applesaucedream | The Shavings Off Your Mind are the Only Rent [Open to All]

The Shavings Off Your Mind are the Only Rent [Open to All]

photo JulyDreamPartyImage01_zps8d9e51ff.jpg

Picture a house. Actually, picture two houses. They're (almost) identical structures that share an uneasy coexistence, tangled together on a quantum level. One of the houses is Good: bright, cheerful, full of comfortable furniture and a pervasive feeling of safety. The other house is Evil: dingy, dilapidated, and haunted by the dreamers' greatest fears.

The good news - and bad news - is that travel from one house to the other is as simple as passing through a door. All a dreamer has to do is walk through a doorway, any doorway, and they'll find themselves in whichever house they weren't in before they crossed the threshold. Perhaps they'll step out of a beautiful library and find themselves in a threatening hallway - or perhaps they'll flee a menacing kitchen and find themselves in a perfectly safe dining room. That is the nature of the houses' entanglement: every door is a portal between the two.

There are, of course, complications. Dreamers in one house can't perceive the other; if you're in the Good house and looking through a doorway, the space beyond will look as nice and inviting as the space you're in now (until you step through that doorway, of course). Dreamers also can't really perceive one another if they're in the same room, but in different houses, though they might see a flash of movement out of the corner of their eye, or think they heard something.

Perhaps the greatest complications are the houses themselves. They have rather strong personalities, and they aren't very fond of one another. Each house will want to keep you if it can (keep you safe, in the case of the Good house, or keep you for itself, in the case of the Evil one). Dreamers may attempt to cross a hall and find the door that looked open and inviting a moment ago is now barred shut, leaving them trapped in the hall - or have doors suddenly close in their faces before they can end up anywhere unpleasant. Still, there's only so much either house can do, and even a locked door can be jimmied open or busted down.

Escape from the houses is possible, but the formal gardens beyond are similarly entangled, with neatly trimmed lawns and expertly plotted flower beds becoming overgrown tangles of nettles and algae-choked reflecting pools. An archway is as good as a door, as far as the gardens are concerned, and there are plenty of arbors and arches over the paths. Of course, dreamers may find that a sound arbor in the Good garden has collapsed in the Evil one… and heaven help anyone who dares to explore the hedge maze.

[ooc: y'all know the drill. ALL characters are welcome, regardless of whether they're in the game. Characters can remember or forget the events of the dream at the players' discretion.

Also, this dream party marks the aforementioned calendar freeze. For the next three weeks, the IG date will sit on July 3rd. Posts dated July 3rd or earlier are allowed and encouraged. The calendar will resume forward motion at a 4:1 ratio on Saturday, July 26th.]

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Johnny wants to run - even when he's spotted, he wants to run. But he can't now, not just because of fearful paralysis, but a sudden, bewildering loss of energy. He slumps forward, catching himself on the creaking bannister, exhausted. What the hell?

He's vaguely aware that the upright guy in the basement is now, appropriately if belatedly, freaking out over the whatever-it-is on the floor. Johnny looks up wearily and spots him on the other side of the room, looking terrified. Better late than never.

"I'm Johnny," he calls weakly. He beckons with his arm, a motion that requires more strength than it seems like it should. Is this the house finding new and creative ways to weigh on him? He wouldn't be surprised. "Come here. There's a way out here." And, he doesn't mention, he might need help getting back up the stairs.

"I --" Rashad gulps and looks at the remains of the zombie. He knows full well it can't hurt him, but it makes no difference whatsoever. The room could be empty right now and he'd still be buzzing with fear; the zombie is only a convenient focal point for the emotion. "I don't think I can," he stutters out. It's awful, though, being alone in the room with it, and he shakes as he tries to convince himself to dart across to the stairs. Instead he inches slowly along the wall, trying to get around the room while staying as far from the zombie as possible. Two steps along he walks into a cobweb and shrieks, flailing wildly at imagined spiders. At least this is enough to send him running for the imagined safety of the stairs and the other man's company...not that it'll make any difference.

"Jesus, dude," says Johnny, now thoroughly perplexed by his jumpiness. "It's okay. Come on." He reaches out, offering a hand, though he still feels incredibly tired, not enough energy to hoist anyone up. He's not even sure he can get up out of his crouch at the moment. "What's your name?"

Worked up as he is, Rashad has those basic lies down to the equivalent of muscle memory. "Rashad," he replies, gripping the other man's hand and shoulder too hard once he's stumbled up the stairs to join him. "It just came out of the ground," he explains, because that seems like the sort of justification for his fear that will pass muster. "Please," he says, trying to drag the man up the stairs. "Please, I don't want to stay down here!"

The rush is starting to ebb a little, but the urge to run remains for the moment.

"I don't either, man!" Johnny struggles up, resisting the pull a bit. The sudden rough grip is a bit alarming, but he's inclined to forgive it in the wake of apparent zombie trauma. "Just - hold on, fuck. Help me out here." He braces himself on Rashad, gripping his arm and hauling himself up. "Through there," he says with a nod toward the door at the top.

That Rashad can do. He hauls Johnny to his feet and ~~forces~~ helps him up the stairs, reaching forward to rattle the locked door...only after a second of rattling he discovers that it's not locked at all. It swings open as a low moan sounds from the basement, and Rashad lets out a groan of fear as he tugs Johnny up through the doorway into the darkened room beyond --

No. Into the bright, cheerful kitchen beyond. The fear still lingers, and Rashad lets out another yelp and throws himself against the nearest wall as it seeks a new locus and finds nothing on which to settle. It's getting difficult to control himself, he notices. Or no, he's got the same level of control but it's no longer appropriate. Knowing it doesn't stop him staring bug-eyed at the cabinets, though.

Johnny staggers out through the door and immediately catches himself on the round table at the room's center, breathing heavily, as though he's been running. He's starting to come back to himself, but he's still a bit shaky. Can you have low blood sugar moments in dreams?

"There," he says slowly, looking up. "Now we're safe."

Rashad seems just as agitated here as he was in the basement, staring around like he expects more creepy shit to jump out at them. "Dude, it's okay," says Johnny, as comforting as he can manage while overdrawn. "The house alternates good rooms and bad rooms. Nothing from the bad rooms can hurt us here. All right? Deep breaths."

He drops himself into one of the chairs and rests his elbows on the table. "What the hell was that thing?"

"It was a zombie."

Rashad gulps, trying to bring his breathing under control. His heart is still thudding away, but he notes that the feeling is starting to ebb. "What is this place?" he asks, letting the fear latch on to the mystery of how they came to be in a much nicer place for its last moments of influence. It's getting easier now; perhaps the prescribed deep breaths will appear to be what's finally calming him down. "How did we -- this isn't what it looked like from the stairs."

Confirmed zombie, then. Gross. Johnny shakes his head, rifles through his pockets until he finds the cigarettes he'd manfiested earlier. "Yeah, this house is eight kinds of fucked. There's like... two different versions of it, or something. This one and that one." He nods toward the door they've just come through. "You get swapped in and out every time you go through a door. I've been trying to find a way outside. You want one?" He holds out the pack invitingly. Won't really be able to light it without Ianto's lighter, but he's not thinking that far ahead yet.

Breathing deep. Breathing deep, letting the emotion pass, letting his feelings deaden again. He always feels empty afterward; as far as Rashad can tell that's the only thing he can ever feel on his own.

Back to normal, he reminds himself not to let his expression drop into neutral. "And the other rooms in the...other house?" he asks, feigning a nervous frown. From Johnny's description there are much bigger problems here than zombies, but it's zombies and the like he'll pretend to be worried about. "Are they all as bad as that basement?"

He tries to look like he knows what he's doing as he accepts one of the little white sticks and gives it look that lasts a second or two too long, followed by a sniff. The scent identifies it as a very small cigar in the wrong kind of wrapping -- no, the word comes to him a moment later, a cigarette, the newest fashion following the latest war. Or it was the newest fashion back when the latest war was the Crimean; now it's yet another relic of a bygone era translated into a new culture. He guesses that the brown end goes in his mouth, but holds it in his hand instead until he can watch Johnny and be sure. "Thanks," he says, sounding relieved at the show of friendship and the promise of nicotine.

"Sure." Johnny sticks one in his mouth and gropes around his pockets again, and quickly realizes he doesn't have any way to light them. Stupid. He starts opening drawers. Gotta be matches around here somewhere.

"They're all kinda different," he says with a shrug. "They're all terrible, in their own special way."

Ah, there we are. He picks up a little matchbook from what seems to be a well-stocked junk drawer and strikes up the flame, lighting his cigarette, inhaling deeply and releasing the mouthful of smoke a moment later. That's better. He passes the book over to Rashad.

"The outside changes too," he says. "So I figure what we gotta do is find a way out, but happen to be in a shitty room when it happens. Then if we cross through the door to the outdoors it'll be nice. Right?"

Yes, brown end goes in the mouth. Rashad tucks his own cigarette into his mouth and accepts the matchbook, glancing up at Johnny as he goes about the business of lighting up. Unusual, he thinks, inhaling like that. Is that how it's done now, or does Johnny simply not mind how it burns his lungs? Once his is lit he only draws the smoke into his mouth, rolling it around and expelling it through his nose.

"It's a sound theory," he admits, pocketing the matches. They might be useful later. "If it's as you describe, though, I wouldn't trust this place to be so predictable. Larger forces must be at work here than mere necromancers."

Johnny chokes out a laugh around the smoke. "What?" he blurts. "Necromancers?"

Well, okay, zombies he took in stride. But he didn't immediately connect that to necromancer. Seems like a bit of a leap to him.

He regards Rashad with vague suspicion. He's probably right about the house, but Johnny's not particularly worried about that just now. Just what is this guy's deal? He seems... off, somehow. Johnny can't pinpoint why.

"Are you new?" he asks bluntly.

Rashad furrows his brow in apparent consternation at the laughter. Complete ignorance of magic, then. From what he's seen he should probably start expecting that from the people of this world, bizarre as it is.

"I am," he admits, sounding reluctant. "But if there's a zombie there has to be a necromancer controlling it. Isn't that how it works where you're from?"

"Why does there have to be," says Johnny, almost conversationally, god this is so weird. He blows a bit of smoke, still chuckling at the absurdity of it.

"No," he says. "That is not how it works where I'm from. Where I'm from we don't have zombies. The dead stay dead." He eyes Rashad with a sudden flash of suspicion. "So are zombies common where you're from? Do they freak you out beyond reason every time? Must be a nuisance."

Rashad is about to point out the absurdity of supposing the dead could simply rise on their own when Johnny's demeanor shifts. The discrepancy in Rashad's behavior is an unfortunate oversight, but one that can be remedied. He lets out a nervous-sounding chuckle before taking another mouthful of smoke to give himself a moment to formulate his response. He even manufactures a little tremble of the hand to sell it. "Common? Thank the angels, no. But the dead do not rise on their own."

It's not unusual for him to adopt the persona of someone unused to magical combat. How much did Johnny see, though? Rashad did not sense him until he had already dispatched the zombie, but he is not positive the human was not there a few moments earlier.

"Sure they do," says Johnny, placidly accepting this explanation. "In movies. There's all kinds of excuses. Disease, drugs... monkeys..." He shrugs and takes another drag on his cigarette. "Anyway, it's down there and we're up here. So it's all good."

He scans the kitchen for another way out, spotting the door opposite the one he came in through. "You wanna keep moving? I am trying to get outside."

Movies. Rashad has had a lot to catch up on in less than a week -- cars were something of a surprise, though given the state of clockwork technology it had only really been a matter of time until mortals came up with a permanent replacement for the horse -- and movies are a gaping hole in his slowly building understanding of this new world. "Do they," he replies, really not sure what Johnny means. The images document zombies without necromancers? But he said that his world doesn't have zombies.

He glances at the door as well, pretending fearful hesitation. "It will be a bad room if what you said is true," he points out.

"Yeah, well." Johnny shrugs. "I've gotten this far. Anyway it's just a dream."

A thoughtless thing to say. He knows better than most that there is nothing just about dreams, especially not these ones. But it's a useful hypocrisy to hide behind, when he wants to move. Even with everything waiting to crawl out and terrorize him in every other room, being in the house at all is still worse, to him. He wants to be outside. Outside is always better.

He approaches the door and puts his hand on the knob. Sometimes the nice rooms resist a little, trying to keep him inside - keep him safe, probably. But any amount of personality asserted by a house, good or bad, is enough to make him uncomfortable. "You coming?"

"It's what?"

It had not occurred to Rashad that this was anything other than reality, and now he casts out with his senses. He doesn't get anything back that would tell him, though; it feels real and the only emotions he can sense are Johnny's background buzz and something gentle and worried emanating from around them as a counterpart to the disembodied anger of the last room.

He joins Johnny at the door, but his attention is on the human rather than on the doorknob. "This doesn't feel like a dream," he says. What he means is I don't dream, and therefore it can't be, but that is not information he cares to share.

"Yeah, I know," says Johnny. "That's how I felt the first time too. But..." He shrugs. "Every once in a while the rift drags everybody into one of these things and we all get to fuck around for a while until it decides it's done. So, may as well play the game while we're here, huh?"

He opens the door - no resistance at all this time - and steps through without even looking at the tantalizing view beyond. Not worth getting his hopes up.

It's a dining room, sensibly enough, but the chandelier hangs at a precarious angle, wreaths of cobwebs trailing down, the curtains spill ghostlike across the floor - some of the floorboards are broken, leaving dangerous gashes in the floor. The massive table, once impressive, is now a deteriorating relic. Still set. Dusty plates and silverware. A centerpiece full of dead flowers.

Worst of all are the guests, so to speak. For a moment Johnny thinks they're other dreamers, but no, not at all - one to each chair, no food before them, utterly unmoving. Each one a rough-textured gray-white color. The color of drywall.

He steps forward, hesitant and fearful, leaning down to look closely. They're human-shaped, but they don't have features of any kind, just blank, flat faces.

He reaches out, very slowly, trembling, and touches the arm of the nearest ghoulish specimen. He half expects it to jerk to life the moment he makes contact, but it remains still, cold, lifeless. Just an eerie series of sculptures.

"Plaster," he murmurs, straightening up. "God. Creepy as shit."

Which is when, belatedly and of fucking course, the statuesque figure turns toward him with a horrible crunch, its arm snapping up before he can scream, a clumped, fingerless hand seizing him tightly by the throat.

Edited 2014-07-10 08:01 (UTC)

Rashad can tell immediately that the things before them have no life in them. Even the calmest mortal gives off vibes at all times, and there is absolutely no emotion coming from any of them. The room itself is malevolent, but with Johnny's warning and his experience in the basement Rashad expected as much. He is not afraid, of course, but after encountering a zombie he expects worse than an unpleasant scene to look at.

And worse they get. He has a split second in which to make his decision. Whether any given human lives or dies is not so great a thing in the balance of the universe, but Johnny is currently personally useful to him and mortal death, though ultimately unavoidable, is a form of entropy. His own hands snap out, taking hold of the plaster forearm in two places and twisting with inhuman strength, intending to tear the limb apart.

"Fuck-!" The word comes out strained as the plaster man squeezes Johnny's throat, and his hands grasp immediately at the thing's hand, trying uselessly to dislodge it. It's strong, way too strong for him to effect any difference.

Rashad is upon it at once, and he rips its arm apart like it's nothing.

Johnny's eyes go wide and he staggers back; for a horrible moment the plaster hand is still clenched around his neck, but then it falls away, breaking apart when it hits the floor.

"Jesus!" he snaps, his voice higher and more strained than usual, still recovering from the assault. "How the fuck did you-"

No time to find out. The other creatures have all risen and are advancing on both of them, three of them angling toward Rashad, as though they can tell he's the more difficult target. Johnny scrambles back from the two coming his way, looking about the room for any kind of bludgeon. He finds it in the form of an ornate lamp standing innocuously off to the side. He grabs it and holds it like an incredibly impractical baseball bat, scowling at the plaster zombies.

"Fuck off!" he yells, and takes a wild swing at he nearer of the two. It turns out that lamps are not very good at being bludgeons. The thing shatters against the plaster, taking out only a chunk, not nearly enough to disable it.

"Um." He skirts away from them. Maybe running is his best option here. "Rashad??"

Ah, perhaps he should have foreseen that this would require an explanation. It's been such a very long time since he took such direct action where a mortal could see him doing it. Fortunately, Johnny's too busy a moment later to insist on hearing it just yet, and Rashad has the presence of mind to summon a frightened expression and cast about for a weapon he doesn't really need. It would be much better if he didn't use fire this time, both because it would be more to explain and because he's not sure Johnny could take it if he used the human to refuel again so soon.

He grabs the nearest chair and uses it to shove the nearest creature back, the wooden legs breaking about as easily as its plaster body. "Run!" he shouts, injecting fear into his voice. "Try to get to the farther door!"

There's no room to just dodge around the three converging on him, so Rashad throws his elbows and the chair into a full-body slam against the one between him and Johnny. The furniture splinters in his hands as he knocks the creature out of his path, all but taking off one of its arms from the shoulder down in the process. He drops the remains of the furniture and grabs at Johnny, pushing him toward the door in apparent panic while also steering him away from the attackers with more deftness than a man under such stress should possess. "Go! Go!!"

Johnny doesn't need to be told twice, but he can't really complain about being all but manhandled toward the door. It's very obvious now that Rashad is something - a little more adept than him, to put it mildly, and it's hard to argue with a powerful someone shoving him toward safety. He scrambles along, struggling to keep up, and rushes at the door, fully expecting it to be locked. The doors are always locked, in the shitty house.

To his immense surprise, it opens without any resistence. He doesn't spare a moment to question it; mouth of a gift horse and all. He hurls himself through, pulling Rashad along after him, letting the doors slam on their nightmarish art project assailants.

"Christ," he says, doubling over, taking a moment to catch his breath. They've come into a luxurious looking sitting room, a fireplace, some armchairs and some books - is that a liquor cabinet? Hell yes. They can afford a little detour.

"Sssso," he says, glancing a little surreptiously at Rashad as he makes his way to the alcohol. "That was... intense. What you did in there, I mean."

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cw brief choking, also violence against lamps

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