ooc: Hey all! I don't know if I'll put up any open prompts for this one; memshare is one where I'd prefer to customize starters! Please hit me up on Discord, Plurk, or via PM and I'd be happy to put up a starter. Happy for Jim to run around in someone else's dream, bring someone into his, or a mix of both. Some ideas, re Jim's memories/dreams:
Party on the Enterprise! A celebration of a mission well-done, with plenty of aliens and humans alike having fun in the rec room.
Jim's childhood in Iowa, running amok with his brother Sam. Jim hasn't seen Sam in well over a decade, given that his brother ran away from their stepfather, Frank. Expect this memory to be happy, but with a bit of a melancholy edge. TW: Child AbuseIf you want more concrete detail about the abuse, emotional or physical, that Jim and his brother were subject to, feel free to let me know. Otherwise, this prompt will contain oblique references to Frank (mostly that Jim would rather be out in the cornfields than have to go home and deal with him).
TW: Genocide, StarvationAt the age of 14, Jim lived briefly on a colony world, serving out a juvenile detention sentence in the form of rehabilitation, instead of a juvenile detention center. Things were going well, right up until they weren't; the governor of the colony created a manufactured food shortage, inducing a crisis during which he divided the population according to his version of eugenics. 4,000 people were murdered, AKA half of the colony's population; Jim was marked as one for death, due to his sub-optimal genetics (re: his recessive traits and allergies). He escaped, along with several other children from his school. They survived for four months stealing food and running from the governor's guards; eventually there was an uprising, and in the ensuing fight, the protected class rose up against the guards, and everyone was killed. Jim and the remainder of the kids were the only ones to survive, totaling 9 survivors out of the original 8,000 colonists.
TW: GenocideIf Jim had a nickel for every genocide he's witnessed...this is the battle for Vulcan memory. Nero, the crazed Romulan who killed his father, creates a black hole at the center of the planet Vulcan, and billions of lives are taken by the singularity.
They writhe in the darkness of the mind, half-formed creatures with sharp teeth that prick at the skin as they pass. A child's cry, the warmth of the sun on your face, the hazy burn of embarrassment, settled in the sternum - everything flashes by in flickers, some flaring more noticeably than others. They are impossible to hold onto, intangible, smoky wisps that pass through thick fingers, unable to be tethered - until one decides to go for the glowing coals, instead.
There is pain and fear and adrenaline and -
Jim is running.
The lights turn on, all at once, pushing the vestiges of the dreamlike state away, and leaving only the scene in front of them. Lungs burning, face aching - the beating Khan left him with hadn't yet faded, bruises sure to form in the next 24 hours (provided he lived that long, with the fucking day he's been having) - Jim is sprinting down the corridor in his Starfleet-issue black thermals, as fast as his feet can take him. His abdomen, too, has pain he ignores - internal bleeding or not, there's no goddamn time to stop and find out.
"ENTERPRISE - PREPARE FOR IMMINENT PROXIMITY DETONATION."
"The torpedoes - you armed the damn torpedoes!" Jim can't help but laugh, swatting sideways at Spock as they skid around a corner - if this is different from the reality of the memory, Jim gives no indication that he's noticed. Dreams are confusing in that way, melding fact and fiction - that it's Spock's voice over the intercom doesn't seem to register as in conflict with the fact that Spock is next to him.
They pass a viewing window, Jim barely pausing to glance at it as he continues on his predetermined path, but the image is striking - a Dreadnought-class cruiser tilts away from them outside, the hulking mass of it cutting an intimidating figure against the moon behind it. Or it would, if not for the shudder of a large explosion that ripples through it, fire and force violently rending the cargo bay apart. The vibrations of the blast reach them - they're too close not to feel it - shaking the Enterprise and blinking the lights out before they reluctantly flicker back on.
"Spock, come on!" Jim's voice echoes from where he's disappeared somewhere down the hall, intent on his destination. "The gravity is failing, we gotta move!"
(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.]
cool guy has chill day (the escape room that hates you)
[Junpei's dream, oddly enough, is just of Aldrip—but an Aldrip that isn't part of a simulation. This is ReAldrip, the completely normal city, where you and everyone else have lived for however many years. Maybe your whole life! Who knows! Up to your dream brain!
Regardless, even if it looks almost exactly the same, there's a sense, an undeniable knowing that this ReAldrip is, you know, real. Normal. Not a place that torments its residents on the regular. You have a job, maybe, or you go to school, and it's all very normal and ordinary. Swimmy, even, with a few details here and there that don't seem entirely correct, like buildings that don't make sense or streets that don't go where they looked like they'd go; you know, dreamy.
Today all roads lead inevitably to a certain park that might look familiar and might not, but it's a beautiful, sunny summer day, and Junpei is hosting a goddamn afternoon movie in the park.
The movie doesn't make a lick of sense, it's a movie within in a dream, this is nothing. But it's a beautiful in this totally normal town, and you're here with your friends, and there are even free snacks! Junpei is cheerful in a way he has never been before; he's downright chipper.]
Hey, you made it! About time! Come on, I don't save seats for my health.
[And you could just have a nice time at the park with your good friend Junpei, but if you linger for too long, the park starts to feel more claustrophobic, as if the trees themselves are closing in to form walls, and when the nonsense movie finally snaps into a clear image, it's a cartoonish big padlock that just keeps locking itself on loop. A new voice crackles into life from unseen speakers, pleasant and friendly, like in an airport or a subway:] Attention. Attention. 60 minutes remain until decision time.
[Junpei looks up at nothing, basically, and sighs.]
Alright, fuck off. C'mon, we've gotta look for a key.
misc/wildcard
[hit me with whatever, dream-meld him, go for it... lmk if you'd like something else ie fucked up zero escape things. if you need me i'm at jojoveller ]
It is what most Humans should think, greeted as they are by the vastness. Sand above and sand below, red as the blood upon whetting stones. The sharp wind howls, it brays. Where it is you seek respite, where it is you might go? Storms crackle along the horizon. You hear the electricity gather, feel it as a sensation. It burrows into the marrow, your lungs straining for oxygen.
And yet, forbidding the rock beyond seem more like home. You duck into secreted alcoves, dip into the maw of impossible caves. Your hands scrape along the stone, smoothed for all that the gales erode it. You can trace the contours of time, smell the crackle and sizzle of fire. You can see, if you pad along the interior, that there is a boy within the belly of it.
Approaching reveals the weight of dark eyes, the cut of light off something chipped. It registers that it is a spear, fashioned crudely and held to the soft of your stomach. How it is he's cleared the distance from here to there is a marvel, but dreams oft disobey a conscious logic.
He is no more than seven. The grit and dirt of his environs smear across any and all exposed skin, the wool of his clothing biting into his right shoulder and arm where it is held (albeit awkwardly) against his torso. And beyond him?
Your eyes refuse to focus. He tips his head up. If you are attentive, you can see the softer point of his ears beneath the unwashed sweep of his hair. He looks flushed, almost feverish. ]
Identify yourself, [ he says, voice clipped.
Well? Best do it. ]
ii. could have predicted it (enterprise).
[ The world hums around you.
Well, perhaps hums isn't the correct word. It is more like a purr. A song. Something in the way of a bird, perhaps. You know it to be quite silly to ascribe these sort of terms to what you recognize as a ship, but she is a beautiful lady. And she, in all her silvered glory, is a lover. A mother.
A friend.
She is home to you and so many others, a shelter against the nigh incalculable darkness. You know that beyond the viewports all that there is and ever will be enfolds her body as velvet, holds her suspended. Within a bubble, space and time warps and wraps about her keel and hull. And yet, you know that you are due within the ship's laboratory. You know that your shift should be starting within the next ten Standard minutes.
You know that you are yourself, as much as you are someone else.
The halls are sleek as you step out of your quarters (and how?), each bolt and rivet known to you as you pass through. You know the faces that pass you by, as much as you pass them too. There are so many, you realize and know. Their faces are familiar to you, but you can never quite get a fix. You know there are many that populate this vessel, that identity or appearance seems to matter little. However, you never forget. You never forget who you lay eyes upon, the weight of that knowledge carried with you.
You know that you're traveling up or down, that you seem to be within and outside a means of transportation. A turbolift, a mind that is not your mind supplies. Even here, the walls are polished to a high shine. It's quite impressive, considering the layout. It is not a small place, surely. It is spacious. Comfortable, some might say. You inhale as you arrive at your floor. Your hand releases a lever.
You exhale. As you step off and wander your way to the labs, your hand automatically works in certain codes. It is not a language you can recognize, but dreams never do permit you to determine what it is. As you move in deeper into the space, you can hear the chirping and whirring of varied and indescribable equipment. There are monitors and screens that read out data as fast as your eyes can track it, an image of some alien world projected. You know you can spin it about if you wish, but your work is with the specimens.
The specimens, as you come to realize, are stored safely within trays. They haven't done much in the past few days, but as you lose yourself to the slides and what appears to be the world's most advanced microscope, you recognize there's something about one sample that you've missed before. Something wriggles, moves about. You know it to be from a cutting of a plant, which was known for its unusual properties - ]
Ensign, [ calls a voice to your right. You lift your head. Instinctively, you've already turned to them. It is your superior officer, after all. You would recognize him at this point by his tread alone. You put down your implements (and what are they, anyway?). The man at your side is tall, dark of eye and dark of hair. He studies you, intently, for a moment. ] With me, if you please.
[ He doesn't even wait for a response. You suppose he doesn't need to. As he turns upon his heel, you figure that maybe you can get some information about what in the world is going on in here. Maybe? ]
⬬ still trapped in the pain of the past | quiet promise [The dreamer is spending the night in Altius's penthouse for one reason or another—its central location in downtown Alta, an international hub of a city, makes it a reasonable spot regardless of whether they're passing through or planning to stay. It's late—past midnight as the clocks will tell them—when they hear a muffled conversation between the man himself and a separate, airy but sullen voice. Glancing out of the guestroom's door will show the dark living room, a brown-haired teen silhouetted against the distant city lights behind the glass patio doors. He's turned halfway away from Altius, who's seated on a couch.]
I've seen the scrapes you've come back with, Ferran, [the man says, voice soft with concern.] I don't know what you're doing these late nights... I've been hoping you'd tell me if I were patient.
[The young man's shoulders stiffen, a hand crossed over his chest, holding his upper arm. Altius gets to his feet, a sigh passing through him at the lack of answer.]
I can still wait. But I need you to promise me you'll come home safe.
[Ferran, as Altius called him, blinks and turns to look up at his guardian with his emotions written clearly on his face: surprise, hesitance, guilt. There's a bright sheen in his eyes as he replies.]
Rion— [his voice momentarily catches in his throat.] I... I will.
[Altius reaches forward and pulls the young man close with an arm around his shoulder, the latter leaning into the embrace—but his dark eyes catch the other dreamer out of his periphery, and as he turns, so does Altius. Apologetically, he addresses them:]
Did we wake you? ⬬ holding infinities in the palm of your hand | a deal [At first it's hard to tell there's a dream here at all—there's a sense of nothingness, dark and empty. That changes quickly, the dreamer's senses suddenly struck with the feeling of being pulled by a whirling force, buzzing in their ears and an occasional flash of static-like energy that somehow emits only the idea of light while illuminating nothing. The idea of wrongness pervades the space and threatens to make them nauseous at best.
Somewhere in this process they'll become aware of another figure. Are they nearby or far away? Male, female, adult, child? The only thing discernible is the utter sense of defeat within them, as they address the energy within this void in a whisper:]
I've had enough.
[The figure is answered by a thousand voices at once, some in separate languages, some in sounds no human can make. No matter how smooth the tone, it's like nails on a chalkboard, just as unpleasant to hear as the rest of the dream is to experience.]
Then free me, and we will end it.
[The dreamer will suddenly realize that this entity's attention has turned to them.]
And you... what power do you seek? ⬬ this ain't no time for doubting your power | held hostage; cw: gun violence [It's almost something out of a movie: a group of robbers armed heavily, taking the patrons of a large bank hostage, police surrounding the building outside clearly visible through the glass doors. The dreamer sits next to the dark-haired man whose memories they've entered, his appearance not quite as refined as his present-day self—wavy hair not quite as tame, suit not as well-tailored, his eyes brighter.
He's been talking down one of the pistol-wielding captors, and while the tension in the air is palpable, you get the sense he might be getting through somehow, even earning a nervous nod between glances at the authorities outside. He wields sympathy and commiseration carefully, appealing to the man while not straying so far from reality to provoke a reaction.
But a woman with an automatic rifle slung over her shoulder calls out a warning that the cops have set up a sniper and it falls apart. Desperate, the man Altius was addressing mutters as he tightens his grip on his weapon.]
We're not gonna get out of here.
[Altius holds up a hand as he rises to a kneeling position.]
Wait. You don't h—
[He cuts himself off when he sees the pistol aimed at him with clear intent to shoot, and in the split second before that he throws an arm out to protect the dreamer next to him. The gun goes off, striking him in the side; his head hits something hard on the way down, and he falls, dazed, onto the one beside him. Chaos erupts as that shot elicits more, from both inside and out of the bank. Very few in the building will remain unscathed.] ⬬ see the ripples vanish in the distance | false peace [It's a bright day in the spring, and while it's impossible to get far enough in these woods to avoid the sounds of the city entirely, it's as peaceful as it can get. A young girl's voice calls out:]
Rion!
[If the dreamer turns, they'll see a ten-year-old redhead drop a loop of flowers onto the head of a napping teenager under a tree, his wavy hair past the shoulders of the denim jacket too small for his broad shoulders. He startles slightly from his doze, peeking through the leaves at the girl before sitting up and taking the thing into his large hands.]
Do you like it?
[He considers it for a moment before carefully setting it on his head.]
Yeah. Thanks.
[Satisfied, the girl turns to the dreamer with a bounce in her pigtails, offering a similar crown of wildflowers in various colors, a little sloppy but braided together enough to stay in shape.]
Here. You take this one.
[The look they're getting from the teenager might tell them there are consequences for saying no.] ⬬ you're climbing down from an ivory tower | wildcard
[Interested in something else? Want to plot more specifically? Hit me up via PM or lumieresdedragon and let me know!]
( ooc; totally cool with having the dream share mechanics for at least dreams 1, 2 and 4! All of these dreams are fine for characters to participate/affect/do stuff in! If you want a mundane prompt or something else lmk via PM or over on plurk @ pathogenic )
Dream 1: The Beginning
[ A young boy around the age of 10 sits alone on a swing set. A magnificent-looking mansion rests in the distance as he stares out towards the sea. The breeze is nice, and cooling, with a hint of heat signaling the start of summer. He looks sad as he remains alone a drawing pad resting in the grass near his feet. A letter flickers into the dream saying the words 'We welcome you and look forward to your stay at Goestia Boarding School'. Shigeru looks upset before he uses a gloved hand to wipe at his eyes. ]
I don’t want to go…
Dream 2: The Middle
[ It’s an ordinary dream of a house surrounded by snow-capped mountains and a steaming hot spring. One young man whose face is slightly distorted speaks to Shigeru who just nods and listens with an intensity in his eyes that one can only assume is adoration and love. The other man doesn’t seem to notice but for what it’s worth Shigeru doesn’t want him to notice either. The need and want to say something more is there as Shigeru writes down something for Alex to read as he gets ready to take his shirt off to which Shigeru looks away, awkwardly and flustered, like a crush that goes blissfully unnoticed by the man in the memory. He motions for Shigeru to do the same but Shigeru only smiles and rubs his arm with a gloved hand, awkward and shy.
The dream shifts though, almost glitching in the way in which it happens, and then its Shigeru and Alex again in a building being consumed by darkness, red eyes forming on the walls and on Alex himself, as he’s slowly consumed by living darkness. A piercing shriek erupts from something inhuman down the hall.
Shigeru’s gloved hands shake as he grabs Alex by the shoulders, tears welling up in his eyes. ] Please. Please just wait. I-I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I-I should have told you before all of this. I’m sorry that I…I have to go. [ I love you so damn much. But the words never leave his throat. Shigeru will get up and turn towards the undulating, living, darkness only stuttering in his attempt as Alex grabs his leg. ]
Shigeru don’t. Please don’t do this! [ It’s the accepting smile and expression on Shigeru’s face that makes Alex pause, shocked and scared. ] I love you too much to not do anything. Don’t hate me, okay?
[ And that is when the dream is consumed by darkness and Shigeru is left kneeling in a pool of shadow muck as it claws at him. His hands are now distorted and inhuman as he kneels there covering his face as he breathes in shallow, pained, breaths. Streaks of black inky tears are left on his face as the red eyes erupt by the thousands in the sea of darkness.
His voice is pained as he mutters two words in a whispered mantra that no one will ever hear. ] I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Dream 3: The End
[ This dream is an endless sea of bright white nothingness. There are no sounds, no sensations, only an unending calm that can be felt by whoever is pulled into it. However, should one look upwards it is chaos, a living abyss, a canopy of the blackest black speckled with reddish eyes that watch silently uninterrupted. Staring for too long at the abyssal sky induces a sense of unease in whoever is sharing this space, but a creaking noise not too far away will draw one’s attention.
Sitting in the vast open expanse of white is a figure almost indistinguishable from the white around it. A figure draped in all-white fabrics with a crown of silver and gauntlets of matching form sits silently, waiting. A porcelain white mask adorns its face but where the eyes should be is just the darkest black, similar to the space above, empty and yet piercing as it rests in its marbled shimmering throne. Its head, propped up against its right silver, clawed, gauntleted hand, is still and unmoving. That is until approached and then its movements jerk to life. Akin to a rusted automaton its head creaks to a straightened position, the arm that was supporting its head still held upright with a clenched fist. Its head stares directly at whoever is there, black eyes almost piercing, before tilting its head to the other side in a motion that suggests inquiry and curiosity on its part. ] Curious. You should not be here.
[ Its mouth does not move and yet a voice is heard uninterrupted by the mask. ] This is not your dream. How is it that you have come to be here, child?
[ Is it a dream or a space for gods to converse? For its actions seem not a memory but a real-time response. Its clawed hand extends and as if to suggest to step forward it makes a beckoning motion with a finger. ] Come. Let us get a closer look at you.
[ Its deep voice is so serene, calm, and melodious that it has an almost intoxicating pull. ]
Dream 4: Afterword cw: dissection
[ The battlefield is drenched in blood, miasma, and black sludge. Shigeru is there and his eyes with their black sclera and purple irises glow as a giant purple sigil with black inky cracks in it looms ominously and silently behind him. The sword and shield in his hands are caked in blood both red and black, as another wave of monsters erupts from over the horizon. Shigeru turns and smiles at whoever is there a thumbs up is given for some levity, despite the grotesque and horrible monsters before them. He’ll mouth the words ‘We got this! Stay with me and I’ll keep you safe’ before he twirls his sword in hand and cleanly slices a monster in two. But there is a figure that stands up from beyond the hoard. A normal-looking man with salt and pepper hair but a grin that's sharp as knives, eyes wild with amusement.
Shigeru stops in his tracks with nothing but fear and terror on his face as the battlefield glitches between that and an operating theater where Shigeru is strapped down and the man is above him with tools. This memory lingers and Shigeru will grip his head with gloved hands as he looks away, hearing the sickening sounds of his own gagged cries of pain. ]
Wildcard - Awakening;
[ Shigeru is, admittedly, less chipper and happy then usual. The dreams that people have seen...the things witnessed he really doesn't know how to process it all. So he can be found at a cafe, library, or just drawing on a park bench somewhere. His gaze is distant and almost clouded over as he idly draws the landscape before him. He's deep in thought but he also worries his lip as he closes his eyes and just...sighs. ]
You most often do at this hour and you most often do these days. You know it from the way your thin sheets are tangled up about your ankles, the way the night stretches long and fathomless across the foot of your bed. You know it is illogical to think of the absence of sun this way, but red still burns bright against the back of your eyelids. Sitting up, you know precisely where you are. You know, but your heart is hummingbird quick. You press your hand against your side, where it has always lived.
You find yourself walking. Somehow, inexplicably. The air is dry and cool. The stars outside your window move, smeared at their corners as though taken up with the end of a brush. You know this is wrong, innately, but it seems not to trouble you much. Your heart is still unsteady, but it is settling. It is settling, the further your move. The longer you move. Tile and wood stretches on before you. There is a tenderness in the way you've remembered the chip near the landing, before the first curve of the stairs.
As you make your way down each step, you can hear humming. You know it to be from the kitchen. Your heart nestles down. It quiets against the bruised backs of your ribs. And yet - you can taste shame against the back of your teeth as the humming stops, pauses. As you reach the last step, as your home narrows improbably, you can see the swing of a dark braid through an archway. You swallow, as though you might drown the surge of further embarrassment that creeps through the length of your limbs. You know it is the kitchen. You know it is, as much as you know the floral lay of the tea you both prefer.
Spock? Her voice is soft, not at all like your own. There is an emotion there, read in the way she pronounces it. A banked concern. Affection.
That's who you are, you realize. Who else might you have been? ]
[ Somewhere between and betwixt the rank and file, you hear a grumbling. It comes from your side as much as it comes down the line, but it is difficult to get an exact pin upon it. All that you know is that this is a most serious affair, given the starched press of your collar and the unforgiving cut of your uniform.
You do know that no one should be comfortable in this, but the man who is you as much as he is beside you or far beyond you doesn't seem to share the sentiment. Then again, you realize that you shouldn't know. Very few do. And very few seem to know what to expect of this stop, but it looks like - well, it doesn't matter what it looks like. The sleek walls about you move and warp and shift as you move closer and further. As you move, in some ways, enough to see someone materialize (a common occurrence) before you in the steady thrum of piecemeal light.
You realize you need to do something with your right hand. You don't know what it is, but perhaps you should ask the guy that seems to be as much a part of you as much as he isn't? You can see that he's quite tall, that his hair is as dark as his eyes are. If you squint, you can make out his ears are... Pointed. ]
[It might be immediately alarming that no matter where you look, everything is in different shades of red. Maybe that's enough on its own to give a hint that all of this is a dream, but despite the singular color scheme that stretches across the mansion and its grounds, there's something almost peaceful about this place. Carefree. There are children out and about playing in the front yard, some waving or maybe even sticking their tongue out in a playful manner. The sight of such a large mansion really doesn't feel daunting.
Every so often, you might catch a glimpse of a kid or some teenager using their powers, a small explosion going off or someone just suddenly taking off into the air. Still, it's nice, like there's nothing to fear around here. While it might be nice to stick around and interact with them, you're compelled to enter the mansion...]
welcome to xavier's school; [Perhaps you recognize Scott as you enter, as he's standing at the entrance with his familiar sunglasses and classic 1980s look. It's clear that he's been waiting for you to show up, arms crossed with a slightly exasperated look to him.]
About time-- [He stops himself, because right, he's supposed to be a good tour guide. Working on the attitude, he knows.] I mean, welcome to Xavier's Institute for the Gifted.
[No it doesn't sound like rehearsed that a hundred times, shut up. He's not sure why the Professor has made him the greeter this time, but here is he anyway!! Or maybe he personally volunteered, because he does know you and Scott's excited that one of his friends decided to come. In fact, isn't all of his friends going to be here--] Here for the tour, right?
[It's possible that you're visiting because of curiosity or you're planning to enroll in the future. Maybe you've already enrolled and Scott is supposed to show you your new home. That's nice, right? Living in a big mansion with other mutants... being in a place where you finally belong.]
this is my older brother; [Whether or not you've toured around the mansion, you'll eventually find Scott chatting with a person that's probably unfamiliar. However, there's something easy and pleased on Scott's face as he talks to the older and taller figure, posture completely relaxed even as some inaudible comment passes between them and gets Scott to lightly shove him in the shoulder. The older figure merely smirks, before turning his attention to the dreamer that's encountered this moment.
Scott's attention also follows suit, although he takes the extra step to wave in greeting.]
Settled in already? Well, good. I know this place can be like a museum. [That comment gets the figure next to Scott to roll his eyes, but Scott continues without missing a beat.] Oh, you probably don't know this asshole, huh? This is Alex, my brother.
[Perhaps the most noteworthy thing of all is this: Alex is the only object or person around here that is in full color. Not just red.]
this peace will last; [At some point, it's nice to take in some fresh air again, right? The mansion is old and British--
While walking around the expansive yard, it's easy to spot the children that are still running around and clearly having fun, but there's something just a little more quiet in the air now. Not really tense or uncomfortable, just a tad more solemn. Eventually, one can spot Scott Summers sitting down and leaning against a tree, and it's like his mood is a general reflection of the atmosphere around everyone.
He'll still greet anyone that approaches with an acknowledging nod.]
Hey. [And without any sort of prompting--] It's really peaceful out here, isn't it?
wildcard; [Want to do something else in the mansion? We can probably plot something! Also if want your character to see/bump into XMCU's version of Charles Xavier, Raven/Mystique, Hank/Beast, Jean Grey, Jubliee, or Kurt/Nightcrawler, feel free to assume so! Totally down to having your character's dream affecting any prompt too. Reach me at currykirby.]
And where else might Spock be, but running with him?
To dream or not to dream, to be aware and not — it is something that Spock has been part and parcel of. It is something he has known, as much as Jim has known. For all that Humans slumber with the fire of days beneath their skin, so too do Vulcans. So too do all that swim and fly and crawl. So too do those who profess to know nothing of the smeared and stuttered landscapes, the emptiness that lays at the bottom of one's emotional wells.
What it is Spock who is Jim who is Spock sees is not at all unimaginable or without understanding. What is cinder billows across the palms, what is lit from within the wick of the self is familiar as it is satisfying. What wanders weaves, nets tangled so about the self that the body of consciousness falls through. Falls down, down —
Down the hall. Down the bright glit of corridors. The Enterprise shapes itself strangely, looped where it should pause. And yet, Spock follows. He follows, because it is Jim that tells him to. He hears himself who is not himself over the intercom, feels himself in the rapid rabbiting of his heart. He feels the swat on his arm as if it is not him, but who is he otherwise? To share what has been once explored is not a novel experience. He has partaken in the muddled mess of memory, tumbled through the strands of parallel existence.
This is another, but he cannot recall starting a meld. He cannot recall when it was they'd both settled down to doze, but — Jim's form flits beyond a bend. Normally, in times such as these, he would recognize Spock's presence. He would come around to face him, not carry on as though he were not there. Not in body, not in flesh.
Not like this, the lurching form of a ship he's only ever glimpsed cutting stark against the viewport. No, he realizes quite suddenly, this isn't at all that Jim should typically drag him to. This isn't something he'd tasted more than the vestiges of, the residual ashes a film at the back of one's teeth.
Spock picks up the pace, his own heart rabbiting as he tries to discern where it is Jim's gone. He smooths along the bond, fingers threading through the length of it. The ship is somehow empty, for all the alarm blares bleak and vibrant.
A. The more entrancing it is, the bigger the disappointment will be when dawn breaks. (Lighter)
1. The Pilot
"Even if this turns to be a curse, I will love this curse like a blessing" [In a sea of stars sits a lone planet. Small, about twice as big as a house.
And on that planet, there is a bus, still and silent
And by that bus is Dante, seated in the grass, leaning back against against a tree, a pencil in hand as they doodle... sheep?]
2. Spanner and Drill
"That is why we formally request that you solve this case for us. In return, we will exempt you from your Time Tax debt." [Things are certainly looking a bit... sepia lately. It's as if all the color in the world has been drained away, like a yellowed photograph once black and white, or a flashback in some cartoon or movie.
< All right. Let's go over the details one more time. >
[Even Dante's usual ensemble is nearly as colorless as the world around them, yet a hint of that red remains.]
< In order to clear our debt to T Corp, we're looking into this "Case of Timekilling Time" for them, which may or may not involve a Distortion. Our first stop is the watch factory the third victim owns, since he's the only one currently capable of speaking. Any questions? >
[That's right, it's time to solve a case! And what kind of detective would you be without the proper outfit and fake mustache?Odachi with absurdly sharp scabbard not included
B. Not even sweet dreams in a sound sleep are allowed here (The Dark Shit)
All be jolly now, at this kingdom of joy~ ((There will be a song linked in here. The lyrics are in the video's summary, but be warned that if you do decide to read them, there's a single line about fingernails depending on how well you deal with that sort of thing))
[You're here on a mission, and you've reached the third "area" you need to go to before the way to your target will open:
Costumed, masked figured sing and dance. A lively (except for when it isn't) song fills the air, sung by the amusement park staff. It's a catchy song, one that bids you to dance and sing along.
There's just one problem... More than one, really.
Bloodied, half-shambling creatures that were once people shuffle along, pushed forward by the endless parade. Some of them are little more than hissing, rattling nightmares, arms transformed into jagged, makeshift weapons made of hardened, crystallized blood. Others are still aware, and sob and plead pitifully as they fight the change overcoming them.
The luckiest of them all are carried in on pikes, held aloft like banners, half their body long decayed. Some of the poles still terminate in blood-drenched flags.
And the staff of this amusement park--La Manchaland--the fancily costumed people dancing and singing and sobbing and smiling in sharp, rictus grins... is composed entirely of Bloodfiends. Or, as you may call them in your world: vampires.
C. Wildcard!
((Got something else you'd like to go with? Go for it! Or contact me at shadetoshade if you'd like to plan something.))
Visas Marr | Knights of the Old Republic II | Open
The world is grey. As you look back and forth, color is absent--but the light comes from unusual sources. The trees in planters lining the road, the luminous faces of people in hoverbuses and speeders--faces that come in shapes and sizes that may not be familiar to you. Pets on leashes, vermin scurrying in and out of holes and gutters, even insects, each a glowing, moving point in the air.
Above the city streets are stars and moons, but the light they give is less luminous--less meaningful--than the glow from life. And if you focus on the sentient ones, you might realize that you can see what lies in their hearts. You can see that one person, dressed as a businessman below their tentacled face, is selfish and wouldn't give you the time of day. Yet another, ambling down the road with their four hands each in a pocket, has a glow of general benevolence to them.
But however wonderous this new way of seeing might be, a pulse seems to shiver it all. You're in danger. And as soon as you realize it, you hear the footsteps behind you... the footsteps of Visas Marr.]
Dreams of light
[You are in the Sith tomb at Dxun. You know who the Sith are--dark Force-users bent on conquest. And Dxun, the jungle moon where only the most ferocious have a hope of survival. Here you are beneath its soil, ready to fight your way through armored soldiers and Dark Jedi. All is grey around you... that is, all that is stone and soil. Looking up, you see threads of roots through the ceiling, like bright shining hairs. Through the thick walls you can just perceive the glow of sentient life, all of it malicious.
And besides them, you can see something strange. Or do you feel it? If color existed in this unsaturated world, you might call it red; it glows like the heat from a furnace, dark and hungry for dross to be shaped.
Visas stands in front of you--in the lead on this mission, her lightsaber already held in her hand. She, too, glows... from the light within her, you are almost sure you can trust her to make the right decisions.
Almost.]
Are you prepared for the danger ahead?
Wildcard
[If you want something different, HMU by plurk / game chat / PM!
If you would like to bring bits of your own character's dreams into Visas', let's do it! We can chat about it however works for you.]
[Havemercy isn't aware of walking out of one dream and into another, not until he gets there. The, hm, ambiance is different from his usual dreams; less cluttered, for one. Calmer. He'd been fitful a moment ago, he's certain, and now— well, now he feels rather okay! All things considered!
He looks up at the abyss full of eyes and he thinks of the black of space, and he would stand there staring up at it for a while yet if not for the noise nearby. White and white and more white, huh; the logic of the dream demands he blend in, and so the disgustingly loud pattern of the short cloak he wears (it is fundamentally a poncho, but details) bleeds out into white as he moves closer to the figure in the chair. Like nothing—no one—he's ever seen, and yet he still feels that sensationless calm. It's almost a relief.
How did he get here, well,] I walked, my good—friend.
[Sir?? Madam?? Mx.???? He walks closer, seeing no reason not to.]
[ the dreams will be fully interactive settings loosely based on memories. if you're interested in any of the closed dream elements/imageries below and would like to expand on them in more detail, please pm me or catch me on plurk (sdat) to discuss a starter! i am super open to dream melding+combination with others too, let vash interact with theirs! i'm also happy to start with other's dreams + adding on vash's own. hit me up!
the dreams will be either of two setup below: - initially start as first person vash pov, and then shift to your own self with interactive vash as dreams go because it's supposed to make no sense, right? - with interactive vash either as a separate entity looking on (think invisible ghost of christmas past) or acting as his own self within the dream, pulling you into the setting rabbit-hole style. ]
DREAM: NO MAN'S LAND // open prompts.
top notes:[ note: first person vash pov >> shift ] the sun is a glowing ball of fire directly on top of your head. the smaller sun circles behind, two thirds of the way covered, some kind of fucked up eclipse that does nothing with the oppressive heat that burns over the surface of the sand; you're surprised that the sand is still sand, soft and grabby beneath your feet, clinging to every nook and cranny. there are no clouds, no cover. you are halfway climbing up a dune, sticky hands gritty where the sand grains are trapped. you feel the grains scraping against the glass-metal joins of your left hand, trapped in the mechanism. god, you'll have to clean that out later. if there is a later. there is a muffled whistle behind you, and then a red flare explodes high above in the air, bright against the cloudless blue of the sky. almost at the same time you hear the rev of motor engines, loud whooping, the sound of bullets whistling (not close enough to hit, but too close). they strike the sand about 10 feet from where you are, cutting in a high arc and closing in. run.
heart notes:[ note: first person vash pov >> shift ] one minute, you are enjoying your breakfast (fried toma eggs still sizzling on the plate, a piece of stale bread, but it's a feast enough - you feel like you haven't eaten in days, weeks). the only drink you have is water, tinted faint murky brown, like thin watered down beer. it tastes of grit, but can you really afford to be picky? you should maybe have eaten faster, got out of there quicker with your stomach full with food instead of being full (potentially) of lead as bullets whistle past your shoulders as you frantically run through the narrow alleyway, the piles of unswept sand threatening to break your ankles if you're not careful enough, as though dodging bullets isn't enough. there's a little run-off, covered by a rusted over water tank (hollow and empty, a big dry burnt out hole at the base of it) so you hide yourself behind, crouching low. wait, is that blood?
base notes:[ note: w/ interactive vash! ] there is an eye carved into the sky high above with a hundred thousand (million) blades, undulating in circles multitudinal, catching the last rays of the suns setting in the horizon or maybe it's the fire that breaks out as something shatters, explodes in the distance; a fuel tank? a bomb? you feel the heat burning the top layer of your skin. people screaming, the sound of running feet. the eye constricts, shrinking to a pinprick, whirls around back to its never-ending watch over the pinprick bug like humanity below, a minute blink in time. the massive rocky mountain beneath the eye (above your head) burns with crisscross lines of molten stone, each piece the size of a house, maybe bigger. the tower falls piece by piece.
DREAM: SEEDS // closed starters only.
cool dark void of outer space. you've never seen the earth and you don't know what you're missing. you learn the names of constellations but none of them match up, so you make up new names. the ship is always quiet - everyone asleep behind blue-lit glass. they can't hear you, they're waiting for a new green world, but you always visit anyway. good morning, good morning. you learn their names, every single one of them.
a green tree in the middle of a vast glass dome. a birthday cake. a woman with dark hair, cradling blood red flowers in a climate-controlled vase. in the middle, there's a white flower that you've never seen before - and inside it blooms a blue eye, a severed arm.
the petals scatter and each of them is a ship nestled alongside yours in a close formation in the cold dark void of space. they fall one by one, the implosions shaking through the steel hull. the lights flicker. you cling onto a warm body - don't let them go - but they dissolve into a shower of red flowers. it smells of blood.
DREAM: BROTHER // closed starters only.
a mirror image, a broken mirror, your face reflected back at you through clouded over red glass or maybe that's blood it's hard to tell. blackened and burnt, every single one of them burning inside the water-that-is-not-water (it's all because of the water) that holds them. there are so many. nails against chalkboard cutting through your eardrums. you cannot save them.
[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.
[The too-tall teen with pierced ears and misfitting clothes regards Scott with a dull look that's meant to disguise his suspicion, slouched with his hands shoved into his pockets. He casts a glance back at a kind-looking man near the entrance—light skinned, dark haired, blue eyed, giving him an encouraging wave—and lets out a slow breath before turning back and finally offering Scott a one-shouldered shrug. Then:]
You're the welcoming committee.
[He doesn't sound impressed. The idea that he might belong anywhere is laughable, really, but his father had ultimately made the decision to enroll him, and he hadn't argued.
For now, the redness to everything doesn't occur to him. Such is dream logic.]
[In a corner of the sky above that little planet, the stars begin to black out. With Dante's attention on their doodling, it's easy to miss at first, the spreading darkness seemingly no different from the rest of the endless emptiness of space.
But a crackle of energy sparks above them before long, tendrils of black flickering like something between lightning and flame as they reach closer towards the planet. Through one of those tendrils breaks a set of claws apparently made of the same dark plasma, trembling for a moment before grasping onto the bus with a horrid screech of metal on metal.
A cacophony of voices pushes through the encroaching abyss, quiet but still somehow viscerally discomforting.]
There have been times, since the advent of their bond, where Spock has led Jim through that which his fraught imagination has foisted upon him. Eased his consciousness back from the edge, led him back to something easier, lighter; coaxed his subconscious mind in carefully, with slender fingers and a gentled touch - soothed the illogical, vivid imagery so that when Jim awoke, it was with peace instead of panic.
This, now, is different. Jim's subconscious mind responds as per usual, the pulse of his essence just as it should be when Spock touches the bond, winding comfortably between his fingers - but the dream does not change. The edges do not warp and ease into something different, they refuse to be smoothed - they are as ragged as Jim's labored breathing, as sharp as the exhaustion that permeates, painted over hastily with adrenaline. How long has he been awake? He's lost track.
There's something ominous about this dream, some telltale equivalent of mental gooseflesh. No, this is not a dream Jim would share, given the option. The Enterprise groans and creaks, listing to the side as the gravity does, indeed, fail - Jim is there, standing on the wall, the hallway now a dangerously long gap in the floor. He gestures, hand outstretched towards Spock. "You have to jump! Come on - we have to get to Engineering! It's the only way to restore power!"
The ship lurches, caught in the pull of some kind of gravity (Earth's? It seems a known fact of the dream, though nothing specific has indicated it thus far). Jim wheels back, off balance, and falls further down the hallway, disappearing into the darkness - the ship is out of control, energy drained as the emergency floodlights flicker.
"Spock!"
Jim's voice echoes through the dream, beckoning him deeper into the ship. The hallway warps, each flash of the lights oscillating between the ship they both know so well - similar to their shared inner mindspace, combining the colorful, clean hallways of Spock's Enterprise and the sleek, silvering design of Jim's. Still, intrinsically, it seems that there is no wrong course - either way, this ship is their home, and they surely know how to navigate it.
Jim is dangling from one of the service bridges, as the darkened hallway opens up to light; he's fallen, precarious, holding onto a man who can only be Scotty with one hand, barely held up by a skinny teenager with the other - Chekov, it seems, dirty work goggles crushing sweaty Russian curls. Chekov turns his head, looking to Spock for help, eyes wide and panicked. "Commander! Zey are falling!"
[The empty darkness feels strange even before it really gets strange; Octavian does not dream himself dead and spectral after all, and why should a completely normal, living man find himself in a place that is just nothing? Absurd. So the sudden onset of wrongness is, for a split second, a relief - a reminder of one's senses - before it becomes uncomfortable and upsetting.
He puts his hands over his ears, like that will help block out the buzzing from nowhere. It certainly doesn't make that voice-of-all-things sound any better, and when he's addressed he's considering maybe pivoting on his heel and seeing if he can walk in a direction, any direction, and just go. It takes him another second to realize what was even said, god, terrible noise,]
Oh. I am not here to interrupt. Carry on.
[.......Well,] Although I would hear the terms. For the sake of being thorough.
cw: child abuse[you're in a small room. it's unremarkable, really. a desk, covered in papers. a fireplace, fire blazing, almost making the room too hot. there's a man standing before the fire, dressed in simple clothes that wouldn't stand out in any time period. he turns, holding before him an iron that has clearly been used to stoke the fire. the end glows red.
and a bed, twin size. made up. tied to it with ropes is czeslaw, wearing a simple white shirt and brown trousers. no shoes. no hat. his eyes are wide, and tears run down his face. he's crying, but in the way children who know nothing good will come of it do. silently hiccupping and whimpering.]
Must you snivel and whine? [asks the man, rolling his eyes. he looks - barely interested - as though this is simply a chore he must perform before getting on with his day.] So ungrateful. I'm not just doing this for science, you know. I'm doing it because I love you. So much.
[he sounds almost tender. he approaches the bed, pulling the low collar of czeslaw's shirt aside and raising the iron, glowing red end pointed toward his now bare chest.]
Now do try not to squirm. It affects the data, you know.
the escape
[the scene now is a large dining room, though oddly it has no windows. still, it's decorated in a homely sort of way, and candles are lit upon each table. a pleasant piano riff drifts through the air. many of the tables are full of people, faces indistinct, talking, laughing and eating. a couple in the middle of the room are laughing and dancing, not quite in step with the piano but not seeming to care. and at a table to the side, out of the way of all the laughing and smiling people, sits czeslaw. he's dressed quite dapperly, in a brown suit and matching newsboy cap. he's working on a bowl of ice cream, it seems, and his feet that don't quite touch the floor are swinging. he's a picture of childish contentment.
he looks up and notices you. your appearance, whether plain or outlandish, doesn't seem to give him pause.]
Oh, is it your first time at Alveare? Don't be shy. Everyone's very friendly.
[ooc: these dreams are memories, but your character can act freely in them! merely observe, or try to make changes, it's all up to you. i'm down for dream merging, too. if you want to chat about a scenario you can PM this account or hit me on discord @ citizenmono.]
[you're in...a room? it's large, and lit by natural light pouring through a window. everything has a fuzzy quality to it and seems almost larger than life. there's a small white-haired child seated on the floor, clearly a toddler. perhaps two years old? the objects scattered around him have a sharper focus than the rest of the room. kunai mostly, along with other metal bits and bobs. there are no toys to be seen. the child is holding a kunai by the handle, seemingly waiting for something.
suddenly a large shape enters the room. a dog? no, even through the fuzzy lens, this must be a wolf. then a larger shape, a person, with white hair just like the child's. clearly an adult, the person looms above the child and slowly stalks toward him. closer, closer, obviously with ill intent...he stoops suddenly toward the child, perhaps about to scoop him up, but with surprising speed the child swings the kunai and plunges it into the man's neck!...
...to no effect? the man laughs and tussles the child's hair.]
That's a good boy! We strike at the weak point. Yes, very good.
[the child waves the kunai lightly, then puts the bladed end in his mouth. the man immediately pulls it away, yet again there seems to be no damage?]
No no, we don't eat kunai. Not even blunted ones. Sheesh, what are we going to do with you and this oral fixation...
[the man rises and walks over to the wolf, fading as he goes into deeper fuzz. this must be a core memory of kakashi's.]
do the dance | open
[you find yourself in the midst of a forest. as you look around, there's a small sound from above. look up, and - there! what first seems just like a blur resolves itself into two people, fighting in the upper branches of a tree. fighting...or dancing? they move fluidly around each other, one tall and one short. trading blows in a martial arts style, neither managing to hit the other, until the shorter figure falters - just for half a second - and succumbs to a brutal sweeping kick from the taller figure. kakashi falls to the ground, hitting so hard he bounces slightly, rolls to his stomach and for a moment doesn't move. he looks as he always does, except if you get a glimpse of his face, he's lacking the long scar that usually adorns his left eye.
after a moment of stillness he rolls to a kneeling position, then gets to his feet. the adult he was fighting has disappeared back into the foliage, with no sound or movement to track him by. kakashi looks straight at you, radiating annoyance.]
Ugh. Could you be more useless? You could at least distract him before I strike! Now we have to find him again!
[he huffs, the fabric of his mask blowing out slightly with the motion.]
Come on, we're never going to get a bell at this rate. [he crouches, then leaps up to a high branch on the nearest tree before calling down to you.] Well, what are you waiting for? An invitation?
troubling times | closed to toph
[the scene is a small clearing in a forest. stone rubble of varying sizes litters the ground. to one side is a young girl, slumped on the ground as though sleeping; to the other, amidst the boulder-sized of the rocks, is kakashi. he throws himself at a boulder, clawing at it with his fingers, pushing at it to no result.]
Shit! Obito! Shit!!
[even kakashi doesn't know how this ends, so the moment stretches in his mind...the scene is frozen but for kakashi clawing at the boulder. at the bottom, a single arm and leg stick out from under it, unmoving.]
[ooc: open to dream interference or dream merging! if you want to plot something either PM this account or hit me on discord @ citizenmono.]
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