applesaucedream | Tender Lumplings Everywhere, Life's No Fun Without A Good Scare [Open to All]

Current Music: Evening July 27th/Morning July 28th

Tender Lumplings Everywhere, Life's No Fun Without A Good Scare [Open to All]

The woods are dark and deep, but not particularly lovely. If anything, they feel dangerous, as if something terrible might come lurching out from behind any given tree and tear into the nearest warm body. What that terrible thing might be is anyone's guess. A cat with hands? Slenderman? Stegosaurus? Actual cannibal Shia LaBeouf? All of the above in a horrible mob? It's anyone's guess. But every dreamer will be absolutely convinced that there is something unspeakable out there, and that it's after them.

The dreamers have two things on their side. The first is that there is actually nothing dangerous lurking in these woods (with the possible exception of other dreamers). The pervasive terror the dreamers are feeling is just that: a rift-given feeling, nothing more and nothing less. That snapping twig or rustle in the undergrowth is almost certainly just a squirrel or something else equally harmless.

The second is that no dreamer is alone. They all will be reunited with - or introduced to - their dæmons, a source of comfort in this dark, intimidating wilderness. However frightened the dreamers might be, at least they have someone with them who definitely doesn't want them dead.

[OOC: as ever, any and all are welcome! You don't have to be in the game to join the fun. Dreamers can remember or forget the events of the dream at the players' discretion. And the party only stops when you want it to; feel free to backtag forever.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Nathaira," the panther announces before Rush can interrupt. "My name is Nathaira. Don't pretend you don't know."

Rush halts to glare at her, then at Johnny.

"Souls," he begins flatly, "are purely ontological concepts that - if they exist, of which we have no empirical proof - likely exist on a plane beyond the realm of standard human perception. They do not - materialize. And they would not do so in the form of animals." He almost sounds offended at the thought. Don't be ridiculous.

"Oh, shut up." Nathaira sounds beyond exasperated at this point, directing all her frustration at the obstinate man she's been shackled to. She is tired of being ignored, particularly in favor of some tangentially related guy holding a rabbit.

"Okay, well, I don't know what else to call them," says Johnny, starting to feel cagey around this jackass's unceasing attitude, "but they're obviously not animals. Talking aside, they know things, about us. You can feel what they feel, a little bit. It hurts to get separated. And it feels fucking weird when someone else touches them."

Or horrible. Or amazing. He doesn't add that. This is still a purely neutral interaction, no need to give this weirdo any ideas.

"So, whatever that is," he says dryly, "ontologically speaking."

"You know that complete lack of social convention awareness you claim you don't have?" Once again Nathaira tackles the discussion before Rush has the chance to, something which he does not appreciate. "Yeah, so I do have an awareness of how conversations are actually supposed to work. For the love of fuck, Nick, stop talking."

That halts Rush in his tracks.

"Well it is a dream, isn't it?" he asks testily, opting to ignore the panther's outburst. She used his first name. Who does that? No one does that. Not even Rush does that. "Unexplainable things happen in dreams."

Of all the simulations to get caught in it had to be the one with talking animals. This dream can't possibly be pulling from his thoughts and memories. Rush will never admit to being remotely open to the idea. Ever.

"These aren't like regular dreams," says Johnny stubbornly. "There's logic to them, or whatever. Other forces at work."

"It's the same for everyone," Nova pipes up. "We come out for these dreams; otherwise Nathaira and I would still be in you. Intangible."

Johnny looks at his rabbit in surprise. The first time they met she didn't seem to have much of a better idea what she was than he did; most of his understanding came from conversation with Gabe after the fact. Now she seems to have a handle on the methodology of it. Is his animal soul smarter than him?

She nudges him, as if to say oh, stop that.

"Oh, that's just perfect," grumbles Rush, voice heavy with disgust. "And how does one get out of these dreams? Assuming one can."

The fact that he's getting an informative lecture from a rabbit just makes the whole thing all the more intolerable. Johnny is still proving useful, information-wise. He will cast his lot with him for the time being until the risk outweighs the reward. Or until he gets too annoyed. Whichever comes first.

"Can't get rid of me that easy, love," Nathaira growls. "I'm a part of you, remember? Probably the part you like to pretend doesn't exist. The part that can actually fathom to be nice every once in a while."

"One wakes up," says Johnny, barely imagining to roll his eyes. Duh. He likes the panther a lot more than the man, he decides.

"You wake up either naturally, or by dying in the dream," he adds. "And trust me. Speaking as a fucking connoisseur of dream death. You don't want to get out that way."

"Yeah, what part of 'in stasis' in unclear to you, exactly?" Rush fires back, prickling frustration escalating more and more with each passing second. "Or are you unfamiliar with the term? Waking up naturally is not an option. Not until I am pulled out of stasis."

And Rush is tired of awful simulations. He is so incredibly tired of them. Simulations in which he dies, simulations in which everyone he knows (and certainly doesn't love or care for, not even remotely, he is adamant about this) dies, simulations in which he is trailed by talking animals and men holding rabbits and things. Stasis has meant an infinite loop of simulations. This one may be a deviation from the norm, but it does not make it any less tiring.

Oh. Right. Johnny chews his lip, feeling marginally guilty for inadvertently being a dick. "Uh," he says, "then I dunno. But these dreams have to end somehow. They don't go on forever."

A few twig snap loudly just nearby, causing him to jerk sharply and stare into the shadows, Nova trembling in his arms. Well, one upshot to being stuck with Rush is that he has a friggin panther for a soul.

That is the first remotely useful thing Rush has heard all day. The sound of an approaching something cuts him off before he can enumerate as such. He gyrates in a full one-hundred-eighty-degrees, takes two steps to back away and immediately hooks his heel over yet another fucking root that sends him fucking sprawling. He crabs backwards frantically even as Nathaira plants herself in front of him - going in line with the absurd animal-soul metaphor, she must be a manifestation of the part of him that has no fucking common sense - but soon finds himself backed up to a tree trunk, pressed up against it, the disconcerting stability of the allegedly nonphysical trunk doing nothing for his jangling nerves.

"What's there?" he hisses, the horrible needling sensation of being watched now peaking. He is not panicking. He is rational and calm and prioritizing. He is not going to fucking panic. Especially not in a dream.

Johnny curses under his breath and inches back behind Nathaira, his tension only heightened by Rush's fall and subsequent scramble backwards. "I don't know," he hisses back. "But this place is bad fucking news. We gotta get outta here. Come on." He offers Rush his arm, keeping his eyes forward, darting from panther to the woods. A few more twigs snap around them, followed by unfocused rustling. He can't quite tell where it's coming from.

"Johnny," whispers Nova fearfully.

"I know, I know." Johnny grabs Rush's arm and pulls to hoist him up. "How do you feel about running like hell?"

The suggestion to leave sounds like a really fucking excellent one, right up until the point that Johnny grabs him -

"Don't fuckin' touch me," he snarls, snapping out of the other man's grip so viciously he nearly topples over again.

No. No, he is not panicking. He is not. He is not panicking. The place is dark and blurry, that is fine and it has always been, his breathing is a perfectly acceptable rate, his heart is going at exactly the right amount of beats per minute that a heart should be going at given a fair amount of adrenaline, he is not shaking, not even slightly. He is not trying to shrug off the awful, clinging sensation of fingers wrapping around his arm, fuck he is fine, fine, he is fine, he is fine, he is fine.

Nathaira pushes her head beneath Rush's hand, forcing his fingers to stroke at the rough fur there. He almost reflexively lashes out at her too for initiating physical contact, but the feeling is - comforting, weirdly. He won't question that. He needs to get a handle on his breathing. He needs to get a handle on this. He can do that. He is not panicking.

"Go," Nathaira whispers. "We have to go."

Yes, they do. They have to go. They have to - fuck, he is shaking.

He is not panicking.

"Whoa!" Johnny lifts his hand away at once, stepping back. "Jesus! Fuck, sorry, I was just trying to help!"

Nova pushes her nose against his cheek, chiding him silently - look, he's afraid. Be gentle. You know how to be gentle, don't you?

Johnny feels a pang of irritation - what the hell business does he have having a rabbit soul, when he's such a prickly fucking asshole? He brushes it all aside in a hurry when another, louder snap resounds just to his left.

"Look, I'm sorry," he says again, through his teeth. "Let's just - let's go. All right? You okay?"

He starts inching forward, resisting the urge to reach out and make another grab to hurry Rush along.

"I am perfectly fucking fine."

He is perfectly fucking fine. He is not breathing too hard. His heartrate is acceptable. Everything is acceptable.

He is not panicking.

The sound of twigs crackling somewhere very close by serves as an adequate impetus. Nathaira nudges him, none too gently, and the brusque action is familiar enough to spur him onward. His breathing is normal for someone about to embark on a late night run for his life through unrecognizable woods, pursued by a creature of unknown origin. His heartrate is acceptable. He is not panicking.

He doesn't check to ensure Johnny is keeping pace as he tears off, unidirectional but with marked navigational ineptitude as he also does not check to see where he is going, only that he is moving.

Rush is small but the panic - the lack thereof, he is not panicking, he is not panicking - the adrenaline is increasing his rate of movement considerably. He will exert horizontal force x and vertical force y in the forward motion of running, he will exercise his knowledge of gravitational pull, he will propel himself forward parabolically, he will breathe and he will be fine, because he is not panicking.

Nathaira is beside him, streamlined and efficient, and he is running and breathing and not panicking. Rush prefers not panicking. A round of metaphorical applause for a reasonably balanced mental state.

Keeping pace isn't a problem so much as keeping track of him. The woods are dark as hell, and it's by some small miracle that Johnny doesn't trip on a root and faceplant into the dirt many times over. He can hear Rush breathing, that's mostly how he manages to follow him.

"Okay, okay!" he calls finally, when his body is starting to revolt. "We've gone far enough, man, stop! Stop."

He drags to a halt and leans heavily against a tree, panting. Nova wriggles, and he sets her down at last, letting her move curiously toward Nathaira. It doesn't feel entirely safe here, but at least it seems quieter.

Johnny casts a wary glance at Rush. "Are you okay?" he asks.

The sound of Johnny yelling alerts him to the fact that the other man may well be in danger or injured or dying. How dreadfully inconvenient. Rush skids to a halt out of instinct, but further inspection reveals that Johnny is not in actual fact in danger or injured or dying, but merely tired. He prepares himself to comment on the blinding idiocy of stopping when they are so obviously being chased but his senses finally catch up to his brain and indicate that he is also, infuriatingly, tired on the account that he is having trouble breathing.

He is fine. This is fine.

Nathaira sniffs at the rabbit, it - he cannot recall its name and it is unimportant. Nathaira seems curious at it rather than annoyed as he is, which is just further proof that she cannot possibly be the manifestation of his soul or whatever similar nonsense, because if this were the case she would be telling the rabbit to fuck off and mind its own business.

Johnny has to ask if Rush is fine as well, which earns him a glower.

"I am -" He has to breathe. He has to breathe. And clutch at the stitch in his side. And breathe. And grind his other hand at his eyes, the base of his palm driving into one eyeball with the intent of triggering a pain reflex. He is fine.

"I am fine," he says, entirely unconvincingly, breathless and agitated and not panicking in the slightest.

"You're not fucking fine," says Johnny. "I'm not an idiot, and I know what freaking out looks like. If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine, but don't bullshit me."

Why he cares, he doesn't know. It's not like this guy is giving him any reason to reach out.

"Is there anything I can do," he says, impatient with himself for trying so hard when he doubts it'll work out in his favor. "Even if it's leave you alone, or whatever."

Gaining a little confidence, Nova butts her head up under Nathaira's chin in solidarity.

"That is a difference in opinion," Rush responds tightly. "I am perfectly fucking normal."

Fuck, he's better at lying than this. His breathing is erratic. His breathing is erratic. Rush isn't even sure if he has a 'normal', a baseline. He's lived so long without one.

He has to move. So he paces, tight and controlled, and gives his heartrate and breathing adequate reasons to be erratic. Perfectly normal. He is tired. He is fine.

"You're not," snaps Nathaira. "You're not even doing a slightly good job at hiding it."

"I did not ask." The headache he didn't realize he had is getting unbearable. Now both hands go to his temples, applying pressure, he must restore his breathing.

Johnny sighs heavily. So much for that. Not like he blames the guy, this kind of stubborn refusal to talk shit out is pretty familiar. He's gotten a lot better at it lately.

Rush is still flipping out, and Johnny's instinct is to move forward and pat him on the back or something, but he reacted so badly to that last time that instead he stays put and feels useless.

"You know," says Nova after a moment. "Having Nathaira outside you has... advantages. If you try petting her, maybe... maybe that would help?"

She looks at the panther, then up at Johnny. "It helps us," she says.

Johnny says nothing, feeling embarrassed.

Rush freezes and stares at the rabbit for a long, distasteful minute.

"In what way is a communicative hyperintelligent leporid qualified to dispense psychological medical advice?" he asks waspishly. "You realize this is the case? You understand what you've recommended? You made the suggestion that I go and pet a cat to make myself feel better?"

"Actually," rumbles Nathaira, sliding her head beneath his hand in a motion that's now becoming nauseatingly familiar, a sort of forced stroking, "plenty of therapists recommend petting cats to treat anxiety. It lowers blood pressure."

Rush does not know what to do with that and will therefore not respond to it. He will not admit to indirectly taking advice from a rabbit. That would be fucking absurd.

Nova sniffs, unimpressed, and hops back over to Johnny, with Nathaira focused on Rush.

"Come on, man, don't be a prick," mutters Johnny, bending down to pick Nova back up. "It's not just that she's a cat, it's that she's part of you. It's comforting because it is. There doesn't have to be a fuckin... psychological medical precedent for it."

Nova reaches out with a little front paw and gives him a tiny bap. Be nice.

He will not admit that the way Nathaira is now rubbing her chin against his leg, like some fucking domesticated house cat, is bizarrely reassuring. His brain latches onto strange things in times of high anxiety, this is statistically true given his history and this particular instance is no exception. His breathing, at least, is no longer erratic.

"It's comforting because it is," parrots Rush, almost imperceptibly rolling his eyes at the phrasing. "Eloquent. Truly. Someone give this man a PhD."

"Quiet," his panther orders, flicking at the back of one knee with her tail. He stiffens at the feather-light contact but recovers admirably enough to stare at her, deeply suspicious. Is he being admonished by a panther? He is being admonished by a panther.

Johnny flips Rush off casually, without any malice behind it. He's an obstinate jerk, but he's having a rough time, and from the sound of things he's not a rifty, at least not yet. Worrying after someone else make it easier to ignore the slow burn of his own dread.

"That's better though, isn't it?" he says, barely resisting the urge to smirk.

"Shut up," he fires back.

"What was that you said about eloquence?" purrs Nathaira.

"You can also stop talking." But he hasn't stopped petting her with one hand, awkwardly. Petting her serves his interests. This is the only reason. "You're not even supposed to be able to vocalize. You don't have the physiological capabilities. How are your vocal chords producing those noises?"

"Don't overthink it. You might break something."

Rush has no answer, so he merely huffs quietly to himself and resumes his disgruntled petting. If this panther really is an extension of his self, then she would know there's too much damage in that neurological area already, all of it horribly beyond repair. And none of it anyone's concern but his.

Johnny shrugs nonchalantly and sits down, holding Nova in his lap, making a little show of petting her as well. It is really comforting, even though she's just as nervous as he is - at least they have each other, this rare point of contact.

"So," says Johnny, not sure what else to do. "Doctor of what?"

"I'm a cryptographer," he says shortly. "Mathematician. Why in the everliving fuck would you care?"

Nathaira nips at his hand, some absurdly scolding action, and he jolts away.

"What the fuck."

"He asked," she explains impatiently.

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tw: minor panic-related things

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