] We're both dead then. I see.... [Did he, though?]
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They've learned. Maybe. The whole room is a strange, overlapping mess, but at least a handful of details seem consistent and solid compared to the others.
Octavian touches his face and frowns down at how bloody his hand comes away; he wipes his cleaner sleeve over his cheek and really just makes the whole look worse, but at least he isn't dripping.]
Very nostalgic. [A beat; his death and its circumstances have always made him angry, but his vague awareness of Silco's conversation just now makes him wonder if they have that in common, too. Hm,] How do you feel?
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2 for LORE also Root is sentenced to be super bought into and intense about dreams you're welcome
She needs to stay present or she'll start thinking about what's happening to Shaw, and she can't, she can't, that's not going to help her get out of this situation and it won't help Shaw, either.
Root ducks in immediately when Octavian ushers her in, a harried, hunted air about her. It makes complete sense that he would be bleeding profusely. She grabs his arm roughly with one hand. ]
Sorry, no time for snacks. I can't stay here -- I'm putting you and your family in danger. This is them, right?
[ Despite the urgency of the situation, Root can't help but pry for information. ]
oh boy
Problematically, she wants him to leave, and he would prefer not to. The blood in his hair drips onto his nice sweater.]
Yes. Mostly. Not... oh. He has gone. [The man who'd stood in the corner, although not for very long, as he appears quite suddenly on Octavian's other side to take hold of his free arm in turn. Octavian makes a face.] Not him.
[But hold on, hold on,] What is the danger?
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Her gaze sweeps to the man holding onto Octavian's other arm and turns flinty. She lets go of him in order to put both hands back on the shotgun, grip going smooth and loose in readiness. ]
Wait. Is this who hurt you?
[ She's getting distracted, because someone she likes is injured in front of her and she doesn't know who this is manhandling him. Root has a massive streak of protectiveness and it's a violent one, unhesitating and unflinching to take action. She will absolutely blast this man's face off with a shotgun if Octavian needs her to. ]
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Hiram. And just the once. [And that isn't an excuse he's making, or anything like that. It was just the one time, and then he was dead, so it wasn't going to happen any further. He isn't sure Root is aware of reality enough right now to pick up on the nuance, but that's fine - she has a shotgun, and he has a not insignificant desire to see her use it.
Just for fun. But, with a glance at the other two,] Not in front of my family. Let me show you the kitchen.
[Hiram is far less opposed to Octavian walking further into the house, after all. The kitchen.]
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She follows Octavian to the kitchen and checks the safety on the shotgun, slipping it over her shoulder on the carrying strap. No accidental discharges here. ]
That wasn't a no, [ she points out, alert and on edge, scanning the windows and doors to build a mental model of the room in case a Samaritan agent tracks her here. ] You need me to shoot anyone for you, Tavvie? I can make a little pit stop while I'm on the run.
[ It's a completely genuine offer. Root is in fight or flight mode and she's happy to flip the switch at any point. ]
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holds out my hands for lore; half that and half wildcard
in his hand, no, under his arm, is his crutch — no, it's a cane, it's a staff, all metal and twisted and beautiful —
and by his side, a large, pinkish-purple creature vaguely resembling a giant axolotl skitters about, sniffs the ground, coughs and makes a dust cloud of red puff up around her. she has been sticking close to him ever since he gained lucidity; but now, she takes off, all of a sudden, until she's made her way to a door, her nose gently pressing on a doorbell.
viktor makes a disapproving noise as he follows. ] No, [ he says, ] We do not want to disturb anyone here. Stop that —
[ except the door opens to a familiar face, and it is not a hand octavian will brush away from the doorbell but the face of this strange creature. viktor, now leaning on a cane and walking with less difficulty than usual despite looking the exact same as ever, sighs as he walks up to the door himself. ]
I apologise for her. [ but octavian is motioning for him to come in, and he finds he would in fact like to do that, instead of continuing to explore mars — which is not very common for him, choosing a family gathering over gathering knowledge... and yet refusing to come in does not even cross his mind.
(well, no, that's a lie. it does, but only very briefly.) ]
This is your house?
scoops up some lore for u
[This big pink lady shuffling into the house, hello? Octavian bends at the waist to peer at Rio, as there is absolutely nothing like her on this whole planet. Too dry, if he had to guess? He's not an expert on fauna by any means, but she looks like a creature that would enjoy water. Should he run a bath, he wonders...
He has a hand already reached out to touch her head when he glances up at Viktor, aha,] My brother's house. I stayed here often.
[At "my brother's," the man who looks like Octavian turns toward the two of them and raises a glass in greeting, before turning back to his conversation. The conversation is lively, there's the faint noise in another room of what sounds like, of all things, a hammer and chisel (Sterling's wife, a sculptor, but Octavian had barely known her), the man in the corner remains in the corner.
A normal family gathering. Tell him about the big animal. He is waiting expectantly.]
oh perfect
[ that she is here now is a sort of painful nostalgia — he remembers her still, in one of those tanks, forever in suspension, surrounded by green liquid; he supposes his subconscious is trying to drown out that memory with her here, alive, sweet as she had ever been. sweet enough to nudge her head up into octavian's hand, too, making a little skittering noise.
he makes a little noise, too, not quite an oh as octavian speaks of his brother and said brother takes the moment to raise his glass at viktor, who inclines his head in return a little awkwardly. he's never done great with family gatherings, has avoided any and all ever since his parents' passing, and so he glances around and says, ]
We are intruding, no?
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No, this is fine, [he says, glancing over at the conversation. Strange as this tableau is, with the flickering suggestions of disaster and the impossibility of it all, Octavian regards it like a precious thing suspended in amber—even the prick in the corner, who can just stay over there. Viktor needn't participate and frankly, Octavian needn't participate either; he could stand here and just watch for hours, if he had the time.
Ah. But Viktor is not as enamored with staring at this, he realizes after a long beat. That makes sense.]
Unless you would like to see the town instead.
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cute in a different way is how octavian looks at his family; by now, viktor feels is somewhat adept in reading his friend's moods, and the way he watches the arrangement of family in front of him is like he is painting the scene in his memory, a solemn kind of nostalgia, not unlike rio's presence with viktor.
and though with someone else — no, with most others, he has never had much success in lying to himself — he might agree instantly, take the chance to be elsewhere than where he obviously does not belong... but he shakes his head, just a little. ] No, I — [ he has to turn his head, then, cough into his fist as even in this dream his body seeks to betray him; it doesn't last long, luckily, and he tries again. ]
No, not yet. I would like to see it, you are correct... but tell me of them, first?
[ he wants to know, he realises then; he isn't saying it as a courtesy, as much as he's disinclined towards that in general, but rather because he looks at octavian's family and is confronted by his lack of knowledge about them, and he would like to know. ]
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Mouse trap
Shigeru will look delighted regardless. He will pause and blink looking back up at the other. ] Um!! It turned into a mouse...made out of cheese?
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Is it a living mouse made out of cheese? How large is it?
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[ Giant cheese mouse Shigeru has only known you for like five minutes, but if anything happened to it, he would kill everyone in this dream and then himself!! ]
Do you think we should give it a name? [ Just a thought as he looks back up towards Octavian. ]
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[He disappears from view for a good long beat, only to reappear trying to scoot-shimmy down a pole on the side of this big contraption. He's in a tidy sweater vest with a crisp shirt and slacks, so he looks like he's heading for a lecture hall and not at all athletic enough to be shimmying down this thing.
But he makes it to the ground without falling, and crouches down to look at the bottom of the machine first. Hmm!]
I did not expect a live mouse. It was supposed to shred.
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