applesaucedream | Enchantment Under the Sea

Current Music: Evening of July 12th/Morning of July 13th, 2013

Enchantment Under the Sea

Tonight, the dreamers of Manhattan will find themselves transported to what is unmistakably a high school gymnasium. Granted, it's lavishly decorated in blues, greens, and violets. There are jellyfish made of tissue paper and streamers, painted cardboard fish are dangling from ceiling, and an abundance of transparent balloons serve as substitute bubbles. Tables and chairs are clustered around the periphery for those who'd like to sit, but the majority of the floor is open for dancing. Along one wall, folding tables hold snacks and bowls of punch. There's no DJ to be seen, but a sound system is playing a steady stream of classic dance songs.

It's impressive work for a nonexistent prom committee, all things considered.

But the setting is not the only thing that hearkens back to one's teenage years. The dreamers will find, regardless of age or species, that they're now saddled with the hormones of an average sixteen-year-old human being… and with the delightful mood fluctuations and bouts of irrationality that come with the package. (Dreamers who are already teenagers might be said to be getting a reprieve… but dealing with adults in such a state will be trying enough on its own. Someone has to chaperone, right?)

The good news for dreamers who aren't into dances is that there's an entire high school to explore, though the hallways will only be half-lit and many of the classrooms will be locked up. Even the parking lot and athletic fields are accessible, but dreamers may find themselves getting mysteriously turned around if they try to actually leave school property.

[ooc: you all know the drill. Any and all characters are welcome, regardless of whether or not they're in the game. Dreamers may remember or forget the events of the party at the player's discretion.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I'm already famous!" groans Peter. "Or I was, back home. I don't need someone else with my face making me famous for something I didn't do when no one has the sense to realize I should be famous for myself."

Sorry, Bertie. He's always been a testy git, and the hormonal surge (and ongoing uncomfortable distraction) isn't doing anything good for his temper. "Just wait until someone comes along with your face," he mutters.

Bertie snorts. "I daresay they'll be getting the worse end of that stick on that score, old boy." He can't imagine anyone else with his face who isn't, well, him. It is just a little worrisome, though. He'd feel awfully sorry for the blighter if anybody ever mistook them for him.

"What are you famous for, anyway? Saving worlds, too?" That could put something of a damper on the spirits if Peter's some sort of hero whose deeds are going unsung.

Peter makes a face and waves a hand like he's smelled something bad. Fucking hero bullshit, he thinks. "I'm an illusionist," he explains impatiently. "Headliner at the Hard Rock in Vegas, toured all over the states before that. I'm famous for the right reasons, alright? And if they can't --"

He cuts himself off abruptly, surprised at the surge of emotions that come with his own words. He's over it, isn't he? He knows that's not his life anymore, there's no reason to start suddenly getting choked up about his losses again.

"You're an entertainer, and you're upset people might mistake you for a fellow who's a hero?" Skepticism is writ on every line of Bertie's face. "Well... I suppose if they're coming to you, expecting you to help anything..." That could be something of a bother, letting down the masses.

"You could, erm... use it as a lead-in to educate them on who you really are?" He doesn't want to put Peter completely out. The man has a job, and it's far more glamorous than the 'farmer' he'd been playing at when he'd lived on the commune.

Had a job. That's the problem, is Peter isn't famous for anything anymore but people seem to know a good deal about the aliens with his face. "Or the Doctor could just do that face thing again," he points out -- completely reasonably, he thinks.

"Well, he does sort of do that." Not that it's a particularly pleasant thought. "You didn't meet the other him? The one from his... future? Or present?" It's hard discussing time-travelers. "He's got a different face! I've only seen him when he's a pony, really."

And with that, this conversation has abruptly jumped the shark.

"...When he's a pony," repeats Peter. "As opposed to...what? When he's a titmouse?"

Bertie pulls a face, realizing his mistake. He probably sounds mad now. "Oh, ah, sorry, I, um... my head ran away from me for a moment. He's not a pony. He's never been a pony. I'm not a pony!" There, that ought to clear matters up entirely as he looks down and fidgets with the cuff of one of his sleeves.

"I just mean to say I've met a him when he isn't looking like you, is all. A future him, from where the fellow you've got the face of is standing, anyway. So, really, it's already happened, eh?"

"...Riiiight." Now is probably the time to think about backing away slowly. Something something time traveler and face change, whatever, he kind of figured that's what the Doctor does from what he's heard...but Peter's still stuck on that weird pony business.

Peter comes to a decision and decides to inform Bertie. "You're insane," he says simply, taking a step or two back.

"No. No! No, no! I'm not, really!" He holds up his hands to try to stop the other man. "I promise! I've got a friend back home - one of the most revered therapists in the head shrinking business. He thought I was absolutely barking when we first met, but he came around. That was all to do with the cats, anyway."

These are clearly the words of a sane man. He steps toward Peter, matching his retreat, his face imploring.

Peter stops, but it's with the body language of a skittish horse as he stares the other man down with wild eyes, challenging him to stop advancing. Maintain that distance, Bertie, or he'll start moving again. "Is it all animals?" he asks, morbidly curious. "Do you have an animal thing?"

As soon as Peter stops, Bertie matches him. At the question, the gentleman's face shifts from earnest to affronted. "Do I look like the sort of fellow with an 'animal thing?'" Whatever that might mean. "I certainly don't think I'm a canary, if that's what you're driving at. I haven't chirped a day in my life and I shan't be raiding any bird feeders in the nearish-to-soonish. I mean, everybody gets peckish now and again, but hardly the avian sort."

"I dunno, that sounds like a weirdly specific denial," Peter points out. At least all this talk about animals is serving to dampen his own, ahem, enthusiasm. "You're not one of those furries, are you?"

"Why would a canary have fur?" Wait. That's not a question that's helping. "I'm not furry. I haven't even got that much hair. You're the bird who looks like he hasn't shaved. Are you furry?"

"Of course I'm not a fucking furry!" protests Peter. "I'm not that much of a bloody pervert."

Clearly they are on the same page here, right?

Bertie flinches back from the vehemence in Peter's words. Being cuckoo's not really a fantastic way to be, but it doesn't deserve that sort of bile, does it? It's not even really that perverted. Why would it make you a pervert? He's pretty sure you can think you're a canary and still be a Christian canary.

"Well... well, good thing we've got that sorted out!" What else is there to say to that? "But if you're a pervert otherwise then, ah... we're in a school, right? Have they got the Bible anywhere? You could try reading that?"

They are for sure on the same page.

Peter is very much a pervert otherwise, but his earlier denial was not an invitation for comment on his sexual proclivities, nor for advice on what he ought to do about them. He wrinkles his nose at Bertie in an expression of bewildered disgust. "That's not likely to make me less of a pervert," he points out. He's read the Bible, thank you, and found it full of questionable marriages and sexy poetry.

Peter receives absolute befuddlement in return. "Well, I mean, if you've been reading some other book on gods"- ones that apparently mention furry canaries -"then the Bible ought to set you straight. Um... I've never really met any perverts. Sorry, is that not what you're meant to do?"

Peter gives him a look of utter incomprehension, lip raised and everything. "You -- huh?" What do gods have to do with it? Recovering a little, he settles on a surprisingly matter of fact, "I don't even know what the hell you're on about now."

"The feeling's entirely mutual." Bertie feels like they're speaking entirely different languages at this point. He doesn't want to leave the only person he has even a passing - and odd - acquaintance with, but if he can't even communicate with the blighter, what's he meant to do with that? "So, um... the party's that way?" He motions down the hall toward he noise.

Peter could tell him that a high school dance is not a party in any way that counts, but you know what? Right about now having this guy leave for the land of awkward dates and spiked punch while Peter continues his quest for a private moment sounds ideal. "Yeeeah," he says, drawing out the word. "You go have fun. With that."

"Right." Bertie wrings his hands for a moment, then offers Peter a parting smile. "Have fun wherever you're off to, as well, old boy. Toodle pip!" So saying, the gentleman turns and heads toward the sound of festivities. There's a pang of regret as he goes, he realizes. Peter had made him think of Andrew, but it sounds like his friend might be about. He soldiers into the unknown to find out just what sort of soiree this is.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Enchantment Under the Sea

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject