+ Ahh~! Like a good old fashion nightmare! | [OPEN] +

[vitaelamorte]

Who: EVERYONE
Where: Your dreams!
When: Friday February 17th - Monday February 20th (The length of the event!)
Rating: PG-13, warn if higher!
Summary: A catch-all log for everyone's dreams in this event, and all of the subconscious shenanigans within them!
The Story:

Over the course of the event, characters will find themselves falling asleep at random moments of the day, spacing out only to find themselves in a dream moments later. Whenever this happens, characters will find themselves in visions or nightmares. The content is entirely up to you, but must be something that would have some significance to the character, whether literally or metaphorically. They will likely be about a character's true feelings about a matter, or their hidden fears.

Either way, these dreams are trying to tell you something - something that you've buried, willfully ignored, or flat out just haven't realized about yourself. Within their dreams, they will meet people (from Wonderland) who represent their subconscious. These people will have uncanny knowledge of the dreamer's most inner thoughts: fears, desires, guilt, regrets, even their private thoughts of what they imagine their future to be like - and they will absolutely want to shove it in the dreamer's face, as though these repressed thoughts and feelings are rising to the surface.

OOCly, people will be able to play either awake in Wonderland or as versions of their characters within someone else's dream, taunting them with their subconscious thoughts and feelings. They will mostly be themselves, aside from the knowledge of what's going on in the dreamer's head. It's possible the dreamer might not even realize it's a dream at first, but it's equally possible that a character within someone's dream can be twisted or altered in some way if it helps them better deliver their message. They can even do standard nightmare things, like completely breaking the laws of physics or appearing and disappearing as needed.

Characters will feel sufficiently rested from these dreams, even if they don't like the content - which is good, because caffeine and all other stimulants one would use to keep themselves awake will be rendered completely ineffective.

Feel free to make use of this post for dream shenanigans! All top-levels are assumed to be for the person dreaming and the replies will all be within their dream, threads with characters who represent their subconscious. Prose and [brackets] are both welcome and if you have any questions you can over to the plot post! ♥

Comments

tim wright; calling all comas, prisoner on the loose

[postictal]

closed to MAX; nowhere to run, no more room to pretend

[postictal]

He fucked up. He fucked up, big time he fucked up, and he knows it full well. Doesn't need a full-blown reminder in technicolor from his subconscious, but sure enough, that's what he gets. Night after night. He watches it all go south and he watches it all wither and die, and he knows exactly whose fault it is.

In some dreams, he starts out knowing who it is; who he bled into, whose mind he infected with Its thoughts, Its presence. In some dreams, he knows how it happens.

In this one, it seems he'll have to guess.

He starts out running, knowing full well that something's gone wrong but unable to place the source of the wrongness other than the fact that it exists. Something's happened. It's not until he runs into the first body (Jay, of course, with a blade stuck in his throat and his eyes glazed over) and then the second (George next, with her brains slopped out across the floor because at least her murderer had the decency to make it a headshot), that he starts to put together an idea.

He starts to put together a real good, real bad idea.

'Cause the last person he wants to see coated in blood, following Alex's footsteps and tearing through Wonderland on the edge of a knife, is Max.

I hope this is okay!

[mypartnerintime]

"What-"

She looks angry. Her hand is shaking as it clutches the knife, knuckles white, blood dripping from the gleaming metal blade like scarlet jewels crashing against the floor.

"What did you-"

Her voice is muffled- but not like there's something pressed against her mouth. It sounds like it's coming out of an old TV, thick and laced with electrical noise, static.

"What did you do to me?" she snarls, as her other hand clutches at her head, fingernails digging into her scalp.

He's running away from her but the sound of her voice follows him down the hall. And then the corridor starts to collapse on itself, shrinking and shrinking, pulling him closer and closer to her.

Time itself seems to go full rewind, an inescapable march backward past George, past Jay.

Back and back toward Max, holding her knife, a shadow standing behind her.

"What did you do to me?!"

HECK YEAH IT IS

[postictal]

She looks mad - madder than she did when she saw the tape, when she saw what he did, what he's capable of. He can hear the digital scratch over her voice, like a ripcord's been dislodged, and something in her tone, the rasp of accusation -

That's pure Alex.

"I didn't - I didn't mean - "

He tries to run. Of course he does. He runs from everything, one way or another, only this time time warps and tangles about his legs, and the corridor telescopes, dragging him back.

And behind her is

It.

"G-get away!" It's ineffectual, a pathetic scream of a terrified, lonely boy in a hospital room, fearful and thinking, stupidly, that maybe if he covers his face, if he covers his eyes, he won't have to see It. "Turn around!"

WE SURE ARE JUMPING INTO THIS FULL THROTTLE

[mypartnerintime]

There's no running from this. The hallway continues to collapse, time continues to bend, and the shadow continues to loom over it all, growing taller and taller, limbs stretching impossibly long, details coming into focus.

Max doesn't notice. She doesn't turn like he asked her too, eyes fixed on him and burning with emotion. There's a persistent ringing sound in the air, a high pitched sound that drives into your skull.

"Alex was better!" Max cries, striding forward to meet Tim as he slides back, knife at the ready.

"Alex knew what he had to do!" she shouts at him. "Alex would've saved us!"

But Tim didn't. Of course he didn't. He couldn't do what he had to do.

"He was better. And you killed him!"

"But I'll finish it, Tim."

"Just like Alex wanted."

"I'll do what you couldn't, because you were too scared."

JUST FUCK ME UP

[postictal]

Alex was better. He flinches, recoiling, not because of the sting - he knows it was coming, knows Max must hate him for what he did to Alex, and she doesn't even know the whole of it. Shouldn't ever know the whole of it, because HE IS A LIAR.

Alex was better, because he would've finished it.

His best and only real shot out of this hell, and he killed him. That high, unnatural tone drills into his temples, and he cringes as Alex materializes at Max's feet, sprawled there limply, his throat ripe and bubbling with red.

"I can't." It's bullshit. It's bullshit, and he knows it. "I told him I'd help him. He wouldn't listen."

[mypartnerintime]

"No, Tim. You've got it all wrong."

She raises the knife viciously, blood slipping off its surface and spattering across Tim's body. The edge of it gleams, poised overhead to cut deep and kill.

"You wouldn't listen to him."

Because Alex was the one who was right. Alex was the one who knew what he was doing, who understood what was going on- who knew how to sacrifice himself and the things and people he loved for the greater good.

"You were too selfish. You've always been too selfish."

Finally Tim is in striking range, Max stepping over Alex's bloodied corpse and swinging down the knife in a furious motion, but something jolts and staggers, and the whole world goes wild-

closed to ZACHARIE; pieces were stolen from me

[postictal]

The world is white, again. He's had this thought, this memory, invading his nightmares since it happened. The world is white, and there are puzzle blocks suspended in midair. A single smear of black on the far end of the room in the shape of a television, and the screen's already alit with a blaze of static.

It's coming, and he knows It's coming.

His shoulders hunch, and he scans the room for the other party that he knows must be in the same space with him. Zacharie, with his familiar mask and general implacable air.

He'll make it through this. They don't always, in these dreams, but they should. They should. They should because they did or at least they tried.

But maybe it's only ever a matter of time.

[catinthemask]

The world is white and it means very little to Zacharie. That part was a given in his game. The rest, on the other hand, was a bit more concerning. It is very much concerning even though it was just a dream because he'd rather not experience it again.

But here we are. Thanks Tim.

Zacharie is here, hands in his pockets and presumably regarding the floating blocks with hidden eyes. His mask's appearance may be a little fuzzy here, but it's up to Tim to decide what it truly looks like. It's probably the only amount of control he'll get here.

Try and try but the end of this dream is likely obvious despite it all. Stil, he has to ask his questions. "What other options are there?"

[postictal]

It looks like the guide, of course. The guide who told him how the puzzles all work, how everything knits together. Even if it doesn't matter at all, really. They're still fucked in the end.

"I don't - " He rakes his hands through his hair. He never got the answer right. Neither of them did. And whose fault is that? Whose fault is that for ruining it, for ruining everything? He can't even codebreak correctly, can he?

"Please." The word nearly breaks in two. "Please don't make me again. Not - not for this. It's gonna come."

[catinthemask]

Neither of them did and yes they are fucked in the end. But they have to proceed. You have to do things the constructive way...or destructive way, as it is.

Zacharie is as calm as ever, even before the end but that's a given. Tim should remember the hysterical laughter when that thing came and brought him down. And given how much Zacharie knows about his world and place in life...what could It do to him? What could It do to a man who knew the bones of his world like his own?

The idea isn't a pretty one. But that's what happens whenever Tim gets involved, right? Just like everyone else he knew.

"I cannot say it will be fine Tim...but we have no choice. It could come out right now." Wonderland did not follow the rules of a video game. There would really be no stopping It from coming out right this second. It's not like that thing every listened to anyone's pleading remember?

It didn't listen when you were in the hospital and it won't listen here.

[postictal]

It won't be fine. But they have no choice. He shakes his head, a frantic jolt of motion, one corner of his mouth twisting down. It's his head, his fractured psyche they're talking here. It can do - it can be whatever he wants, can't it?

Sure. Sure it can. Because he's had such fine control over these sorts of things in the past, hasn't he?

"Y-you said you hadn't felt It," he mutters, halting, more to himself than to the man in front of him. "You said you never felt anything like that."

[catinthemask]

It'd be redundant to say things like it's already here and all that. Tim knows better than anyone where It is at all times because he's there. You can always trace the source of the plague back to the first person who spread it.

"...I haven't. That was the first time I ever experienced something like that." Which is actually true and was supported by the questions Zacharie asked a little while ago. That creature was unique. One of a kind. Dangerous. Kind of like Tim.

He moves to check the scratches on the wall. It's probably totally unrelated to that puzzle because that was just a backdrop to this whole mess. A monster met a character and then this happened.

"I do not know what we missed, but if we take it slow we should find the answer." It's simple, really. The answer is already here.

closed to GEORGE; one day, i hope, i'm someone you'd miss

[postictal]

[Questions. Always questions, and always with a camera in hand. Doesn't matter if she doesn't carry cameras, necessarily, in real life. Something about his brain just keys questions to Jay and Jay is always keyed to cameras.

She's...Jay. In that sense.

She usually ends up here, at some point at another. Pinning him down in his room, or in the kitchen, or outside. And she asks her questions, and because it's a nightmare, things can't ever go the way they should. Because it's a nightmare, he's stripped of the one defense he has.

He can't lie.]

[choosetruth]

[She holds the camera up in front of her like a gun, pointing it straight at Tim's head.]

Georgia Mason, After the End Times. Do you have any statements for the press about how continued association to you will lead to death or worse? Want to explain why you've been lying to everyone?

[postictal]

[He shies away from the beacon-like light that signifies that it's recording, biting his tongue. Wishing he could say - anything, anything but the truth that's going to come spilling out from between parted lips, against his will.]

I'm doing it to protect you, [he hisses.] You and everyone you'd tell this to.

[choosetruth]

Protect me? [The camera whirs as it zooms in. Close up. Getting every detail of his face.] Or protect yourself?

[postictal]

Y -

[The word catches in his throat, and the answer forces its way out, against his will, like something many-legged and shadowed. There's a lens on him. He can feel it practically burning a hole in his mind.]

Both. [His shoulders sag, eyes darting away as he tries to keep from meeting her eyes; hers, or the camera's lens.] Both.

[choosetruth]

Both. [She repeats his words firmly.] And you think that entitles you to lie. That your semi-good intentions can make that okay or do anything but delay the inevitable.

closed to JAY; except for the heart-shaped hole where the hope runs out

[postictal]

[He's had this one a million times before. Enough to recognize it when it comes. He only ever witnessed it through a camera lens, but that doesn't make it any less real when he sees it.

Alex advances. Jay stands there, armed with nothing but a camera, and he says the other man's name.

And Alex fires, a seam of static tearing through the dream's edge, a digital scratch shredding up and around the corners, the gaps in space where It might leak through with Its spectral look and Its too-blank face.

He darts forward, like that'll be enough to belatedly take the bullet, or catch Jay if he falls.]

Not again. Not again.

IM TRASH AND SORRY THIS IS LATE

[arks]

( jay falls backwards.

it's a strange sense of deja vu, perhaps one he shouldn't be feeling, but falling is familiar. tim doesn't quite make it in time and he hits the floor hard, looks up at the other with something akin to disbelief painting his features, something nearing betrayal, and a hand covers his shirt where a stain begins to spread. it's soaking through his shirt and fingers, covering them in red, and it's a terrible colour. nothing like love, all too like anger, and it lays itself on jay like a comfortable jacket. )

Again?

( he tries to push himself up, and it hurts, but dreams can contain some miracles - even ones that shouldn't exactly be considered so. )

You let it happen again.

OH HUSH I BACKTAG FOREVER

[postictal]

[He let it happen. He let it -

He let it happen. Watching the scarlet creep up between his fingertips, drooling out onto the concrete, and helpless to stop it. Alex wisps into nothingness - a shade, some kind of pale imitation of the real thing; Tim's subconscious, dreaming mind couldn't even grant him an appropriate farewell.]

I know. H-hold still, lemme - we can fix it.

[He barely recognizes his own tone, gibbering a frantic litany of pointless, nervous words that mean nothing, because they both already know how this dream ends.]

Not again, please. Please.

♥

[arks]

( jay's hand drops from his stomach, and the blood stops, a replica of how it was when he had been found in their world. what a strange thing, this reflection of a dead boy, but the anger that's spread across his face is something different from the real jay - too much, too unreal, but it's there. it fits onto his face like a finely crafted mask, and it's all for tim. )

Fix it? Really? ( he scoffs, then. ) You don't know how to fix things. You only know how to run away, leave things behind - just like you did to me.

( he looks at his hand and then shrugs, wipes it off on his side as though it's nothing. ) There's no fixing this. You know that, Tim. You ruined me, just like everything else; you can't turn around and fix it now.

[postictal]

[He's seen him angry before. He has, he remembers, he just - he'd known, in retrospect, that it wasn't really him. That it was that thing twisting him around, making him Its puppet, the same It had torn into Alex, into him, into everyone.

His expression is locked, as though carved from stone, and in the end, it doesn't matter - his hand falls away, leaving nothing but a stain and a man standing, pale as a corpse.]

You think I don't know that?

[The words are meant to emerge defiant; they swell out ragged and anxious, and for all he's told himself the very same, over and over, it's entirely different, hearing it from the man directly. Or the thing that looks like him.

He can't stop shaking.]

You think I wanted this to happen?

[You ruined me, he says.

Just like everything else.



He's right.]

[arks]

Maybe not wanted it.

( of course tim didn't want it - even in his nightmares that's not something that he can be accused of. who would want It stalking them, taking everything from them? no, it can't be argued that tim wanted it in any way.

however... )

You didn't stop it. Didn't even try to. And look where I ended up - tied up and alone, and then dead, thanks to you. Look at Alex. ( he glances to the side, as though his killer would be standing there next to him, but there's nothing. ) He had a lot of potential, you know? Could have done some pretty great things. But— well, maybe I did too. That potential was killed the moment we met you because you did nothing. Inaction is almost as bad as committing the act itself. You drove us mad.